Page 28 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“No, you’re supposed to prove that you’re serious about this. That it’s not just a phase or a challenge or some quarter-life crisis.”

“Quarter-life crisis? I’m thirty-two.”

“Fine. Whatever-life crisis. The point is, if you want her to trust you, you have to show her that you understand what you’re asking for.”

“Which is what?”

“To be part of her family. To be someone her kids can count on. To be the kind of man who shows up and stays, not the kind who gets bored and moves on to the next interesting thing.”

The weight of what he’s saying settles on me. It’s not just about convincing Golda to date me. It’s about convincing her that I’m worth the risk of disrupting her life.

“I don’t know if I know how to be that guy,” I admit.

“Then you better figure it out,” Brody says. “Because that’s the only kind of guy she’s going to let near her kids.”

We finish breakfast in relative silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Mine keep circling back to Saturday night, to the moment when everything felt possible and then immediately felt impossible.

On the bus to the arena for morning skate, I pull out my phone again.

Thinking about you.

Delete.

Hope you’re having a good week.

Delete.

I had a great time Saturday night. Would love to talk when I get back.

Too much. Delete.

Finally, I just type:

Miss talking to you.

Simple. Honest. Not too pushy.

This time, she responds.

Miss it too.

Three words, but they’re enough to make me feel like maybe I didn’t completely screw this up. Maybe there’s still a chance.

I put the phone away and try to focus on the morning skate, on preparing for tonight’s game against Edmonton. But part of my brain is already planning what I’m going to say when I get back to Seattle, how I’m going to show her that this isn’t just some temporary fascination.

Because somewhere between the disastrous restaurant and the waterfront conversation and the kiss that wasn’t a kiss, I realized something that probably should have scared me but doesn’t.

I don’t want anyone else. I want her. Her complicated life, her guarded heart, her fierce protectiveness of her kids, all of it.

Now I just have to convince her to want me back.

We beat Edmonton 3-1, mostly because I manage to remember how to play hockey for more than thirty seconds at a time. It helps that I spend the entire game thinking about Golda’s text response, about the fact that she misses talking to me too.

After the game, I’m feeling confident enough to try texting again.

Good game tonight. Thought about you during the first goal.

During the goal?

She responded. Immediately. This feels like progress.

Couldn’t help it. You’re distracting even when you’re in a different city.

Smooth.

I have my moments.

How’s the road trip going?

Better now that I’m texting you.

Flatterer.

Honest man. There’s a difference.

There’s a pause, and I start to worry I’ve pushed too hard again. But then:

When do you get back?

Friday afternoon. Free for dinner Friday night?

Another pause. Longer this time.

I don’t know.

Coffee then? Lunch? I’m flexible.

It’s not about scheduling.

What’s it about?

I need to think.

About what?

About whether I’m ready for whatever this is.

Part of me wants to push, to argue that we’re good together, that she should take the risk. But Elliot’s voice echoes in my head: be patient, give her space, don’t be pushy.

Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.

You might change your mind.

I won’t.

You don’t know that.

Yes, I do.

Another long pause.

I should go. Early morning tomorrow.

Sweet dreams, Golda.

Goodnight, Dex.

I realize I’m smiling despite the uncertainty. She’s thinking about it. She’s not shutting me down completely. And she texted me back, which has to mean something.

Progress is progress, even if it’s slower than I’d like.

The next morning, I wake up with what feels like the beginning of a plan. Not a strategy to win her over or convince her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. But a way to show her what this could look like if she’s willing to try.

I text Elliot.

Need to ask you something.

It’s 7 AM. This better be good.

Team BBQ this weekend. Would Golda come if you invited her?

Depends. What’s your agenda?

No agenda. Just want her to see that part of my life. The normal parts.

The parts that involve your teammates and their families instead of restaurant interruptions and celebrity bullshit.

Exactly.

I’ll ask her. But no pressure, no expectations. If she comes, it’s just to hang out. Not some elaborate courtship ritual.

Understood.

And Dex? If you screw this up, I’ll make sure Brody checks you through the boards so hard you’ll forget your own name.

Noted.

I put the phone away and focus on getting ready for the day. We’ve got one more game before we head home, and I’m determined to play it like someone who has his shit together instead of someone having an extended crisis over a woman who may or may not want to have coffee with him.

But as I’m tying my skates for morning skate, my phone buzzes with a message from Elliot.

She said maybe.

Maybe isn’t yes, but it’s not no either. And right now, maybe feels like the best possible outcome.

Maybe means there’s still a chance.