Page 24 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“Most of the time, it’s exactly as ridiculous as you’d expect. Grown men getting paid stupid money to play a game, staying in fancy hotels, having everything handled for us. It’s completely absurd.”

“But?”

“But when you’re on the ice and everything clicks, when you make a play that shouldn’t work but does, when twenty thousand people lose their minds because you put a piece of rubber in the right place... there’s nothing like it.”

“You still love it.”

“Yeah. Even when I hate everything else about it.”

“What do you hate?”

Most people want to hear about the perks, the money, the lifestyle. Nobody asks about the downsides.

“The fishbowl thing, mostly. Everything you do gets analyzed. Every relationship gets picked apart. Every mistake gets blown up into a major story.”

“Relationships get picked apart?”

“Oh yeah. Date someone twice and suddenly you’re engaged according to the sports blogs. Break up and it’s either because you’re a player or because she was using you for fame. There’s no winning.”

She nods like she understands, which surprises me.

“Must make it hard to know if someone’s interested in you or interested in what you represent.”

“Exactly.” The fact that she gets it without me having to explain it feels significant somehow. “Most of the time, it’s pretty obvious which one it is.”

“And this time?”

The question hangs between us. She’s looking at me directly, no games, no pretense. Just genuine curiosity about what I think this is.

“Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”

She laughs, and the sound hits me the same way it did that first time at the coffee shop months ago. Real and unexpected and completely without artifice.

“Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

“I’m trying to be more honest in general. New approach.”

“How’s it working out?”

“Jury’s still out. But sitting here with you feels like it might be worth the experiment.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn’t look away. She’s not used to direct compliments, I realize. Or at least, not used to ones that don’t come with strings attached.

“I should warn you,” she says after a moment, “that my life isn’t exactly designed for experiments. Everything I do has to be carefully planned and thoroughly considered.”

“Because of the kids.”

“Because of everything. Kids, work, my ex-husband who has very strong opinions about my choices.” She pauses. “It’s not simple, getting involved with me.”

“How not simple?”

“Custody schedules. Emergency calls about forgotten homework. An ex who likes to make everything as difficult as possible.” She’s watching my face as she lists these things, like she’s waiting for me to realize what I’m signing up for and bolt.

“That does sound complicated.”

“It is. Which is why I don’t really date. It’s easier to just... not.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“Why?”

She waits for a moment, staring into her coffee like it might have answers.

“Because you asked. And because...” she trails off, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Because something about you makes me want to say yes even though my brain is screaming that it’s a terrible idea.”

The honesty in that statement is bleak. She’s sitting here basically telling me that I’m a risk she probably shouldn’t take, and instead of being insulted, I’m oddly flattered.

“Your brain might be right,” I say. “I’m not exactly known for my commitment to anything other than hockey.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do relationships. I do dinner and good times and mutual satisfaction, and then everyone moves on with their lives.”

“I know that too.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because maybe I’m tired of always making the safe choice. Maybe I want to see what happens if I don’t overthink something for once.”

Her phone buzzes against the table, interrupting whatever I might have said in response. She glances at it, and I watch her entire demeanor shift.

“Shit,” she mutters, reading whatever message just came through.

“Everything okay?”

“No. But it will be.” She types a quick response, then puts the phone face down. “Sorry. Crisis management comes with the territory.”

“Kid crisis or work crisis?”

“Ex-husband crisis. Which is usually both.” She checks the time. “I should probably start thinking about heading out. Kids get out of school in an hour.”

“Right. Of course.”

We gather our things in a silence that feels different from the comfortable conversation we’ve been having. There’s tension now, the real world intruding on whatever bubble we’ve been in for the last two hours.

“Thank you,” she says as we walk toward the door. “For coffee. For conversation that didn’t involve scheduling or logistics.”

“Thank you for taking the risk.”

Outside, the Seattle afternoon is crisp and sunny, the kind of day that makes you remember why people choose to live here despite the rain.

“Can I see you again?” I ask as we reach her car. “Soon?”

She hesitates, and I can practically see her mental calendar spinning, calculating complications and potential conflicts.

“I’d like that. But I should warn you, my availability is...”

“Complicated. I know.”

“Saturday night might work if Evan actually sticks to the custody schedule. If you don’t mind meeting somewhere instead of the whole pickup thing. I’m still figuring out boundaries.”

“Wherever you want. Dinner this time?”

“There’s a place called Sapphire downtown. Nothing too fancy.”

“Sapphire it is.”

She gets in her car, but before starting the engine, she rolls down the window.

“Dex?”

“Yeah?”

“Just so we’re clear, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Good. As long as we’re both equally confused.”

As I watch her drive away, I realize I’m in deeper shit than I thought. This isn’t just physical attraction or curiosity about the woman who’s been occupying my thoughts for months.

I get in my car and sit there for a moment, trying to process what just happened. Two hours of actual conversation. Real laughter. The way she looked at me when she said she was tired of always making the safe choice.

Her voice saying my name.

Fuck.

I start the car and make it exactly three blocks before pulling over into a parking lot. My hands are shaking slightly, and there’s this restless energy coursing through me that I’m not sure how to handle.

I need to hear her voice again. Not the careful, polite version from the rink, but that warm, unguarded tone from the coffee shop. The way she sounded when she was telling me about recording romance novels in her pajamas.

Before I know it, I’m scrolling through my audiobook library. “Passion on the High Seas” - one I haven’t listened to yet. Historical romance, but with pirates instead of dukes. Different setting, same sultry narrator voice.

I hit play and lean back in my seat, closing my eyes.

“Captain Rafe Blackwood had sailed treacherous waters from the Caribbean to the Mediterranean, but nothing had prepared him for the tempest that was Lady Isabella Fairfax.”

Christ. Even saying “Lady Isabella Fairfax” in that professional tone does things to me. Especially now that I know what she looks like when she laughs.

“‘You are in my power now, my lady,’ the captain growled, his weathered hands gripping the ship’s rigging as he towered over her. ‘Your fate rests in these hands that have conquered both seas and hearts.’”

I should probably be embarrassed by how terrible this dialogue is, but Golda’s voice makes even the most ridiculous lines sound... not good, exactly, but compelling. Professional. Like she can take any script and make it work through sheer technical skill.

“Lady Isabella felt her knees grow weak at his proximity, the scent of sea spray and masculine power overwhelming her senses. ‘Captain,’ she whispered, ‘surely you would not compromise a lady’s virtue aboard your vessel.’”

The depth of her voice for the dramatic moments, adds just enough breathiness to sell the fantasy without overselling it. It’s the same voice that just told me about her complicated schedule and her Netflix algorithm, and somehow that makes this whole thing even more?—

My phone rings.

The Bluetooth connects automatically.

“‘Release me from these bonds, you scoundrel,’ Lady Isabella demanded, though her voice betrayed the fire he had ignited within her very soul. ‘I am not some tavern wench to be claimed by a ? —’”

“Dude, what the fuck are you listening to?”

Brody’s voice cuts through Captain Blackwood’s maritime seduction, and I fumble for my phone in complete panic.

“Nothing! I’m not—the audiobook was just?—”

“Is that pirate porn, Dex?”

“It’s not porn, it’s?—”

“ ‘Your virtue is safe with me, my lady, but your heart... that I intend to plunder most thoroughly, ’” Golda’s voice continues through my car speakers, completely oblivious to my current crisis.

“Oh my god,” Brody breathes. “That’s her, isn’t it? That’s Golda’s voice.”

I finally manage to pause the audio, and the sudden silence in my car feels deafening.

“Brody, I can explain?—”

“You’re sitting in a parking lot listening to the woman you just had coffee with narrate pirate romance novels.”

“It’s not what it sounds like.”

“It sounds like exactly what it is.” There’s a pause, and I can practically hear him trying not to laugh. “Dude. You have a problem.”

“I know.”

“Like, a serious problem.”

“I know.”

“How long have you been sitting there?”

I look at the timestamp. “Four minutes.”

“Four minutes after having actual human contact with her, you’re back to the audiobooks.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s pathetic.”

“That too.”

Brody sighs. “Please tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

“Anything involving Captain Blackwood and his throbbing maritime desires.”

“I make no promises.”