Page 35 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
GOLDA
I stare at my phone for the tenth time in five minutes, scrolling through Dex’s unanswered texts from yesterday. Each one makes the guilt in my chest heavier.
Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I’d still like to take you out tonight if you’re up for it.
Golda, can we talk about this?
Please let me know if we’re okay or not. I would have dropped everything to be in court with you if you’d just told me.
The last one came through at 11 PM Friday night. Nothing since then. Radio silence that I created by being too proud, too scared, too stuck in my own defensive patterns to respond.
It’s Saturday afternoon now, and I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours cycling between righteous indignation (he should have known I was scared) and crushing guilt (how could he have known if I didn’t tell him?). The guilt is winning.
I’ve started typing responses at least a dozen times:
I’m sorry for— Delete.
You were right, I should have— Delete.
I got mad and I took it out on you— Delete.
Every attempt sounds inadequate or defensive or like I’m making excuses for behavior I know was unfair.
Finally, I just start typing without overthinking it.
I owe you an apology for Thursday night.
Send before I can second-guess myself.
You were right. You couldn’t have known about the court case if I didn’t tell you.
I was scared. I’m sorry.
I don’t know how to do this—trust someone with the hard stuff. But I want to learn.
I set the phone down and immediately want to pick it up again, to see if he’s read the messages, if he’s typing back, if I’ve completely ruined everything or if there’s still a chance to fix this.
The response comes faster than I expected.
Thank you for saying that. It means a lot.
Give me a chance to show you that you can trust me with everything. Even the scary stuff.
Especially the scary stuff.
I’m reading his responses for the third time when Blythe’s voice pierces the morning quiet.
“MOM! IT’S HERE! IT’S HERE!” Blythe’s screeching makes me slam my coffee cup down, sloshing the precious caffeine over my hand. At 8:30 on a Sunday morning, any sound above normal conversation level should be illegal.
“What’s here?” I call back, mopping up the spill. “And inside voice, please.”
Blythe is practically vibrating with excitement. “THE SPECIAL DELIVERY! THE MAN SAID IT’S FROM DEX!”
Behind her, Tyson appears with a large box, his expression caught between eye-rolling at his sister’s volume and poorly concealed curiosity about the contents.
“A delivery? On Sunday morning?” I take the box, which is emblazoned with the team logo. “That’s... unexpected.”
“OPEN IT!” Blythe commands, bouncing on her toes. “I BET IT’S SPARKLY SKATE GUARDS!”
“Inside voice,” Tyson and I say in unison, which she completely ignores.
I find scissors and carefully open the box to find three tissue-wrapped packages inside, each with a name tag. I hand Tyson and Blythe their respective bundles, keeping mine for last.
“Oh my god,” Tyson breathes as he unwraps his package. “Mom, look.”
It’s a team jersey—but not just any jersey. It’s Dex’s number and name, ‘MALONE’ stitched across the shoulders. Official. The exact kind that costs a small fortune in the team store.
“MINE HAS SPARKLES!” Blythe announces, holding up her own jersey.
Sure enough, hers is also a personalized Dex jersey, the same name and number on the back and, somehow, subtle silver sparkles incorporated into the lettering.
I have no idea how he managed that, but Blythe is beside herself with joy.
“Open yours, Mom!” Tyson urges, already pulling his jersey over his head.
My package contains—unsurprisingly—my own personalized jersey. What catches me off guard is the note tucked inside.
For my three favorite fans. Directions to private entrance to follow—I told them you’re my family. See you before the game.
My heart stutters at the word “family.” It’s just a convenient explanation for the tickets, I remind myself. Not a declaration. But still.
“Are we wearing these to the game?” Tyson asks, admiring his reflection in the microwave door. “Because this is the coolest thing ever.”
“I think that’s the idea.” I hold up my own jersey, oddly touched by the gesture. “Game’s not until three, though, so maybe don’t wear yours to breakfast.”
“Too late!” Blythe spins in a circle, her jersey hanging to her knees. “I WILL NEVER TAKE THIS OFF! I’M GOING TO SLEEP IN IT FOREVER!”
“You’ll change your mind when it gets syrup on it,” Tyson predicts with brotherly certainty. “Or when you realize it doesn’t go with your sparkly tutu.”
Blythe gasps, clearly having not considered this fashion emergency. “MOM! Where’s my silver tutu? I NEED TO COORDINATE!”
And just like that, the jersey-induced euphoria shifts into pre-game outfit planning chaos. I sip what remains of my coffee, watching my children transform into whirling dervishes of excitement about an activity that, six months ago, wasn’t even on our radar.
Hockey. Jerseys. Family boxes.
Dex.
How quickly he’s become woven into the fabric of our lives, bringing with him this whole new world of experiences.
Part of me still waits for the other shoe to drop—for him to realize that dating a single mom with custody drama and two high-energy kids isn’t exactly living the professional athlete dream.
But then he does something like this—sending personalized jerseys at 8:30 on a Sunday morning, arranging family box access, leaving notes with words that make my heart flip—and I allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this unlikely connection is the real thing.
My phone buzzes on the table. Speaking of the man...
Jerseys arrive?
Blythe may never take hers off. How did you get SPARKLES on it?
Team equipment manager owed me a favor. Worth every second of begging. What do you think of yours?
I glance down at the jersey in my lap, running my fingers over the stitched letters above his number. There’s something unexpectedly intimate about it—wearing his name. My stomach does a little flip at the thought.
It’s perfect. Thank you. Though I’m not sure what the other hockey moms will say when they see us all wearing your number.
Hopefully “wow, that Golda has excellent taste in hockey players.”
More likely “wow, that Golda sure moves fast.”
Not nearly fast enough, if you ask me.
The suggestion in his words sends a flush of heat through me that has nothing to do with coffee. Our goodnight kiss from last week is still embarrassingly fresh in my mind—the way he’d pulled me close, the barely restrained hunger in his touch, the reluctance with which we’d finally separated.
Game day focus, Malone.
You in my jersey IS my game day focus.
“Mom! Blythe won’t let me in the bathroom and I need to brush my teeth!” Tyson’s complaint pulls me back to reality.
“Coming!” I set my phone down, tabling the delicious flirtation for later. Parent duties call.
“This isn’t the regular entrance,” Tyson observes as we approach a side door of the arena, marked only with a discreet sign reading “Restricted.”
“Dex said to come this way,” I confirm, checking my phone to make sure we’re in the right place. “He put the tickets under his name.”
“LIKE WE’RE HIS FAMILY!” Blythe announces, spinning in her game day outfit—Dex jersey over silver tutu, with matching sparkly sneakers and what appears to be half a container of glitter in her hair.
I’d attempted to dissuade her from the glitter, but she’d insisted that “FANCY OCCASIONS REQUIRE SHIMMER!”
My attempts to explain that a hockey game wasn’t exactly a fancy occasion fell on deaf ears. At least she’d compromised on the tiara.
“Good afternoon,” a security guard greets us at the door. “Name please?”
“Golda Adler,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Under Dex Malone?”
The guard checks his tablet, then smiles. “Of course. Mr. Malone’s guests. Right this way.”
He leads us through a corridor I’ve never seen before, despite attending several games this season. This is clearly the VIP route—no crowds, no concession lines, just tasteful team decor and the occasional staff member who nods respectfully as we pass.
My stomach tightens slightly. There’s something unsettling about this—about being identified as “Dex Malone’s guests,” about the special treatment, about how quickly our relationship has progressed from my kids hockey coach to... whatever this is.
“The family box is just through here,” the guard explains, opening a door that leads to what looks like a private suite. “You can watch warmups from the glass if you’d like—there’s a special section for family members. Or you can go directly to the box. Someone will be by to explain the amenities.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I feel. This is a far cry from the general admission seats we’ve had before.
Tyson is practically floating with excitement. “Mom, can we go to the glass? Please? I want to see warmups up close!”
“OF COURSE WE CAN!” Blythe decides for all of us. “I NEED TO SHOW DEX MY OUTFIT!”
“Inside voice in the arena,” I remind her for what must be the thirtieth time today. “But yes, we can watch warmups from the glass.”
The security guard directs us to an elevator that takes us down to ice level. When the doors open, we find ourselves in another private corridor, this one humming with pre-game energy. Staff members rush back and forth, some carrying equipment, others with clipboards and headsets.
“Family viewing area is just through those doors,” a young woman in a team polo informs us. “Players will be on the ice in about ten minutes.”
We enter the designated area to find a small section of seats right at the glass, already occupied by a few other people—mostly women and children, all in team gear. The family section, clearly.
“I don’t recognize anyone,” Tyson whispers, suddenly shy without Dex or Elliot as a buffer.
“That’s okay,” I assure him. “We can just find seats and?—”