Page 33 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

T he certified mail slip is waiting in my mailbox when I get home from grocery shopping Tuesday afternoon, that ominous green card that means someone has sent me something I probably don’t want to receive. The return address makes my stomach drop: Evan’s lawyer.

I have to drive to the post office to pick it up, the kids chattering in the backseat about their day while dread settles like a stone in my chest. Whatever’s in that envelope, it’s not good news.

“Mom, can we get ice cream after this?” Blythe asks as we pull into the parking lot.

“We’ll see,” I manage, my standard response when I can’t focus on anything beyond the immediate crisis.

Inside the post office, I sign for the thick manila envelope with hands that shake slightly. The postal worker gives me a sympathetic look—she’s probably seen enough certified mail deliveries to recognize legal documents when she sees them.

“Bad news?” she asks kindly.

“Probably,” I admit.

I wait until we’re home and the kids are settled with snacks and homework before opening it. Inside the cover page reads: Petition for Custody Schedule Modification.

The words blur together as I scan the pages, but certain phrases jump out at me specifically: “Mother’s recent erratic behavior,” “exposure to inappropriate social situations,” “children would benefit from increased paternal stability,” “current custody arrangement no longer serves minors’ best interests. ”

Mediation date: Thursday. Two days from now.

He wants the kids every weekend. All of them. Which means no more hockey, no more Saturday practices, no more Sunday games. No more of the thing that’s brought joy back into their lives—and mine.

“Mom?” Tyson walks into the kitchen, homework sheet in hand. “Can you help me with this math problem?”

I try to arrange my face into something resembling normal, but I can see from his expression that I’m failing spectacularly. “Of course, honey. Just give me one second.”

I fold the papers quickly, shoving them back into the envelope, but Tyson’s too perceptive not to notice the legal letterhead.

“Is that from Dad’s lawyer?” he asks quietly.

“Just some paperwork we need to sort out,” I say, forcing a smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

But I can see him filing the information away, the way he always does when adults try to shield him from grown-up problems. He’s learned to read between the lines, to prepare for disappointments before they’re officially announced.

After I help him with his math and get both kids settled for the evening, I call Jessica.

“Custody modification petition,” I say the moment she answers. “Mediation on Thursday.”

“What’s he asking for?”

I read her the key sections, my voice getting tighter with each demand. When I finish, there’s a long silence.

“Every weekend?” she says finally. “That’s aggressive. What’s his stated reason?”

“The kids must have mentioned the team barbecue during their last phone call. Being around professional athletes, participating in organized sports.” I can practically hear Evan’s voice shaping the narrative. “He’s painting it like I’m prioritizing my social life over their stability.”

“Mediation is different from court,” Jessica reminds me. “The mediator’s job is to find reasonable solutions, not to rule on emergency situations. This kind of blanket request—taking away all weekend time—isn’t going to look reasonable.”

“What if they agree with him? What if they think hockey is too much, too risky?”

“Then we present evidence of how much the children have benefited from these activities. Better grades, increased confidence, healthy social development. We make it clear that he’s trying to eliminate something positive from their lives.”

After we hang up, I sit in my quiet kitchen and try not to think about explaining to Tyson that there’s no more hockey, watching Blythe’s confusion when Saturday mornings become empty, losing the community that’s become our second family.

The thought makes me physically sick.

Wednesday drags by in a haze of anxiety. I try to work on the pharmaceutical script that’s due Friday, but the words swim on the page. Every few minutes, my brain helpfully supplies another worst-case scenario about Thursday’s mediation.

At 2 PM, my phone rings from an number with a Seattle area code.

“Ms. Adler? This is Luca Moretti. I play goalie for the Puckaneers.”

Luca. The quiet one who makes incredible cakes and speaks three languages. Why is he calling me?

“Hi,” I manage. “Is everything okay?”

“Elliot told me about your situation. The custody mediation tomorrow.”

Of course Elliot told people. Normally that would embarrass me, but right now I’m too scared to care about privacy.

“She shouldn’t have bothered you with?—”

“Ms. Adler, may I ask—your ex-husband is a police officer, correct? Detective Evan Adler?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I have some information that might be useful. Can we meet somewhere? Somewhere private?”

I feel my pulse kick up. “What kind of information?”

“The kind that might give you some insurance, just in case you need it.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting across from Luca in a coffee shop near the rink, watching him slide a thick folder across the table.

“Before I show you this,” he says carefully, “I need you to understand that what I’m about to tell you was obtained through... unofficial channels. Sources that prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Okay.”

“When Elliot mentioned your situation, I asked around for a few people to look into Detective Adler’s record.”

He opens the folder, revealing photocopied reports, incident summaries, witness statements. All bearing Evan’s name and badge number.

“Seven Internal Affairs complaints in the past five years,” Luca says quietly. “Abuse of authority, harassment, excessive force during domestic violence calls. All buried, all dismissed for ‘insufficient evidence.’”

I stare at the papers, seeing Evan’s patterns laid out in official language. The same controlling tactics he used on me, deployed against strangers who had the misfortune to encounter him on the worst days of their lives.

“There’s more,” Luca continues. “Three separate complaints from female colleagues about harassment and intimidation. All withdrawn after the complainants were transferred to different departments.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because you need to know what kind of ammunition you have, if you ever need to use it.” His voice is serious. “My contact says there’s been a quiet investigation ongoing for months. They’re building a case, but they need more evidence. Something concrete.”

“And this helps me how?”

“Because it shows a pattern. And if you ever need leverage—if he pushes too hard or threatens too much—you have documentation that his reputation as an upstanding officer isn’t quite as clean as he pretends.”

I flip through the reports, seeing echoes of my own experience in other women’s words. “He complained that I was difficult and uncooperative.” “He made threats about what would happen if I pursued the matter.” “He used his position to intimidate me into compliance.”

“There’s something else,” Luca says, pulling out another document. “A restraining order filed against him two years ago by an ex-girlfriend. Dismissed when she suddenly moved to Portland and withdrew the complaint.”

“How did you get all this?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that question,” he says simply. “But it’s all real. All documented. And if presented correctly, it could change how people see Detective Adler’s claims about stability and appropriate judgment.”

I sit back in my chair, mind racing. This information feels like holding a loaded weapon—powerful, dangerous, and something I hope I never have to use.

“Why?” I ask. “Why would you do this for me? You barely know me.”

Luca’s expression softens slightly. “Because Dex is my teammate. Because you sang at our barbecue and your daughter made Varga actually smile—which we didn’t know was possible. Because your kids deserve better than a father who uses fear as a parenting tool.”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully.

“And because I know what it’s like to live with someone who uses their authority to hurt people.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just remember that you’re not defenseless. If he pushes too hard, if he threatens too much, you have options.”

Thursday morning, I dress carefully in my most conservative outfit—navy blazer, modest skirt, minimal jewelry. Professional but approachable. I’m representing not just myself, but the life I’ve built for my children.

The mediation center is less intimidating than a courthouse, designed to feel collaborative rather than adversarial. Jessica meets me in the lobby, and I show her the folder Luca gave me.

“This is explosive,” she says after reviewing the documents. “But I think we should hold it in reserve. Let’s see if we can resolve this without going nuclear.”

“What if he won’t be reasonable?”

“Then we let him know we have options. Sometimes the threat of exposure is more powerful than the exposure itself.”

The mediator, Patricia Carlisle, is a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She explains the process: everyone gets to share their perspective, then we work together to find solutions that serve the children’s best interests.

Evan sits across the table with his lawyer, looking every inch the concerned father in his dress uniform. The same calculated image management, but in a room designed for compromise rather than combat.

“Detective Adler,” Patricia begins, “can you explain why you believe a change to the current weekend schedule would benefit your children?”

Evan launches into his prepared speech about stability, age-appropriate activities, and concerns about his children being exposed to “adult social environments” during hockey activities.

“The children have become overly involved in organized sports,” he says, voice measured and reasonable. “This consumes their weekends and exposes them to situations I don’t believe are appropriate for their age and development.”

“Can you be more specific about your concerns?” Patricia asks.

“Team parties with alcohol present. Late games that disrupt their sleep schedules. Exposure to adult relationships and social dynamics they’re too young to understand.”

I want to object, to point out that he’s describing family barbecues and age-appropriate sporting events, but Jessica places a restraining hand on my arm.

“Ms. Adler,” Patricia turns to me, “how do you respond to these concerns?”

“Hockey has been incredibly positive for both my children,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Tyson has gained confidence and learned teamwork. Blythe has developed social skills and physical coordination. The team families have become a support system for all of us.”

“But you understand Detective Adler’s concerns about adult social situations?”

“The ‘adult social situations’ he’s referring to are family barbecues with other parents and children. Supervised, age-appropriate activities that have helped my kids develop healthy relationships with positive role models.”

Patricia makes notes, clearly unimpressed with Evan’s vague concerns. “Is there evidence that these activities have harmed the children in any way? Declining grades, behavioral problems, any concrete indication that these activities are detrimental?”

Evan’s lawyer shuffles through papers. “Detective Adler believes the children are being exposed to unstable influences?—”

“I’m asking about evidence,” Patricia interrupts. “Not beliefs or assumptions.”

The mediation continues for another hour, with Evan becoming increasingly frustrated as Patricia challenges his claims. When we take a break, I find myself alone with Evan in the hallway while our lawyers discuss scheduling.

“You know,” I say quietly, “I’ve learned some interesting things recently about professional conduct and accountability.”

His head snaps toward me, something wary flickering in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Everyone has a history, Evan. Some histories are more public than others.” I keep my voice casual, conversational. “Amazing what information becomes available when people start looking.”

The change in his demeanor is immediate. The controlled facade wavers, and for a moment I see genuine uncertainty in his expression.

“You’re fishing,” he says, but there’s less conviction in his voice.

“Am I?” I smile slightly. “Well, I guess we’ll see what happens if this gets more contentious.”

When we reconvene, Evan’s approach has shifted. Instead of pushing aggressively for full weekend custody, he’s suddenly willing to discuss “reasonable compromises” and “gradual transitions.”

Patricia notices the change too, her eyebrows rising slightly as Evan’s lawyer proposes maintaining the current schedule with minor modifications for communication.

“I’m pleased to see we can find common ground,” she says diplomatically. “Detective Adler, you seem more comfortable with preserving the children’s current activities than you were an hour ago.”

“I want what’s best for my children,” Evan replies stiffly. “If their current activities are truly beneficial, then perhaps we can find ways to ensure appropriate oversight.”

By the end of the session, the recommendation is exactly what Jessica hoped for: current weekend schedule remains in place, with added provisions for better communication about activities and events.

“I find no evidence that the children’s current weekend activities are harmful,” Patricia states. “In fact, they appear to be thriving in their current environment. The mediation will recommend maintaining the status quo with improved communication between parents.”

As we gather our papers, I catch Evan watching me with a mixture of anger and wariness. He knows I have something on him, but he doesn’t know exactly what or how much.

In the parking lot, he approaches me as Jessica loads her car.

“What do you think you know?” he asks quietly.

“I think you should be very careful about filing frivolous petitions in the future,” I reply. “Some information is better left buried, don’t you think?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he gets in his car and drives away, leaving me with the satisfaction of having won this round and the certainty that he’ll be more careful about his next move.

For now, we’re safe. The kids get to keep their weekends, keep their hockey, keep the life that’s made them happy.

But as I drive home, I can’t shake the feeling that this was just the opening move in a longer game. Evan’s backed down for now, but men like him don’t stay down. They regroup, they strategize, and they wait for better opportunities.

The question is: what will give him that opportunity?