Page 30 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

DEX

T he next shirt hits the floor, joining its rejected brethren in a sad pile of designer cotton. I stare at my reflection, wondering if blue henley number five looks any different from blue henley numbers one through four.

“It’s a barbecue, not the Met Gala,” I mutter, running a hand through hair I’ve styled twice already. “Get it together, Malone.”

My phone sits silent on the dresser, mocking me. No confirmation text from Golda about today. No “see you soon” or “running late” or even “can’t make it after all.” Just radio silence since she accepted Elliot’s invitation three days ago.

Maybe she’s not coming. Maybe Evan’s threats spooked her more than she let on. Maybe she looked at that photo online and realized exactly what dating me would mean for her carefully controlled life.

My phone buzzes and I lunge for it, pathetically eager. But it’s just Maggie, because of course it is. My sister has a sixth sense for when I’m being pathetic.

“What?” I answer, already regretting it.

“Wow, someone’s grumpy for a guy with a potential date today.” Her voice is entirely too cheerful for someone calling to heckle her favorite brother. “Rough morning?”

“It’s not a date,” I correct her, yanking shirt number six out of the drawer. “It’s a team barbecue. That she might not even attend. With her kids. And the entire team. And their families.”

“So, a date with witnesses. If she shows up.”

“She said yes.”

“She said maybe first. Why does she hate you so much?”

“Why do you think she hates me?”

“Because you’re texting me existential dread at noon on a Saturday, and last week you were floating on cloud nine after dinner with her.”

I sit heavily on the edge of my bed. “There’s stuff going on with her ex. Custody threats. It’s complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“The kind where dating me could actually cost her her kids.”

Maggie’s quiet for a moment, which means she’s processing the seriousness of what I just said. “Jesus, Dex. No wonder she’s scared.”

“Yeah, well. Might not matter if she doesn’t show up today.”

“She’ll show up.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Elliot texted me this morning asking for advice on kid-friendly BBQ activities. She wouldn’t be planning activities if she didn’t think they were coming.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by terror. “She’s coming. She’s actually coming.”

“And you’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking. I’m just... prepared for multiple scenarios.”

“How many shirts have you tried on?”

I look guiltily at the pile on my floor. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Oh my god.” She starts laughing. “You’re acting like a teenager before prom. Please tell me you didn’t change your sheets.”

The silence that follows is damning.

“Dex! She’s not coming to your condo! It’s a team barbecue at Brody’s house!”

“It’s called being prepared,” I argue, feeling my neck heat up. “And having clean sheets is just basic adulting.”

“When was the last time you changed your sheets for anyone?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because this matters,” I say, the words coming out more raw than I intended. “She matters. And I don’t want to screw it up.”

Maggie’s quiet again, and I can practically hear her recalibrating. “You really like her.”

“Yeah.” It feels weird to admit it out loud. “I really do. And I might have already screwed it up without even trying.”

“Then wear the gray henley—it brings out your eyes—and stop overthinking. Just be the guy who made her laugh at dinner, not the guy who’s terrified she won’t show up.”

“You’ve always been my least annoying sister.”

“You’re only just now figuring this out? And Dex? She already likes you. You don’t have to try so hard.”

“What if Evan?—”

“Then you deal with Evan. But don’t lose her because you’re too scared to fight for her.”

I end the call and reach for the gray henley, trying to channel some of Maggie’s confidence.

Brody and Elliot’s backyard has been transformed into what can only be described as hockey player paradise.

Massive grill station on the deck, coolers of beer and soda everywhere, outdoor speakers pumping a playlist that somehow satisfies both the old-school veterans and the rookies who think anything before 2015 is ancient history.

“You’re early,” Brody notes as I help him set up the last of the lawn games. “And suspiciously well-dressed for a guy who usually shows up in team sweats.”

“Just being a good teammate,” I say, trying to sound casual while checking my phone for the twentieth time. “Supporting the captain’s social initiatives.”

“Uh-huh.” He eyes me knowingly. “And this has nothing to do with a certain hockey mom and her kids who might be arriving in...” he checks his watch, “twenty minutes? If they’re coming at all.”

“Elliot said they’d be here.”

“Elliot says a lot of things. But she also spent this morning texting your sister about kid activities, so I’d say the odds are good.”

I should feel relieved, but instead the anxiety ratchets up another notch. “What if she changed her mind? What if she decided it’s too risky?”

“Stop borrowing trouble.” Brody claps me on the shoulder. “She might surprise you.”

The yard gradually fills with teammates and their families, the familiar chaos of people who spend too much time together to stand on ceremony. I try to focus on the conversations, the setup, anything except watching the street for her car.

“You’re vibrating, man,” Rodriguez observes, appearing with a beer. “Like, literally. I can feel the anxiety from here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. That’s why you’ve been playing like shit all week and checking your phone every thirty seconds.” He pauses. “She’s coming, right? The hockey mom?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Dude, after what we heard at the charity game, I was looking forward to some actual talent at karaoke night.”

“I doubt she’ll do karaoke for you.”

“Well if she does she’ll probably outsing all of us combined. Which, granted, isn’t saying much, but still.”

More teammates arrive, the backyard filling with comfortable chaos. Varga appears with his usual scowl, which softens marginally when Elliot hands him a beer. Luca comes bearing some elaborate frosted cake that he definitely made himself but will deny if anyone asks.

“Team content,” Kyla explains when she shows up with professional photography equipment. “Social media’s been dead this week. I need heartwarming BBQ material or the engagement metrics drop.”

“No cameras around Golda and the kids if they come,” I say immediately. “The ex is a problem.”

Her expression sharpens with interest. “What kind of problem?”

“The ‘he’s a cop who uses his badge to intimidate’ kind.”

“Got it.” She nods, instantly professional. “No photos of them. But you’re still fair game, Malone. Especially if you stop moping around like someone stole your favorite stick.”

“I don’t mope.”

“You’ve been moping all week,” Varga interjects, surprising everyone by joining the conversation. “It’s depressing. Like watching a sad Russian movie.”

“Thanks for that imagery.”

Varga continues with his usual bluntness. “This week your playing is worse. Much worse. So either fix the problem or find a new woman.”

“It’s not that simple?—”

“It’s always that simple. You want her? Fight for her. You don’t want her? Stop making the rest of us suffer through your terrible hockey.”

Before I can respond to Varga’s brutal assessment, my phone buzzes.

We’re here. Parked out front.

My stomach does a weird flip-flop thing, relief and terror warring for dominance.

“Go,” Brody says, noticing my distraction. “Before you cause an accident.”

I find Golda at the front of the house, helping Tyson and Blythe out of the car. She’s wearing a simple sundress that makes my brain short-circuit for a second, her hair loose around her shoulders. But there’s something guarded in her expression, like she’s braced for problems.

Tyson’s in what I recognize as his “nice” jeans—the ones without hockey-induced holes in the knees. Blythe, predictably, appears to be dressed for a completely different event, featuring a tutu over leggings and what looks like a superhero cape fashioned from a pillowcase.

“Hey,” I say, eloquence clearly my strong suit today.

“Hey yourself.” Golda’s smile seems genuine but careful. “Sorry we’re late. Someone had a wardrobe emergency.” She glances meaningfully at Blythe.

“It was an emergency,” Blythe corrects seriously. “There wasn’t enough sparkle.”

“The sparkle is definitely sufficient now,” I assure her solemnly, noting the liberal application of glitter across basically everything she’s wearing. “You might actually be over-sparkled.”

“Impossible,” she declares. “There’s no such thing as too much sparkle. It’s science.”

“Can’t argue with science.” I turn to Tyson, who’s hanging back slightly, that same cautious assessment I recognize from his first hockey practice. Then I notice Golda doing the same thing—scanning the street, the yard, like she’s checking for threats.

“Everything okay?” I ask quietly.

“Fine,” she says, but her hand moves protectively to Tyson’s shoulder. “Just... being careful.”

I understand. Evan’s threats are still fresh, and being here—at a team function that could potentially be photographed—is a risk she’s choosing to take.

“How about a quick tour before the full social gauntlet?” I offer, reading both their hesitation. “Brody’s got a pretty awesome hockey memorabilia room that’s much quieter than the backyard.”

Relief flashes across Tyson’s face, quickly hidden. “That would be cool.”

“BORING,” Blythe announces. “I need to meet EVERYONE IMMEDIATELY.”

“I can take her to the backyard,” Golda offers, but I can see she’s nervous too, despite her attempted casualness.

“I’ve got a better idea.” I pull out my phone and text quickly. Within moments, the front door opens and Elliot appears.