Page 37 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

My phone buzzes again. More texts from Evan, each more threatening than the last.

Did you even consider how this affects the kids?

Using MY children to play happy family with your hockey player?

This is exactly what I warned about. Unstable. Impulsive. Putting your social life ahead of their welfare.

I want to scream that none of that is true. That the kids are happy, thriving. That Dex has been nothing but positive in their lives. That I specifically refused permission for social media.

But the evidence is right there on my screen—our private moment captured and broadcast to Evan without my knowledge or consent.

“Excuse me,” I say to Kimmy, who’s watching me with concern. “Could you keep an eye on the kids for a minute? I need to make a call.”

“Of course,” she agrees immediately. “Take your time.”

I escape to the private bathroom, locking the door behind me with shaking hands. Then I lean against the wall, trying to control my breathing as panic threatens to overwhelm me.

This is bad. Very bad. Evan’s been building his case for months, looking for any excuse to modify custody.

And now someone has handed him exactly what he needed—public proof that I’m involving the kids with Dex, exposing them to media attention, changing their lives in exactly the ways Judge Willis has previously cautioned against.

I scroll through Instagram, finding the team’s story. There we are, the three of us in matching jerseys, looking every inch the happy family unit with Dex. The post is still up, being viewed by thousands of followers with every passing minute.

I call Jessica, my attorney, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone.

“It’s Sunday,” she answers, clearly surprised to hear from me.

“Emergency,” I say, my voice tight with suppressed panic. “The team posted photos of my kids with Dex on their social media. Evan’s already threatening to call his lawyer tomorrow.”

Jessica sighs. “What exactly did they post?”

I explain the situation, forwarding her the screenshot Evan sent.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “First step, contact the team immediately and have them take it down.”

“But the damage is already done,” I point out, fear making my voice sharper than I intend. “Evan has the screenshot. He’s probably sending it to his lawyer right now.”

“One problem at a time,” Jessica counsels. “Get the post removed, then we’ll deal with Evan. This isn’t as damning as you think, Golda. Kids attend sporting events with their mother’s boyfriend all the time. Wearing team merchandise isn’t going to lose you custody.”

“I can’t risk it,” I say, decision crystallizing. “We need to leave. Now. Before there are more photos, more ammunition for him.”

“That’s your call,” Jessica says. “But running might look worse than staying.”

She has a point, but my protective instincts are screaming. I need to get the kids away from here, away from the cameras and curious eyes and potential social media exposure.

Another text arrives, this one from a number I don’t recognize.

This is Kyla, Elliot gave me your number. I just learned that a new staff member posted a photo of you and your children without permission. We’re removing it immediately and issuing an apology. Please call me at your convenience.

Too late. The damage is done. The post might disappear, but Evan has seen it, screenshotted it, and is sending it to his lawyer already.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

“Golda?” It’s Elliot’s voice. “Kimmy said you might need a friend. Can I come in?”

I unlock the door with trembling hands, relief washing over me at the sight of her concerned face.

“Evan saw a post,” I say without preamble, showing her my phone. “He’s threatening modification.”

Elliot’s expression darkens as she reads the texts. “That absolute—” She catches herself. “Okay. Deep breath. What do you want to do?”

“To get the post taken down.” I rake a hand through my hair. “But Evan has screenshots. He’s going to try to use this against me.”

“He’s always looking for something to use against you,” Elliot points out. “If it wasn’t this, it would be something else.”

“This is different,” I insist. “He already has everyone on edge about exposing the kids to ‘unnecessary attention’ during the last mediation. And now here we are, on the team’s official Instagram, wearing Dex’s jerseys like we’re playing happy family.”

“You are happy,” Elliot says firmly. “The kids are happy. That’s what matters.”

“Not to the family court,” I counter, fear giving way to anger. “Not to Evan. We need to leave. Now. Before there’s more damage.”

“Running won’t solve this,” Elliot argues. “Evan will just use it as more evidence that you’re unstable, making impulsive decisions.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” I demand, frustration and fear making my voice crack. “Sit there smiling while they take more photos? Pretend everything’s fine when Evan’s threatening to take my kids?”

“No,” Elliot says calmly. “You’re going to breathe.

Then we’re going to find whoever’s in charge of social media and make it very clear that no more photos go up.

Then we’re going to enjoy the rest of the game because your kids are having the time of their lives, and you deserve some happiness too. ”

Her steadiness helps ground me, but the fear doesn’t subside. “What if Evan?—”

“Evan is always going to Evan,” she interrupts. “You can’t live your life around his threats. We have the IA report, remember? His connection to the judge? That’s your leverage.”

There are no easy answers here, no clear path forward that doesn’t involve more conflict, more stress, more potential pain for Tyson and Blythe.

Another knock, this one more hesitant. “Mom?” Tyson’s voice, concerned. “Are you okay? Blythe’s asking for you.”

The sound of my son’s worry brings me back to myself. I’ve spent the last two years trying to protect my children from adult problems, from the ugliness of custody battles and divorce. I won’t let Evan’s threats ruin this day for them.

“Coming, buddy,” I call, moving to the door. I pause, meeting Elliot’s eyes. “I hate that he still has this power over me.”

“Then stop giving it to him,” she says simply.

When I emerge, Tyson’s worried face makes my heart ache. “You were gone a long time,” he says quietly. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” I lie, smoothing his hair. “Just some work stuff I needed to handle.”

He studies me, clearly not believing the excuse but letting it go. “Blythe’s telling everyone you’re going to marry Dex because we’re wearing matching jerseys.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Of course she is.”

Back in the box, Blythe is indeed holding court, explaining to Kimmy’s daughter with great authority that “JERSEYS ARE BASICALLY LIKE WEDDING RINGS BUT FOR HOCKEY PEOPLE.”

“Sorry about that,” I tell Kimmy, sliding back into my seat. “Had to take care of something.”

“No problem at all,” she says warmly. “Everything okay?”

“Getting there,” I say, which feels more honest than a simple yes or no.

The game resumes, and I make a concerted effort to be present, to enjoy the moment despite the gnawing anxiety about what tomorrow might bring. On the ice, Dex is playing beautifully, his focus absolute despite not knowing the drama unfolding off-ice.

As the second period ends, I get a text from him.

How’s the view from the box? Kids having fun?

I debate whether to tell him about Evan’s texts, about the social media post. Part of me wants to shield him from my mess, to let him focus on his game. But another part remembers his words: we’re in this together now.

The kids are loving it. But we have a problem. Team posted a photo of us at the glass. Evan’s threatening custody modification.

What do you need me to do? I can talk to PR right now.

Already handled. Post being removed. But Evan has screenshots.

I’m coming up there. Right now.

NO. Finish the game. We’ll deal with this later.

Are you sure? I’ll walk off the ice right now if you need me to.

The offer—so immediate, so sincere—makes my throat tight with emotion. But I can’t let him do that.

Absolutely not. The kids would be devastated if you missed the third period. We’re fine. Win the game, then we’ll figure this out.

OK. But I’m coming straight to the box after. No distractions. Straight to you guys.

Deal.

I put my phone away, feeling oddly steadier. Not because the problem is solved—it definitely isn’t—but because I’m not facing it alone.

“Everything okay with lover boy?” Elliot asks, sliding back into the seat beside me.

“He offered to leave the game,” I tell her, still somewhat stunned by this. “Just walk off the ice in the middle of a professional hockey game.”

Elliot whistles low. “Wow. That’s... intense.”

“I didn’t let him,” I hasten to add. “That would be insane.”

“Still,” she says thoughtfully. “Not many guys would even offer.”

As the third period begins, I find myself watching Dex with new eyes. The intensity with which he plays, the focus he brings to every shift, the determination evident in every movement. But also the way he checks the family box between plays, making sure we’re still here, still okay.

He’s not just playing for the team anymore. He’s playing for us. And that realization both thrills and terrifies me.

Blythe tugs at my sleeve as the period hits the halfway mark. “Mom? Are we in trouble?”

Her question catches me off guard. “What? No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“You were upset,” she says, her usual volume replaced with a small, worried voice. “And you and Elliot were whispering. And you looked at your phone and your face went all scary.”

Sometimes I forget how perceptive children can be, even ones as seemingly self-absorbed as Blythe.

“It’s just grown-up stuff,” I assure her, pulling her into a side hug. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Is it Dad?” Tyson asks quietly from my other side, his eyes too understanding for a ten-year-old. “Is he mad we’re here?”

My heart sinks. Of course Tyson would put it together. He’s spent his whole life reading adult moods, anticipating problems before they fully materialize.

“I don’t want you to worry about that,” I say firmly. “Today is about having fun at the hockey game. That’s all.”

Tyson studies me, his expression far too serious. “He’s not going to mess this up too, is he? Like the overnight field trip and the science camp.”

The reminder of Evan’s previous interventions—blocking Tyson’s participation in activities that would take him away from home overnight—makes my chest ache. How many experiences has my son already missed because of his father’s need for control?

“Not this time,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “I promise.”

Seattle scores another goal, putting them up 4-2 with five minutes left in the game. The box erupts in cheers, the tension temporarily broken by collective excitement.

“DEX ASSISTED!” Blythe announces, having appointed herself the official statistician of Dex’s performance. “THAT’S TWO GOALS AND TWO ASSISTS! IT’S BECAUSE WE’RE HIS LUCKY CHARMERS!”

“Lucky charms, Blythe,” Tyson corrects automatically. “Not charmers.”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID!” she insists, spinning in a circle that sends glitter floating through the air. “WE CHARMED THE LUCK!”

Despite everything—Evan’s threats, the impending legal battle, the uncertainty ahead—I find myself laughing at her mangled idiom.

Because maybe that’s what we’ve done. Charmed some luck into our lives in the form of a hockey player who sends sparkly jerseys and offers to leave professional games for us.

The final buzzer sounds, Seattle winning 4-2. The box erupts in cheers, the children jumping up and down in excitement. I join in automatically, clapping and smiling while my mind races ahead to tomorrow, to lawyers and threats and potential custody battles.

“We did it!” Tyson exclaims, face flushed with excitement. “We won!”

“OF COURSE WE DID!” Blythe agrees. “BECAUSE WE’RE THE LUCKY CHARMERS!”

As the crowd begins to disperse, Elliot leans in. “Stay put. Brody texted that Dex is coming straight up. Just give him ten minutes to shower and get through the tunnel.”

Sure enough, less than fifteen minutes after the final buzzer, Dex appears at the entrance to the box, his expression a mixture of concern and determination as his eyes search the now-emptying space.

When he spots us, the relief on his face is palpable. He makes his way directly to our group, ignoring the curious stares from the few remaining family members.