Page 32 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“Oh, I don’t?—”

“MOMMY HAS THE BEST VOICE EVER!” Blythe announces with daughter-pride that would be touching if it weren’t so loud. “SHE SINGS ME TO SLEEP AND IT’S LIKE ANGELS AND BUTTERFLIES HAD A MUSIC BABY.”

Golda closes her eyes briefly, a flush creeping up her neck as attention shifts her way. “Thanks, Blythe, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Come on,” Rodriguez wheedles. “One song? For team morale?”

“She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to,” I say firmly, recognizing her discomfort.

“It’s okay,” Tyson pipes up unexpectedly from where he’s been quietly observing. “Mom’s really good. Like, professional good.”

The simple pride in his voice seems to shift something in Golda. She looks at her son, then at Blythe’s hopeful face, then finally at me.

“One song,” she says finally. “Nothing fancy.”

A quiet ripple of anticipation moves through the gathering as she makes her way to the makeshift stage area. Rodriguez offers the microphone with a triumphant grin, then navigates the song selection. “Preferences?”

She hesitates for a moment. “Blythe, favorites?”

“The one about Elvis!” Blythe announces immediately, bouncing on her toes.

Golda’s cheeks flush slightly as she turns to Rodriguez. “Black Velvet,” she clarifies. “Alannah Myles.”

“Oh, hell yes,” Rodriguez grins, punching in the selection. “This I gotta hear.”

The opening guitar riff fills the backyard, and something changes in Golda’s demeanor. Her shoulders straighten, chin lifting slightly, and I realize I’m witnessing a transformation. The careful, contained single mom is gone, replaced by someone who knows exactly what she’s capable of.

Then she begins to sing, and the entire backyard goes silent.

Her voice is smoky and rich, with a depth that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. It’s one thing to know intellectually that she’s a professional voice actor and singer—it’s another to experience it in person, to watch as she owns every note of the sultry melody.

I’ve heard her before, of course—at the charity game, through audiobooks—but this is different. This is Golda fully in her element, letting her guard down in a way I haven’t seen before.

Around me, my teammates’ expressions shift from surprise to awe as the song progresses. Luca has actually stopped eating, which might be a first in team history. Varga looks personally offended, as if her talent is a direct challenge to his hockey skills.

The kids draw closer, like they’re being pulled by invisible strings. Tyson’s face shines with pride while Blythe sways, mouthing the words she’s probably heard her mother sing a thousand times in their kitchen.

As she hits the chorus, something shifts inside me. It’s not a lightning bolt moment or some poetic realization. It’s simpler than that—just a clear thought cutting through everything else: I’m falling for her.

Because this isn’t just attraction anymore. This isn’t just liking her or enjoying her company or thinking she’s beautiful. This is something deeper, something that makes my chest feel tight and my palms sweat and my brain go completely offline.

This is the real deal. And it scares the absolute shit out of me.

The song ends, and for a moment, there’s complete silence. Then Blythe breaks it with an enthusiastic “THAT’S MY MOM!” that triggers a wave of applause and cheers.

Golda’s cheeks flush as she hands the microphone back to a stunned Rodriguez. “Happy now?” she asks, but there’s a lightness to her voice, a confidence that wasn’t there before.

“That was...” he starts, then shakes his head. “We’re not worthy.”

She laughs and makes her way back through a gauntlet of compliments and questions. By the time she reaches me, the flush has deepened, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes I haven’t seen before.

“Showing off?” I tease gently.

“Hardly.” She takes the water I offer. “But it felt good. I haven’t performed like that in a long time.”

“You should do it more often,” I tell her, meaning it. “You’re incredible.”

“I’m rusty,” she demurs, but there’s pride in her voice—well-earned and too long suppressed.

“Mom!” Tyson appears at her side, expression serious. “Roman wants to know if you’ve ever considered singing the national anthem for actual games. He says the current guy is, um, ‘an offense to eardrums everywhere.’”

“Roman’s exaggerating,” I laugh, though he’s not wrong about our regular anthem singer.

“He said you should talk to Kyla about it,” Tyson continues. “She’s the one who books the performers.”

I watch Golda carefully, uncertain how she’ll react to the suggestion. Public performances would mean visibility—something I know she’s been avoiding since the divorce.

“Maybe someday,” she says after a moment, surprising me. “When things are more settled.”

It’s not a yes, but it’s not an immediate no either. Another small step toward reclaiming pieces of herself that Evan tried to diminish.

The party continues around us, but there’s a shift in how the team interacts with Golda now. Before, she was ‘Dex’s hockey mom crush’—now she’s someone with her own remarkable talent, someone they’re genuinely interested in knowing beyond her connection to me.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, a natural rhythm emerges. Kids start to fade and the energy transitions from boisterous to comfortable. I find myself in the kitchen, helping Elliot with a coffee service that’s more elaborate than anything I’d attempt at home.

“Need a hand?” Golda’s voice makes me turn. She’s standing in the doorway, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her all day.

“Always,” Elliot says. “Dex is useless with appliances. Says they have too many buttons.”

“They do have too many buttons,” I argue. “Coffee should not require programming skills.”

“Such a luddite,” Elliot teases. “I’m going to check on Brody—he was threatening to demonstrate proper s’more technique, which historically ends with someone getting burned.” She slips out, leaving us alone in the kitchen.

“Having fun?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“More than I expected,” Golda admits. “Your team is...”

“Ridiculous? Overgrown children? Borderline feral?”

“I was going to say ‘welcoming,’” Her smile softens her words. “Especially after the singing. I didn’t mean to become the entertainment.”

“You impressed them,” I tell her. “Which isn’t easy. These guys have seen pretty much everything.”

“Except decent karaoke, apparently.” Her eyes dance with humor. “Roman’s rendition of death metal was?—”

“A crime against humanity?”

“Yeah, basically.”

We laugh together, and there’s something comfortable about it. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.

“I should probably start thinking about getting the kids home soon,” she says, but makes no move toward the door.

“Probably,” I agree, moving a step closer to her.

The kitchen island stands between us, but somehow it feels like there’s no distance at all. The afternoon light is fading, casting everything in golden tones that make her hair look like burnished copper.

“Golda,” I begin, not entirely sure what I’m going to say but needing to say something.

“Yes?” Her voice is soft, expectant.

“About last week. The dinner, and after...” I run a hand through my hair. “I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you. Not then. It was too much, too fast.”

“Dex—”

“I know you have good reasons to be careful. With Evan, with the custody situation, with everything.” I move around the island, eliminating the barrier between us. “I don’t want to be another complication in your life.”

She studies my face, something vulnerable in her expression. “What if I want some complications? The good kind.”

“Are there good kinds?”

“The kind where someone makes you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how. The kind where your kids light up because someone actually pays attention to them.” She pauses. “The kind where you remember you’re more than just a function.”

“You’re so much more than a function,” I tell her, stepping closer. “You’re...”

“What?” she asks softly.

“Amazing. Brave. Talented. Beautiful.” I reach up to cup her face gently. “And I’d really like to try that kiss again. If you want to.”

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing risks, calculating costs. But then she nods, just once.

“I’d like that too.”

This time when I lean in, she tilts her face toward me, eyes closing.

I pause for a second because fuck—she’s actually going to let me kiss her. After all the rejections, all the careful distance, all those nights listening to her voice through my headphones, she’s here. Waiting for me.

I’ve kissed a lot of women. But none of them ever made my hands shake like this.

Then I kiss her, and she’s soft and warm and better than anything I imagined.

“Wow,” I manage, eloquent as always.

“Much better than last time,” she agrees with a smile that makes my chest tight.

“So... does this mean you’ll go on an actual date with me?” I ask, because apparently over thirty years of life experience hasn’t taught me how to play it cool. “Just us? No kids, no team, no s’more disasters?”

Her smile widens. “I think I’d like that.”

“Friday?” I suggest. “Elliot already volunteered to babysit, actually.”

“Did she now?” Golda laughs. “Am I the only one who didn’t know this was happening?”

“Oh, the entire team knew before I did,” I assure her. “There’s an ongoing betting pool. Varga’s got money on us making it official before the end of the month.”

A crash from outside, followed by Blythe’s distinctive voice announcing, “THAT WAS DEFINITELY NOT MY FAULT! THE MARSHMALLOW WAS POSSESSED!” reminds us that we’re not actually alone in the universe.

“I should probably go rescue whichever of your teammates has been assigned marshmallow duty,” Golda sighs.

“Probably,” I agree, but I steal one more quick kiss before letting her go. “Friday, though? That’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” she confirms, and the simple phrase feels like winning game seven of the playoffs.