Page 31 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
“There you are!” she exclaims, as if we’re hours late instead of minutes. “Blythe, Rodriguez just taught Roman this ridiculous dance and he’s terrible at it. We need someone with actual coordination to show these hockey players how it’s done.”
Blythe’s eyes go wide. “I am an EXCELLENT dancer. I know FIFTY different moves.”
“Perfect. We only need ten.” Elliot winks at me over Blythe’s head as she takes her hand. “Coming, Golda?”
“In a minute,” she says, understanding my intention to give Tyson some space. “Save me a seat?”
“Always.” Elliot leads a chattering Blythe toward the backyard, leaving the three of us in relative quiet.
“Thanks,” Tyson says softly once they’re gone.
“No problem.” I keep my tone casual. “Sometimes you need to scope out the territory before diving in. Varga’s exactly the same way with new places.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
“Absolutely. First road game in every new arena, he has to walk the entire perimeter before he’s comfortable. Says it helps him visualize the space.”
It’s not entirely true—Varga’s pre-game ritual is actually much weirder and involves specific sock-taping procedures—but the white lie serves its purpose. Tyson’s shoulders relax slightly as he recognizes his caution isn’t weakness but strategy.
I lead them into the house, pointing out features that might interest a hockey-obsessed ten-year-old. “Brody’s got signed jerseys from basically every team. He trades them after games—it’s kind of a tradition.”
“Even rival teams?” Tyson asks, clearly scandalized by the thought.
“Even them. Hockey’s weird that way—you can try to kill each other for sixty minutes on the ice, then grab a beer after.”
His brow furrows as he processes this complexity. “Like how you and Roman checked each other into the boards during practice but then he came to dinner with you guys?”
Smart kid. “Exactly like that.”
The memorabilia room lives up to its billing.
Displays of vintage gear, photos from historic games, and a particularly impressive collection of pucks from significant moments.
Tyson moves through the space, quietly reverent, occasionally asking questions that reveal his growing knowledge of hockey history.
I catch Golda watching him, something soft in her expression that eases some of the guardedness from earlier. “He’s been reading hockey books from the library,” she says quietly. “Every night before bed.”
“He’s got a good eye,” I reply. “Notices details most kids his age wouldn’t.”
“He notices everything,” she says, a shadow crossing her face. “It’s a survival skill. Reading the room, gauging moods...”
I understand what she’s not saying. Tyson’s awareness isn’t just natural curiosity—it’s a defense mechanism developed in a home where tension could flare without warning.
“Hey, Tyson,” I call, deliberately shifting the mood. “Check this out.” I point to a framed photo of a much younger Brody, hair longer and wilder, celebrating what I know was his first NHL goal. “Think you can guess what year this was based on the jersey design?”
The challenge engages him immediately, and soon we’re deep in a discussion of uniform evolution and logo redesigns. By the time we’ve made a full circuit of the room, his earlier hesitation has faded, replaced by genuine enthusiasm.
“Ready to brave the backyard?” I ask when we’ve exhausted the memorabilia.
He glances at his mom, who gives an encouraging nod despite her own lingering caution. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Fair warning—Blythe has probably already told everyone your most embarrassing stories and invited the entire team to your next birthday.”
He groans, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “She always does that.”
“What can I say? She’s a social butterfly. You’re more of a...”
“Strategic hawk,” Golda supplies, which makes Tyson stand a little straighter.
“Exactly,” I agree. “Different approaches, same game.”
The backyard is in full swing when we emerge. Blythe, as predicted, is the center of attention, currently teaching Rodriguez and three other players a dance routine that involves a lot of spinning and what appears to be mimicking various animals.
“That’s her ‘jungle boogie,’” Tyson informs me with brotherly resignation. “The monkey parts get weird.”
“TYSON!” Blythe spots us and waves frantically. “COME DO THE ELEPHANT PART! I NEED YOUR STOMPING SKILLS!”
“Aaaand that’s my cue to pretend I don’t know her,” he mutters, but he’s smiling as he makes his way over.
I guide Golda toward the food setup, where Brody is holding court at the grill. “Everything good in the house?” he asks quietly as he hands us plates.
“All good. The memorabilia room was a hit.”
“Thought it might be.” His eyes move to where Tyson has reluctantly joined the dance circle. “Smart kid. Reminds me of my nephew—always figuring out the angles before he commits.”
“He just needed a minute to calibrate.”
“Don’t we all,” Brody replies with more perception than I’d like, then turns to Golda. “How are you holding up? I know we can be a lot all at once.”
“I’ve done studio sessions with metal bands,” she says with a smile that’s starting to look more genuine. “This is positively serene by comparison.”
“Wait until the karaoke starts,” Brody warns. “Rodriguez brought his machine, and he will not be denied.”
“Karaoke?” Golda’s eyes widen slightly, and I catch something that might be interest mixed with the concern.
“Strictly voluntary,” I assure her quickly. “And most of these guys can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“It’s true,” Luca confirms, appearing beside us with a plate piled impossibly high. “I am banned from singing after The Incident.”
“We don’t speak of The Incident,” Brody says solemnly. “There was structural damage.”
Golda laughs—really laughs—and something in my chest eases at the sound. She’s starting to relax, bit by bit, her natural warmth emerging as she discovers that behind the intimidating hockey exteriors are mostly overgrown kids with questionable fashion sense and worse singing voices.
The afternoon unfolds with yard games and challenges that Blythe approaches with the competitive spirit of an Olympic athlete combined with the coordination of a newborn foal. Tyson, more reserved but no less engaged, forms an unlikely alliance with Varga for cornhole.
“They’re good with him,” Golda says, appearing at my side with a beer she offers to me.
“Thanks.” I take a sip, watching as Varga demonstrates proper cornhole technique with surprising patience. “He brings out the best in people. That quiet focus thing.”
“Gets that from me,” she says with a small smile. “Blythe’s chaos energy is all her father.”
It’s the first time she’s mentioned Evan without tension tightening her features. Progress, maybe.
“You holding up okay?” I ask. “Not too overwhelming?”
“Better than I expected.” She watches Blythe now attempting to teach Rodriguez some elaborate clapping game. “It’s good for them to see this. Normal social stuff without having to worry about...”
She trails off, but her meaning is clear. Without having to worry about their father’s judgment, his disapproval, his ability to turn even good things into weapons.
“No one here is taking notes for a custody report,” I say quietly.
Her smile turns grateful. “Thank you. For understanding that this isn’t just about me being nervous. There are real stakes.”
“I get it. And for what it’s worth, everyone here thinks you’re amazing.”
“They don’t even know me.”
“They know enough. They know you raised two incredible kids. They know you’re brave enough to leave a bad situation and build something better. That’s more than enough.”
The afternoon progresses, and I find myself constantly aware of where Golda is, who she’s talking to, whether she’s enjoying herself. I try not to hover, but my eyes keep finding her across the yard.
“Dude,” Rodriguez mutters as he passes me a fresh beer. “Could you be any more obvious? You haven’t taken your eyes off her for more than a minute.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“Just saying. After the week you’ve had, it’s good to see you not looking like someone stole your puppy.”
“My week wasn’t that bad.”
“Your week was tragic. Even Varga felt sorry for you, and he once played an entire period with a separated shoulder without complaining.”
Before I can defend myself, the karaoke starts.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Rodriguez announces, having connected his portable machine to Brody’s outdoor speakers. “It’s that time! Who’s brave enough to go first?”
The usual good-natured heckling ensues, with veterans nominating rookies and rookies attempting to deflect to coaching staff. I keep one eye on Golda, who’s watching the proceedings with a mixture of amusement and what might be professional assessment as Brody massacres “Sweet Caroline.”
“Not exactly Carnegie Hall,” I murmur, sliding into the seat next to her.
“I’ve heard worse,” she says diplomatically. “Though not by much.”
“Just wait. Roman’s up next, and he only knows Norwegian death metal.”
“That’s not true,” Roman protests, having overheard. “I also know Finnish death metal.”
His performance—a guttural rendition of something that might originally have been “Enter Sandman”—has Blythe utterly enthralled. “HE SOUNDS LIKE A DINOSAUR HAVING FEELINGS,” she declares, which Roman takes as the highest compliment.
The karaoke rotation continues, each performance more questionable than the last. Through it all, I’m acutely aware of Golda beside me, her occasional comments revealing both her musical knowledge and her remarkably diplomatic ability to find something positive about even the most tragic performances.
“You’re up, Malone!” Rodriguez calls eventually, waving the microphone in my direction.
“Not a chance.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m strictly an audience member.”
“Scared?” Varga taunts.
“Smart,” I correct. “I know my limitations.”
“What about you, Golda?” Rodriguez asks, and I feel her tense beside me. “Show these hockey boys how it’s done?”