Page 27 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

DEX

T he puck flies past my ear, missing my head by maybe an inch, and I don’t even flinch.

Probably should have, considering the other team’s left wing just wound up for what looked like a potential decapitation, but honestly?

Getting knocked unconscious might be an improvement over my current mental state.

“MALONE!” Coach Barrett’s voice cuts through the arena noise like a chainsaw. “What the hell was that?”

That was me standing around like a traffic cone while the other team scored their third goal of the period. That was me forgetting that hockey involves, you know, actually playing hockey instead of replaying Saturday night’s disaster on an endless loop.

“Sorry, Coach!” I call back, skating harder to catch up with the play that’s already moved to the other end of the ice.

Three days. It’s been three days since Golda turned her head and I kissed her cheek like some awkward teenager asking his crush to prom. Three days of me trying to figure out what the fuck went wrong during what I thought was the best date I’d had in years.

The puck comes my way again, and this time I manage to actually make contact with it before immediately passing it directly to an Edmonton defenseman. Beautiful. Really showing them why I make the big bucks.

“Dude,” Rodriguez skates up beside me during the next whistle, “you’re playing like you got hit by a truck. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Right. That’s why you just gave them a perfect scoring opportunity.”

“It was a difficult pass.”

“It was a three-foot pass to Brody. He was wide open.”

I glance over at Brody, who’s giving me the same concerned look I’ve been getting from half the team since we got to Vancouver. Like I’m a wounded animal they’re not sure how to approach.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“Sure you are. And I’m Wayne Gretzky.”

The whistle blows again, mercifully ending this particular shift of hockey horror. I skate to the bench and collapse next to Varga, who’s been unusually quiet all game.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s making you play like you’ve never seen a hockey puck before.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Varga just stares at me with those dead Russian eyes that see through everything. “It’s about a woman?”

“No.”

“Is always about a woman when you play like shit for no reason.”

“I’m not playing like shit.”

“You passed the puck to the other team. Three times. In one period.”

Okay, he’s got a point there.

The period ends with us down 4-1, which would be embarrassing under normal circumstances but feels about right given my current level of hockey competence.

In the locker room, Coach Barrett delivers one of his patented “what the fuck is wrong with you people” speeches while I sit there debating how to text Golda without sounding desperate.

How was your day?

Too casual. Delete.

Hope you’re having a good week.

Too formal. Delete.

Still thinking about Saturday night.

Way too honest. Delete.

Hey.

Perfect. Simple. Impossible to misinterpret. I hit send and immediately regret it.

She doesn’t respond.

“Malone!” Barrett’s voice snaps me back to reality. “You with us?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good, because you’re sitting the third period.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re playing like you’ve been lobotomized. Figure out whatever’s going on in your head, or you’ll be sitting a lot more than one period.”

I want to argue, but he’s right. I’ve been completely useless tonight. My teammates deserve better, and the fans definitely deserve better than watching me skate around like I’m lost in a shopping mall.

The third period happens without me, which is probably for the best. We lose 6-2, and I spend the entire time staring at my phone, waiting for a response that doesn’t come.

Back at the hotel, I throw myself onto the bed and seriously consider ordering room service that consists entirely of alcohol. Instead, I do something even more pathetic: I text Elliot.

Need advice.

About what?

Golda.

Oh god. What did you do?

Why do you assume I did something?

Because you’re texting me for relationship advice at 11 PM after getting your ass kicked.

How do you know we got our asses kicked?

Brody’s been texting me updates about your tragic performance all night. He’s concerned about your mental state.

Great. Now my teammates are reporting my psychological breakdown to their wives.

I tried to kiss her.

And?

She turned her head. I got cheek.

Ouch. When?

After dinner Saturday. We had this great conversation, everything seemed perfect, and then...

Then you tried to kiss her and she panicked.

How do you know she panicked?

Because I know Golda. And I know her history. You can’t just expect her to fall into your arms after one good date.

It was a REALLY good date.

I’m sure it was. But she’s not like your usual... companions.

I know that.

Do you? Because if you think you can charm your way past her defenses like you do with everyone else, you’re going to be very disappointed.

I’m trying to figure out how to respond to that without sounding like a complete asshole.

So what do I do?

Be patient. Give her space. Don’t be pushy.

I texted her “hey” earlier and she didn’t respond.

THAT’S being pushy?

I don’t know! I’ve never had to figure this out before.

Figure what out?

How to talk to someone who might actually matter.

There’s a long pause before Elliot responds.

You really like her.

Yeah.

Like, actually like her. Not just attracted to her or intrigued by the challenge.

Yeah.

Then stop acting like Dex Malone, Professional Hockey Player, and start acting like a human being who gives a shit about someone other than himself.

Harsh.

True. Now go to sleep. You have another game tomorrow, and if you play like that again, Brody’s going to disown you.

I stare at the ceiling, replaying Saturday night for the thousandth time. The way she laughed when I suggested blowing the pop stand. The vulnerable conversation by the water. The moment when I thought we were finally connecting on something real.

And then the kiss that wasn’t a kiss, and the look on her face like I’d just proved every fear she had about this whole thing.

My phone buzzes. For a second, my heart jumps thinking it might be Golda, but it’s just Brody.

Elliot says you’re having a crisis.

I’m fine.

You gave away four turnovers tonight.

I was having an off game.

You’ve been having an off week. Since Saturday.

It’s not about Saturday.

Right. And I’m secretly a figure skater.

That would explain your pirouettes during power plays.

Don’t deflect. What happened with Golda?

I consider lying, but what’s the point? The entire team probably knows I’m having some kind of breakdown by now.

She rejected me.

Rejected you how?

I tried to kiss her. She turned her head.

That blows.

Thanks for the sympathy.

Dude, did you consider that maybe she’s just not ready?

Ready for what?

For anything. She’s got kids, a crazy ex, a whole life she’s trying to protect. Maybe she likes you but needs more time.

How much more time?

However much time it takes. You can’t put a deadline on trust.

I don’t know how to do this.

Do what?

Wait. Be patient. Not know where I stand.

Welcome to real relationships. They’re not like hookups where everything’s clear upfront.

This sucks.

Yeah, but if she’s worth it, then it’s worth it.

I try to sleep, but my brain won’t shut up. Every time I close my eyes, I see that moment when she pulled away, the confusion and hurt and something that looked like disappointment in her face.

Maybe I misread the whole night. Maybe the connection I felt was one-sided. Maybe she was just being polite and I pushed too hard, too fast.

Or maybe Elliot’s right, and I need to stop thinking like a guy who’s used to getting what he wants immediately and start thinking like someone who actually cares about the outcome.

The next morning, we have a team breakfast that I attend mostly to avoid the questions I’d get for skipping it. Rodriguez immediately starts analyzing my performance from the night before with the enthusiasm of a color commentator.

“That turnover in the second period,” he says around a mouthful of pancakes, “was like watching a master class in how not to play hockey.”

“Thanks for the review.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to have a mental breakdown on the ice, at least make it entertaining.”

“I’m not having a mental breakdown.”

“Right. You’re just temporarily forgetting how to skate, pass, and think simultaneously. Totally normal.”

Varga slides into the seat across from me with a plate that appears to consist entirely of protein. “Still the woman?”

“There’s no woman.”

“Always a woman. Or a man, your preference. Point is, someone broke your brain.”

“My brain is fine.”

“Your brain is thinking about a woman instead of hockey.”

“Thank you, Dr. Varga. Very insightful.”

“Tell her you miss her. Women like honesty.”

“I tried texting her yesterday. She didn’t respond.”

“Then text again. Persistence is attractive.”

Rodriguez nearly chokes on his orange juice. “Dude, no. Persistence from a guy she barely knows is stalking. Elliot specifically told you to give her space.”

“Elliot talks too much,” Varga grumbles.

“Elliot knows Golda better than we do,” Brody points out, joining our breakfast therapy session uninvited. “And she says Golda’s just scared.”

“Scared of what?” I ask.

“Of getting hurt again. Of letting someone into her kids’ lives who might disappear. Of taking a risk on someone whose life is completely different from hers.”

“My life isn’t that different.”

“Dex, you make more money in one season than most people make in a decade. You travel constantly, have women throwing themselves at you everywhere you go, and until last week, your longest relationship was probably about six weeks.”

“It was eight weeks,” I correct automatically.

“My point.”

I stab at my eggs. “So what am I supposed to do? Just give up?”