Page 23 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

DEX

T he notification sound on my phone might as well be a siren. I’ve checked it approximately seventy-three times since practice ended two hours ago, and every buzz that isn’t Golda’s response makes me want to throw the damn thing across my condo.

This is insane. I don’t wait for women to text me back. I’ve got three different models who’ve been trying to get my attention this week alone, and here I am obsessing over whether a hockey mom is going to agree to coffee.

A hockey mom with kids and an ex-husband and probably a minivan.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The text I sent twenty minutes ago sits there, delivered but unread.

Hey, it’s Dex. Ready for that coffee we talked about? I know a place.

I’ve rewritten it fourteen times, which is about thirteen times more effort than I’ve put into any text message in my life. Usually it’s just my place, 9 PM and that does the trick.

My phone buzzes. I lunge for it so fast I nearly knock over the protein shake I forgot I was drinking.

New workout supplement just dropped! Click here for 30% off!

“Fucking spam,” I mutter, then immediately check again to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

This is pathetic. I’m Dex Malone. Women wait for me, not the other way around. I could call any number in my contacts right now and have company within the hour. Beautiful, uncomplicated company that doesn’t require meeting at coffee shops or working around school schedules.

But none of them sound like Golda when they laugh. None of them have that slight rasp in their voice that’s been stuck in my head for weeks. And none of them look at me like they’re trying to figure out whether I’m full of shit, which should be annoying but instead makes me want to prove I’m not.

My phone buzzes again.

Sorry, just saw this. Today’s crazy with recordings. Tomorrow maybe?

I read it three times. She’s not saying no. She’s saying not today, but maybe tomorrow. That’s something, right?

What time works? I’m flexible.

Kids have practice at 4. Before that?

Of course. Kids have practice. Because she’s a mom. With kids. Who have schedules and needs and probably require actual parenting instead of just showing up when it’s convenient.

Christ, what am I doing?

Perfect. 2 PM? There’s this place called Grind on Capitol Hill.

See you there.

Three words. No emoji, no exclamation points. The kind of response I’d normally get from my accountant, not a woman I’m trying to... what? Date? Hook up with? Figure out why I can’t stop thinking about her?

I set the phone down and realize I’m grinning like an idiot at my empty kitchen.

“Get it together, Malone,” I tell myself, then immediately stop talking to myself because that’s apparently a thing I do now.

My phone rings. Brody’s contact photo fills the screen.

“What’s up?”

“Checking on your mental state. You looked pretty fucked up after lunch yesterday.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. That’s why you’ve been checking your phone every thirty seconds during film study today. Very subtle.”

Shit. I thought I was being discrete.

“Coffee date confirmed?” he continues.

“Tomorrow at two.”

“Good. Where?”

“Grind. You said it was decent.”

“It is. Elliot likes it.” There’s a pause. “You nervous?”

“Why would I be nervous? It’s just coffee.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m just a guy who happens to slide around on ice for a living.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re acting like a rookie who just got called up to the big leagues. Over coffee. With a hockey mom.”

The way he says it makes it sound ridiculous, which it probably is.

“Look, just... don’t overthink it,” Brody continues. “Be yourself. Well, maybe not completely yourself. The edited-for-public-consumption version.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m just saying, your usual approach probably won’t work here. She’s not some model looking to upgrade her Instagram feed.”

After we hang up, I spend the rest of the evening trying to figure out what my usual approach even is. Dinner at expensive restaurants? Drinks at clubs where everyone knows my name? Back to my place to show off the view and the expensive sound system?

None of that feels right for Golda. None of it feels like something she’d be interested in, and more importantly, none of it feels like something I want to do with her.

Which is fucking weird.

The next afternoon finds me at Grind twenty minutes early, which is either keen preparation or complete desperation.

I order coffee I don’t really want and claim a table where I can see the door, then immediately wonder if I should have picked somewhere else.

Somewhere with better lighting. Or worse lighting. Or no lighting at all.

At exactly 2 PM, Golda walks through the door, and every other thought evaporates.

She’s wearing dark jeans and a cream sweater that makes her hair look like fire, and when her eyes find mine across the coffee shop, the smile she gives me does something to my chest that I don’t understand.

“Perfect timing,” I say as she approaches.

“I’m always on time. Occupational hazard.” She hangs her jacket on the chair across from me. “Recording studios wait for no one.”

“Coffee first?”

“Coffee. Definitely coffee. I’ve been surviving on studio vending machine coffee all morning, which should be illegal.”

While she orders, I watch her talk to the barista. She’s polite but efficient, asks about the daily special, changes her mind twice. Everything about her body language says she’s comfortable here, in control of the situation.

It’s different from how she is at the rink, where she’s always slightly on edge, always managing something. Here, she’s just... herself.

“Sorry,” she says, leaning back in her chair with something that smells like cinnamon and espresso. “I’m very particular about coffee. It’s my only vice.”

“Only one?”

“Well, the only one that doesn’t require a babysitter.”

The comment catches me off guard, delivered completely straight-faced but with mischief in her eyes. I laugh before I can stop myself.

“Good to know you have hidden depths.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises. Just ask anyone who’s tried to figure out my Netflix algorithm.”

“That bad?”

“True crime documentaries, kids’ movies, and whatever cooking shows I can watch while folding laundry. Netflix thinks I’m either a serial killer or someone with very specific dietary restrictions.”

“Sounds about right for Seattle.”

“True. We’re a city of contradictions.” She takes a sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. “So what’s your excuse for being here at two on a Tuesday? Don’t you have important hockey things to do?”

“Practice was this morning. Not much else until team meeting at five.”

“Must be nice. Having that kind of schedule flexibility.”

There’s something in her tone that suggests flexibility isn’t something she’s familiar with.

“What’s your schedule like? With the voice work?”

“Chaos, mostly. Recording sessions whenever studios have openings, which is usually early morning or late evening. Client calls during school hours. Deadlines that don’t care about soccer practice or parent-teacher conferences.”

“Soccer practice?”

“Hockey practice. Whatever. The point is, my schedule revolves around other people’s schedules, which revolve around other people’s schedules. It’s schedules all the way down.”

She’s making a joke, but there’s real exhaustion underneath it. The kind that comes from trying to manage too many moving pieces without enough help.

“That sounds complicated.”

“That’s parenthood. Everything’s complicated when you’re responsible for keeping two small humans alive and functioning.”

“Is it worth it? All the complications?”

The question seems to surprise her. “Of course. They’re my kids. But it’s not exactly compatible with spontaneity or... whatever this is.”

She gestures between us, and I realize I don’t actually know what this is either. I asked her for coffee, but I didn’t think beyond that. Didn’t consider what comes next or where this is supposed to go.

“What do you think this is?” I ask.

“I have no idea. Do you?”

“Not really.”

We look at each other across the small table, and I can see her trying to figure me out the same way I’m trying to figure her out.

“Tell me about the voice work,” I say, because it feels safer than trying to define whatever’s happening between us. “How’d you get into that?”

“Necessity, mostly. I was a theater major in college, had dreams of Broadway and all that. Then life happened, and I needed something I could do from home.”

“What kind of life?”

“Marriage. Kids. All the things that make pursuing artistic dreams... impractical.”

There’s a story there, one that probably explains why she’s sitting across from me instead of on a stage somewhere. But she doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

“Do you miss it? The theater stuff?”

“Sometimes. There’s something about being on stage, having that connection with an audience. But voice work has its own rewards. I get to be different characters, tell stories. And nobody cares if I’m wearing sweatpants or if I haven’t brushed my hair.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I once recorded an entire romance series while looking like I’d given up on life. Spent two weeks breathing sultry dialogue into a microphone while wearing the same pair of pajamas.”

The image that creates in my head is both ridiculous and oddly appealing. Golda in pajamas, hair messy, voice dropping into that lower register that’s been haunting my dreams.

“That’s dedication.”

“That’s single motherhood. You learn to prioritize.”

Single motherhood. Right. Because she’s divorced, with kids, and probably a thousand responsibilities I can’t even imagine.

What the hell am I doing here?

“What about you?” she asks. “What’s it like being a professional athlete? And don’t give me the standard interview answer.”

“Why not?”

“Because I work in advertising. I can spot bullshit from three blocks away.”

Fair enough. I take a moment to think about how to answer honestly.