Page 38 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
DEX
“ G reat game, Malone!” Coach Barrett claps me on the shoulder as I try to escape the locker room in record time. “Your line was on fire tonight.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I continue shoving gear into my bag with zero regard for proper equipment care. “Team effort.”
“Speaking of team,” he continues, not taking the hint that I’m in a hurry, “usual post-game dinner at Carlucci’s. Strategy session for Tuesday.”
“Can’t make it tonight.” I don’t pause in my packing. “Family situation.”
Coach’s eyebrows rise. In my years with this team, I’ve never missed a post-game team dinner. “Family situation? Everything okay?”
“It’s complicated.” I zip my bag with a quick jerk. “But important.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “The woman from the family box? With the kids?”
News travels fast in a hockey organization, especially when a player leaves mid-intermission to check on someone in the family section. I’m not surprised Coach has already heard.
“Yeah.” I meet his gaze directly. “There’s a situation I need to handle.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay. But I expect you at morning skate tomorrow, clear head and ready to work.”
“Always.” I shoulder my bag. “Thanks, Coach.”
I’m halfway to the door when Roman’s massive frame blocks my path. “Team dinner,” he reminds me unnecessarily.
“Can’t tonight,” I say, attempting to sidestep him.
“Because of Golda and the social media post.” It’s not a question. Roman misses nothing when it comes to team dynamics. “The ex is causing problems?”
“How did you—never mind.” I sigh, lowering my voice. “Yeah. He’s threatening to modify custody based on the photo.”
Roman’s expression darkens. “Text if you need backup. I’ll let Luca know.”
Whatever that means, I’m grateful for it. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
The family section is mostly empty by the time I make it back upstairs, but Golda and the kids are waiting with Elliot. Tyson spots me first, his face lighting up.
“Great game!” he exclaims. “That assist on Roman’s goal was perfect!”
“Thanks, buddy.” I ruffle his hair, my chest tightening at his unrestrained enthusiasm. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
“WE WERE YOUR LUCKY CHARMS!” Blythe announces, twirling to show off a jersey now adorned with what appears to be several chocolate stains. “THAT’S WHY YOU WON!”
“Definitely.” I crouch to her level. “With support like that, we couldn’t lose.”
My eyes find Golda’s over the kids’ heads. She looks composed but strained, the tension around her eyes visible only if you’re looking for it. Which I am.
“Everything okay?” I ask, though we both know it’s not.
“Fine for now.” She manages a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “The kids had a blast.”
“IT WAS THE BEST DAY EVER!” Blythe confirms at maximum volume. “EXCEPT WHEN MOM GOT SICK AND WENT TO THE BATHROOM FOR SEVEN HOURS!”
“It was five minutes,” Tyson corrects with brotherly precision. “And she wasn’t sick, she was just—” he hesitates, perceptive as always. “Taking a break.”
Elliot steps in smoothly. “We should probably get these two home. It’s been an exciting day.”
“I’ll drive you,” I offer immediately.
“You don’t have to—” Golda starts.
“I want to.” I meet her gaze, trying to convey everything I can’t say in front of the kids. That I’m sorry about the photo. That I won’t let her face Evan’s threats alone. That skipping team dinner is the easiest decision I’ve made all day.
Something in my expression must convince her, because she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
The drive to Golda’s house is filled with Blythe’s non-stop commentary about the game, the snacks, and her theories on why certain players skate faster than others (“IT’S BECAUSE ROMAN HAS LONGER LEGS THAN EVERYONE ELSE ON THE PLANET!
”). Tyson occasionally interjects with more technical observations, while Golda remains quietly thoughtful in the passenger seat.
I reach over at a red light, taking her hand in mine. She startles slightly, then offers a small squeeze in return.
“We’ll figure this out,” I say quietly.
“I know.” But her voice lacks conviction.
Once at her house, the kids’ energy finally begins to flag. The excitement of the day catches up with them as they trudge inside, Blythe’s volume decreasing to merely conversational levels.
“I should get them ready for bed,” Golda says. “School tomorrow.”
“I’ll stay.” It’s not a question. “If that’s okay.”
Her relief is palpable. “Thank you.”
I help with the bedtime routine as if I’ve been doing it for years rather than minutes—finding Tyson’s favorite pajamas, listening to Blythe’s elaborate theories about why teeth need to be brushed in a specific pattern, and generally trying to maintain the illusion of normalcy while Golda holds herself together through sheer force of will.
Once the kids are settled in their rooms—Tyson reading a hockey statistics book, Blythe mercifully unconscious mid-sentence about glitter—I join Golda in the kitchen where she’s mechanically loading the dishwasher.
“Hey.” I gently take the plate from her hands. “Sit down. I’ll do this.”
“You don’t have to take care of me,” she says, but allows herself to be guided to a chair.
“I know I don’t have to.” I find mugs after checking multiple cabinets. “I want to.”
She watches me move around her space, a small furrow between her brows. “You missed the team dinner.”
“There will be other team dinners.” I set the kettle to boil. “This was more important.”
“Evan texted again,” she says after a pause. “While you were checking on Tyson.”
My hands still on the mugs. “What did he say?”
“That his lawyer already has an emergency hearing scheduled for Wednesday. With Judge Willis.”
The name sends a spike of anger through me. The golf buddy. The connection that’s made this entire situation so precarious.
“Your lawyer?”
“Jessica’s preparing our response.” She rubs her temples. “But without something concrete to counter his claims about stability and the children’s well-being...”
The kettle whistles, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts as I prepare the tea. I set a mug in front of her, then take the seat opposite.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, even as I wonder how. “One step at a time.”
She studies my face, something shifting in her expression. Then she rises from her chair, walking around the table toward me with a determination that makes my heart race.
“Golda—”
She cuts me off by straddling my lap, her knees on either side of my thighs, and kisses me with an intensity that catches me completely off guard. Her hands cup my face, her body pressing against mine as months of tension ignite between us.
I respond immediately, hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She tastes like tea and something I can’t get enough of. We break apart, both breathing hard.
“I need you,” she whispers. “Tonight. Right now. I need to feel something other than fear.”
“Are you sure?” I search her eyes. “Because I want you so badly it hurts, but I don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”
“I won’t.” Her voice is steady, certain. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long. I’m tired of being afraid.”
I stand up with her still wrapped around me, her legs locking around my waist. “The kids?—”
“Are asleep,” she finishes, grinding against me hard enough to make my vision blur. “Heavy sleepers. Take me to bed, Dex.”
I carry her toward her bedroom, stopping to press her against the hallway wall because I can’t make it another ten feet without kissing her properly. She gasps into my mouth, and I swallow the sound greedily.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
Once inside her room, she slides down my body, immediately reaching for my buttons with shaking hands. I catch her wrists.
“Let me,” I say, voice rougher than I intended.
I guide her to the full-length mirror near her closet, positioning myself behind her. She tenses when she sees our reflection.
“Dex, I don’t—I’m not like those women you usually?—“
“Stop.” I grip her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes in the mirror. “I want you to see yourself the way I see you.”
My hands move to the hem of her jersey—my jersey—and I pause. “Can I?”
She nods, but I can see the uncertainty in her face as I pull the fabric over her head. Standing there in just her bra and jeans, she instinctively moves to cover her stomach.
“Don’t even think about it.” I catch her hands, pulling them away. “These hands stay down unless I tell you otherwise.”
“Dex, I’m a mom. I have stretch marks and?—”
“And you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.” I slide my hands around her waist. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me show you what I see.” I reach back to unhook her bra. “Say something for me.”
“What?” She looks confused in the mirror. “Say what to you?”
I press a kiss to her shoulder, “Anything. Just... talk to me.”
She grins mischievously. “Should I call you Daddy Dex like those women in your Instagram comments?”
“Christ, no. Never call me that.” I shudder dramatically. “Those comments give me nightmares.”
She laughs—that low, throaty sound that makes my cock throb painfully. “Poor Dex. Too many puck bunnies?”
“Do it again,” I breathe, my hands tightening on her waist.
“Do what?”
“That laugh. Say my name like you did just now.”
“Dex,” she says, voice dropping to silk. “Like that?”
My knees actually buckle. “Fuck me.”
“I’m trying to,” she says, turning in my arms with this satisfied smile. “Is my voice really?—”
“Your voice brings me to my knees. The way you say my name when you’re not thinking about it. When you’re just... you.”
“Just me talking does this to you?” She sounds amazed.
“Everything about you does this to me. But your voice...” I have to close my eyes for a second. “It’s like you’re telling me secrets no one else gets to hear.”
She reaches up and cups my face. “What other secrets do you want to hear?”
“Everything. But first...” I spin her back toward the mirror, my hands working on her jeans. “I want you to watch what your voice does to me.”