Page 34 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

DEX

I ’m halfway to Brody and Elliot’s house Thursday evening, takeout bags from that Thai place Elliot loves balanced on my passenger seat. She’d texted earlier asking if I wanted to come by for dinner, said they were having a quiet night in.

The past few days have been good—really good. Ever since the barbecue, ever since that kiss in their kitchen, I’ve felt lighter somehow. More focused. Like I finally know what I want and where I’m headed.

I’m thinking about where I should take Golda on a real date this weekend when I pull into their driveway and notice extra cars. Luca’s sedan, Roman’s motorcycle. So much for a quiet night in.

I grab the takeout anyway and head for the front door. Before I can knock, it swings open to reveal Elliot with a wine glass in her hand.

“Dex! Perfect timing,” she says, but something in her expression seems off. “Come in, we’re just—celebrating.”

She leads me toward the kitchen, where I can hear voices. Familiar voices—Brody, Luca, Roman. And underneath it all, a sound that always makes my chest do weird things: Blythe’s distinctive giggle.

“COACH DEX!” she shrieks the moment I appear in the doorway, launching herself at my legs. “You missed the good news!”

“What good news?” I ask, but I’m already scanning the room. Brody’s at the counter with wine, Luca’s got what looks like a celebratory cake, Roman’s helping Tyson with something on his tablet. And there, at the kitchen island with a glass of wine and a smile that seems forced, is Golda.

“Mom won in court today!” Tyson announces, his pride obvious despite his quieter delivery. “The judge said we don’t have to change our schedule.”

My stomach drops. “Court?”

The room goes quiet in that way that means everyone suddenly finds their drinks very interesting. Golda’s smile falters as she takes in my expression.

“You didn’t know,” she says quietly.

“Evan tried to modify the custody agreement,” Elliot explains when no one else speaks. “Wanted to take away their weekends. But the mediator shut it down.”

I look at Golda, who’s staring down at her wine glass. “When was this happening?”

“It moved fast,” she says defensively. “I got the papers on Tuesday, mediation was today.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Now she looks up, and there’s something guarded in her expression. “I handled it.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t handle it. I’m saying I wish I’d known. I would have wanted to be there for you.”

“You were busy.”

“Golda, I would have canceled everything if you’d called me. You know that, right?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I watch an internal struggle I don’t understand.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she says finally.

“Bother me? He was trying to take away the kids’ hockey and you think telling me would be bothering me?”

“It’s not your problem.”

“How is it not my problem? I care about you. I care about them.”

“For now.”

The words are so quiet I almost miss them. But the implication hits like a freight train.

“Are you being serious right now?”

She finally looks at me directly, and there’s something raw in her expression. “This is going to get messy, Dex. Custody battles and legal drama and crazy ex-husbands. Most people don’t stick around for that part.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Aren’t you?” She stands up from her stool. “Because from where I’m sitting, this is exactly the kind of thing that makes people realize they’re in over their heads.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? When things get complicated, when there’s real problems instead of just weekend hockey and team barbecues?—“

“Stop.” I can feel my voice getting louder. “You’re putting words in my mouth that aren’t there.”

“Am I? Or am I just being realistic about what this is?”

“What is this, Golda? Because I thought we were building something real.”

“So did I. But real means the ugly parts too. And I’ve learned not to drag people into the ugly parts.”

“So you just decided I couldn’t handle it? Without even giving me a chance?”

She takes a sip of wine, and I can see her hand shaking slightly. “I’ve given people chances before.”

“I’m not your ex-husband. I’m not whoever else hurt you. I’m me.”

“And you’re here now because Elliot invited you to dinner. Not because I called you when I was scared.”

The accusation stings because there’s truth in it, even though it’s unfair. “How could I be there for something I didn’t know was happening?”

“You should have known.”

“How? How should I have known?”

“You just should have!” The words explode out of her, and I can see she knows how unreasonable she sounds. “You should have asked how things were going, or checked in, or?—”

“I saw you three days ago. You seemed fine. How was I supposed to know Evan was planning something?”

“You weren’t,” she admits quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I went through one of the scariest days of my life alone.”

“Because you chose to go through it alone!”

“Because it’s safer that way!”

The words hang between us, raw and honest. Around us, I’m vaguely aware that Brody has quietly moved the kids out of the kitchen.

“Safer?” I ask.

She looks down at her wine glass. “If I don’t expect you to be there, I can’t be disappointed when you’re not.”

“But I want to be there.”

“Do you? Or do you want to be there for the good parts and hope someone else handles the bad parts?”

“That’s not—“ I start, then stop. Because maybe there’s truth in what she’s saying. Maybe I have been treating this like something that fits around my life instead of something that changes it.

“I don’t know how to trust someone with the scary stuff,” she continues, and now there are tears in her voice. “I don’t know how to be vulnerable without getting hurt.”

“So you hurt me instead?”

She looks up, and the pain in her eyes almost undoes me. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being unfair. I know you couldn’t have known if I didn’t tell you. But I’m just... I’m so tired of being disappointed.”

“I’m not going to disappoint you.”

“Everyone says that.”

We stand there in the quiet kitchen, the space between us feeling like a chasm. I can see the conflict in her face—the part of her that wants to trust me warring with the part that’s learned to protect herself.

“I should get the kids home,” she says instead of answering. “School tomorrow.”

“Golda—”

“Thank you for the Thai food. I’m sure everyone will enjoy it.”

She moves toward the doorway, then pauses. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“But you’re still leaving.”

“Because I can’t stay without making it worse.”

She’s gone before I can figure out what to say, taking Tyson and Blythe with her. I hear their voices in the hallway, Blythe’s disappointed protests about leaving early, Tyson’s quiet questions about why Mom seems upset.

Then the front door closes, and I’m left standing in Brody and Elliot’s kitchen feeling like I just lost something important.

“Well,” Brody says, reappearing. “That was painful to watch.”

“She knows she’s being unfair,” I say, slumping against the counter. “But she can’t stop herself.”

“Trauma response,” Elliot says quietly. “Push people away before they can hurt you.”

“So how do I prove I’m not going to hurt her?”

“You don’t,” Brody says. “You can’t prove a negative. But you can prove that you’re serious about this. That you’re not just visiting her life—you’re choosing it.”

“What does that look like?”

“Something big,” Elliot says. “Something that shows you’re all in, even when she’s pushing you away.”

After they politely but firmly suggest I head home, I sit in my car outside their house for a long time, thinking about Golda’s words. About how scared she is of being let down again. About how I can show her that I’m different without asking her to just trust me blindly.

She wants proof that I’m serious. That I’m not going anywhere when things get hard.

By the time I drive home, I know what I need to do. It’s not about words or promises or gradual gestures. It’s about making a choice so public, so permanent, that there’s no going back.

I pull out my phone and start making calls.