Page 29 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

T he photo loads on my laptop screen and the world tilts sideways.

“Malone’s Mystery Woman: New Romance or Another Fling?”

It’s grainy, taken from across the street, but it’s unmistakably us. Dex’s hand in mine, walking down the street after our impromptu waterfront dinner. My face is partially obscured, but my hair, my jacket, the way I walk—anyone who knows me would recognize me instantly.

My phone starts ringing before I can even process what this means.

No. Not yet. I need a minute to think, to figure out how to handle this.

The phone stops ringing. Immediately starts again.

My hands shake as I answer. “Hello, Evan.”

“Well, well. Interesting morning reading.” His voice has that calm, controlled tone that means I’m already fucked. “Want to explain why my children’s mother is showing up in hockey gossip blogs?”

The coffee in my mouth turns to ash. “I don’t know what?—”

“Don’t lie to me, Golda. The photo’s right here on my computer. You and that coach, holding hands like some lovesick teenager. Tell me, how long has this been going on?”

“We had dinner. Once.”

“Bullshit. The kids talk about him constantly. Coach Dex this, Coach Dex that. You’ve been carrying on with him right under my nose.”

My chest tightens. “It’s not like that. We’re both adults?—”

“Are you? Because this doesn’t look like adult behavior. This looks like a woman having some kind of midlife crisis and dragging my children into it.”

“The children weren’t there.”

“But they know about him. They’re attached to him. And now the whole city knows their mother is dating some athlete who makes headlines for property damage and public drinking.”

The Space Needle. Of course he knows about that. Evan knows everything.

“That has nothing to do with the kids.”

“Doesn’t it? Because now every hockey fan in Seattle is going to be looking for more information about Dex Malone’s mystery woman. How long before they figure out who you are? How long before photographers start following you to their school?”

The thought sends ice through my veins. Photographers at Tyson’s school. Strangers asking Blythe questions. My children’s faces in tabloids because their mother was stupid enough to think she deserved one night of happiness.

“That won’t happen.”

“You’re naive if you believe that. Professional athletes’ girlfriends become public property, Golda. Is that what you want for my children? Pictures of them getting dragged into some hockey player’s drama?”

“We’re not—it’s not serious. It was just dinner.”

“Then end it. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“Evan—”

“I’m calling my lawyer this afternoon. We need to discuss modifications to the custody agreement.”

The words suck the air from my lungs. “What?”

“You heard me. This shows a clear pattern of poor judgment. The expensive activities I didn’t approve. The social situations you don’t inform me about. And now this public relationship with a man whose lifestyle poses a direct threat to the children’s stability.”

“That’s insane. One dinner doesn’t?—”

“One dinner that’s already made headlines. Judge Willis isn’t going to look kindly on a mother who exposes her children to media attention for the sake of her social life.”

Judge Willis. Evan’s golf buddy. The man who signs off on every modification Evan requests without question.

“You can’t take them from me.”

“I can if you’re not acting in their best interests. And dating a professional athlete with a history of public incidents while putting the children at risk of media exposure? That’s not acting in their best interests.”

My vision starts to blur around the edges. This is happening. He’s actually going to try to take them.

“I’ve done everything right. I’m a good mother.”

“Are you? Because good mothers put their children’s needs ahead of their own desires. Good mothers don’t parade around town with men they barely know.”

“I’m not parading?—”

“You’re in a gossip blog, Golda. My children’s mother is internet entertainment. How do you think that’s going to look in family court?”

The line goes dead.

I sit in my kitchen, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to breathe. The laptop screen still shows the photo, evidence of the one moment in months when I’d felt like a person instead of just a function.

He’s going to take them. He’s actually going to take my kids because I had dinner with someone.

Because I thought, for one stupid night, that I might deserve something good.

I close the laptop with shaking hands and try to think through my options, but my brain keeps short-circuiting on the same thought: I could lose them. I could lose Tyson and Blythe because I was selfish enough to want something for myself.

The house feels too quiet, too empty. In a few hours, I’ll have to pick them up from school and pretend everything’s normal while Evan’s lawyer prepares papers to rip them away from me.

My phone buzzes.

Thinking about you this morning. Hope you’re having a good day.

He has no idea. No idea that his “thinking about me” might cost me everything that matters.

I delete the text without responding.

I can’t work. Can’t eat. Can’t do anything except pace around my house and calculate how quickly Evan can move through the legal system when he wants something.

Judge Willis could sign temporary custody papers today if Evan pushes hard enough. Emergency modification. Children at risk. I could pick them up from school and find out I have to hand them over to their father by bedtime.

The thought makes me physically sick.

At noon, I call Jessica.

“I need help.” My voice comes out hoarse, panicked. “Evan’s threatening custody modification.”

“Slow down. What happened?”

I explain about the photo, about Evan’s call, about Judge Willis and the emergency modification threats. Jessica listens without interrupting, but I can hear her typing notes.

“One photograph of you on a date isn’t grounds for custody modification,” she says finally.

“It is if the judge is Evan’s golf buddy. You know how this works, Jessica. Willis signs whatever Evan wants.”

“He still has to follow legal procedures?—”

“Does he? Because last time he moved our hearing up by two weeks without notice and called it a ‘scheduling adjustment.’ This is the same man who accepted Evan’s word that I was ‘emotionally unstable’ without requiring any evidence.”

Jessica is quiet for a moment. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to keep my children.”

“Then we fight this. We document everything, we challenge any emergency motions, we?—”

“What if I just... stopped?”

“Stopped what?”

“Seeing Dex. Dating anyone. What if I just focused on being the perfect single mother and gave Evan nothing to work with?”

“Golda—”

“I could end things now, before it gets serious. Before there are more photos or more headlines. Just go back to how things were.”

“Is that what you want?”

What I want? I want to not live in terror that every choice I make could result in losing my children. I want to not have my ex-husband monitoring my life like a probation officer. I want to be able to have dinner with someone without it becoming a weapon against me.

But what I want doesn’t matter if it costs me Tyson and Blythe.

“I want my kids,” I say.

“Then we’ll make sure you keep them. Don’t make any decisions about your personal life based on Evan’s threats. That’s exactly what he wants.”

After we hang up, I try to follow her advice. I try to focus on work, on normal mom tasks, on anything except the growing certainty that I’m going to have to choose between my children and any possibility of happiness.

My phone buzzes again. Dex.

Miss talking to you.

The simple honesty of it breaks something in my chest. I want to tell him everything—about the photo, about Evan’s threats, about how scared I am. But I also want to protect him from the toxic mess that is my life.

Miss it too, I type back, because it’s true and might be the last honest thing I can say to him.

We text back and forth, careful surface conversation that feels nothing like Saturday night’s vulnerability. He’s trying to gauge my mood, to figure out why I’m pulling away, but I can’t explain without sounding like I’m blaming him for problems that existed long before he kissed my cheek.

When he asks about dinner Friday, I tell him I need to think.

When he offers coffee instead, I give him the same non-answer.

Because thinking is all I can do right now, and every thought leads to the same conclusion: wanting this isn’t worth the risk of losing everything.

Thursday afternoon, I’m at the rink early. I need the comfort of routine, the distraction of other parents’ conversations, anything to stop my brain from cycling through worst-case scenarios.

Elliot appears beside me with two coffee cups and the expression of someone who knows exactly what’s wrong.

“Thought you might need this,” she says.

“How did you?—”

“Brody saw the photo. Figured Evan wouldn’t take it well.”

I accept the coffee gratefully. “He’s threatening custody modification.”

“Of course he is.” Elliot settles beside me, and there’s something fierce in her voice. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“Before Brody, I was married to a hockey player in Phoenix. Team captain, thought he owned me and everyone around him.” Her tone is conversational, but there’s steel underneath.

“When Brody and I became friends—just friends—Jason decided he was a threat. Used his influence to get Brody traded two thousand miles away.”

I look at her, surprised by the admission.

“Even after Brody was gone, the paranoia didn’t stop. Jason monitored my phone, my email, had teammates’ wives reporting back about every conversation I had. When I finally left him, he made sure I understood that choosing anyone over him meant losing everything else too.”

“How did you get through it?”

“Badly, at first. I convinced myself I was better off alone, that wanting more was selfish and dangerous.” She pauses.

“When Brody came back to Phoenix three years later, I almost didn’t give him a chance.

I’d gotten so used to being afraid that I couldn’t remember what it felt like to hope for something. ”

“What changed?”

“He bought the house next door and spent months proving that not all men use love as a weapon. That some of them actually mean it when they say they’re not going anywhere.”

Practice is winding down, kids skating toward the boards. Tyson spots me and waves, face bright with post-practice endorphins.

“Dex is different,” Elliot says quietly. “I’ve watched him with teammates’ families for years. He’s never shown interest in the kids, never remembered their names. But with Tyson and Blythe...”

She doesn’t finish, but I know what she means. I’ve seen how he lights up when they talk to him, how he remembers details about their progress that other coaches would forget.

“That doesn’t solve the practical problems.”

“No, but it suggests he might be worth solving them for.”

Tyson reaches the boards, already launching into his practice recap. Normal mom things that feel like lifelines right now.

That evening, after the kids are asleep, I sit with wine and silence and the weight of impossible choices.

I stare at the messages from our earlier conversation for a long time. I could tell him the truth—about the photo, about Evan’s threats, about how loving him might cost me my children. But that’s not fair to him, and it’s not fair to whatever this could become.

He promised he would wait. But he doesn’t understand what he’s promising. He doesn’t know that staying means becoming a target, means having his life dissected in family court, means watching me sacrifice pieces of myself to keep my children safe.

I finish my wine in the dark kitchen, trying to accept what I already know.

I’m going to have to choose. And there’s only one choice I can live with.

I scroll to the other message from Elliot that I also deflected that morning.

Team BBQ Saturday. 2 PM. Very casual, very family-friendly. Interested?

I know this isn’t really about a BBQ. It’s about whether I’m brave enough to fight for something good, or whether I’m going to let Evan suffocate what’s left of my life.

I stare at the response I sent this morning.

The “maybe” deflection that I’ve gotten so good at giving before I start typing another response to her.

Actually, yes. We’ll go.