Page 25 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

M y phone buzzes as I’m trying to get dinner started, and Evan’s name on the screen makes my stomach drop. The kids are in the living room arguing over which movie to watch, blissfully unaware that their father is about to ruin something before it even begins.

Schedule change. Picking up the kids Saturday instead of Friday. Work emergency.

Not a request. A declaration. I stare at the message, already seeing the trap.

What time Saturday?

From their hockey practice. Need to observe the program anyway. Making sure it’s appropriate.

My stomach drops. Observe the program. Evaluate whether it’s appropriate. Translation: he’s going to show up and find reasons to criticize, to control, to take this away from them.

Practice ends at 11.

I’ll be there early. Want to see what we’re paying for.

We’re not paying for anything. I’m paying for everything. But correcting him will only start a fight I can’t win.

Fine.

Don’t be difficult about this, Golda. I’m their father.

I set the phone down with shaking hands. He’s going to be at the rink. Watching practice, watching me, cataloging everything he can use against me later.

“Mom, Tyson’s being mean about the movie!” Blythe appears in the kitchen doorway. “He says we can’t watch Frozen again!”

“We’ve watched it twelve times this month,” Tyson protests. “Can’t we watch something different?”

“Frozen is PERFECT and you have NO TASTE!”

Their bickering fades into background noise as I stare at my phone, considering how to navigate tomorrow. I’ll have to be completely professional at the rink. Can’t give Evan any ammunition about inappropriate relationships or poor judgment.

I pick up my phone again, to send a different message this time.

Kids will be with their dad Saturday night. Turns out I’m free for dinner after all.

I stare at the text to Dex for a full minute. Part of me wants to cancel, to avoid any complications. But another part of me is tired of letting Evan’s threats control every decision I make.

I hit send before I can change my mind.

That’s great news. Looking forward to it.

Simple. Professional. Like we’re discussing a business meeting instead of... whatever this is.

Saturday morning arrives gray and drizzly, and I’m up before my alarm, anxiety twisting in my stomach. The kids are excited about practice, chattering through breakfast about drills and scrimmages, completely oblivious to my panic.

“I want to show Dad my crossovers,” Tyson announces. “Coach Dex says I’m really improving.”

My chest tightens. Coach Dex says this, Coach Dex taught me that. Everything with these kids comes back to their hockey coach, and in a few hours they’re going to be their usual enthusiastic selves in front of their father who’s coming to “evaluate the program.”

We arrive at the rink with time to spare. I help them with their gear while scanning the parking lot obsessively, but Evan’s car isn’t there yet. Small mercies.

Practice proceeds normally. Dex runs drills, offers corrections, high-fives good plays. I try to work on my laptop but keep glancing toward the entrance, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

At 10:30, twenty minutes before practice ends, Evan walks in.

He’s in uniform—full police gear, badge visible, radio crackling occasionally. Not weekend dad attire. This is Detective Adler, here on official business to assess whether this program is suitable for his children.

He doesn’t wave or acknowledge me. Just finds a seat with a clear view of the ice and starts taking notes in a small notebook.

On the ice, Tyson spots his father and his face lights up with excitement. He waves enthusiastically before turning back to the drill, skating with extra intensity now that he has an audience.

My heart pounds as I watch Evan’s pen move across the pages. What is he writing? What infractions is he documenting? What reasons is he finding to shut this down?

When practice ends and the kids start skating toward the boards, Dex begins his usual routine of helping with gear and chatting with parents. He has no idea that one of the men watching from the stands is about to become a problem.

I make my way down to collect the kids, moving carefully, professionally. Just another hockey mom doing pickup.

“Good practice today,” Dex says as I approach. “Tyson’s really getting those transitions down.”

“He’s been working hard,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.

Dex finishes helping another kid with his skates, then skates over closer to where I’m standing. Casual. Friendly. Completely unaware that we’re being observed and analyzed.

“So,” he says, voice dropping slightly, “seven tonight is still good?”

Every drop of blood in my body turns to ice. No. No no no. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Evan who’s sitting twenty feet away taking fucking notes.

“SEVEN IS PERFECT!” I practically shout, panic making my voice carry across the entire rink. “GREAT TO DISCUSS TYSON’S DEVELOPMENT AND MAYBE SOME ADDITIONAL TRAINING OPPORTUNITIES!”

Dex blinks, clearly startled by my sudden volume and the random mention of training opportunities. “Uh... okay. Training opportunities. Sure.”

“WONDERFUL! REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO REVIEWING HIS PROGRESS IN DETAIL!”

I’m making it worse. So much worse. But I can’t stop the words from tumbling out, each one louder and more professional than the last.

“Right,” Dex says slowly, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “His progress. Definitely.”

Behind me, I can hear Evan’s footsteps approaching. I don’t turn around.

“Ready to go, kids?” Evan’s voice is pleasant, authoritative. “Tyson, grab your gear. Blythe, let’s move.”

“Dad!” Tyson turns around, beaming. “Did you see practice? We worked on power plays and Coach Dex says I’m really understanding the timing now!”

“I saw,” Evan says, his eyes moving between me and Dex with calculated interest. “Very... educational.”

Dex finally notices the man in uniform, the kids calling him Dad, and I watch the pieces click into place on his face. This is the ex-husband. The co-parent. The person I mentioned in passing during coffee.

“You must be their father,” Dex says, extending his hand. “Dex Malone. Great kids you’ve got here.”

Evan doesn’t shake his hand. Just looks at it for a moment before turning back to the kids.

“Come on, we’re late for lunch. Say goodbye to your coach.”

“Bye Coach Dex!” Tyson calls out. “See you Tuesday!”

“Thanks for the awesome practice!” Blythe adds.

And then they’re gone, Evan herding them toward the exit without another word. No pleasantries, no acknowledgment of Dex’s attempt at introduction. Just a demonstration of authority and dismissal.

“Well,” Dex says once they’re out of earshot, “he seems... friendly.”

“He’s having a bad day,” I lie, gathering my things with shaking hands.

“Right.” Dex watches me fumble with my bag. “So about tonight?—”

“I should go,” I cut him off, suddenly desperate to get out of here before Evan decides to come back and ask more questions. “I’ll see you at seven.”

“Golda, are you?—”

“Fine. I’m fine. Just need to get home.”

I practically run to my car, hands shaking as I fumble with the keys. In my rearview mirror, I can see Dex standing by the boards looking completely confused.

My phone buzzes before I’m even out of the parking lot.

Interesting practice. We should discuss the coaching situation soon.

I delete the message without responding and drive home through Seattle’s gray streets, trying to calm down before tonight.

By seven o’clock, I’ve changed clothes four times and am seriously questioning my sanity. The black dress I finally settled on is nice but not too fancy, appropriate for dinner without looking like I’m trying too hard.

Sapphire is downtown, upscale, the kind of place I haven’t been to in years. I’m early enough to people-watch in the lobby while I wait.

The clientele is exactly what I expected—well-dressed professionals, couples who look like they dropped serious money on their outfits, the kind of people who belong in places like this. I smooth my dress and try not to feel like an imposter.

Dex arrives exactly on time, and the difference in how he moves through this space compared to the hockey rink is striking. Here, he belongs. The hostess recognizes him, other diners glance over with interest, and he navigates it all with easy confidence.

“You made it,” he says, pulling out my chair.

“I made it.”

“And you’re speaking at normal volume again.”

“About that...” I settle into my seat, already feeling my cheeks warm. “I may have overreacted this morning.”

“When you started shouting about training opportunities?”

“I panicked.”

The server appears immediately—the kind of service that comes with being recognizable. We’re barely looking at the menus when a woman approaches our table. Tall, blonde, wearing a dress that makes even me look twice.

“Dex!” she exclaims, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I thought that was you.”

“Hey,” Dex says, his smile polite but strained. “Good to see you.”

Her eyes sweep over me with obvious curiosity, but I don’t offer any information. Just nod politely.

“Are you going to introduce me?” she asks.

“This is Golda,” he says simply.

The woman hovers, clearly fishing for more details, before finally moving on.

“Sorry,” Dex mutters, looking back at his menu. “That happens sometimes.”

“No problem.”

We’re trying to decide between appetizers when another interruption comes. A younger woman with her phone already out.

“Excuse me,” she says to Dex, completely ignoring my existence. “Could I get a quick photo?”

“Not tonight,” Dex says. “I’m having dinner.”

“Just a quick one? Please?”

“Another time.”

She huffs and walks away, but I can see more people starting to notice, phones being discretely positioned.

“So,” I say, trying to get back to normal conversation, “what’s good here?”

“The salmon’s supposed to be?—”

“Oh my god, it’s really you!” Another woman appears, this one holding a cocktail and swaying slightly. “You’re even hotter in person.”