Page 4 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“This view is definitely worth the ticket price,” Alessandra purrs, leaning against the observation deck railing. The Space Needle stretches beneath us, Seattle sprawled out below, glittery lights under the night sky. “Though I’m still not clear how we got the place to ourselves.”

“I know people who know people,” I say with a wink, pouring more tequila into her outstretched glass.

The truth—that I dropped fifteen grand to rent the observation deck after hours—isn’t nearly as mysterious.

But mystery has its advantages, especially when entertaining three lingerie models I met at yesterday’s charity auction.

Katerina giggles from where she’s sprawled across one of the benches, her accent thickening with each drink. “In my country, they say hockey players are brutes with no teeth. But you, Dex Malone, are...” she gestures vaguely at all of me, “definitely not this.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh, catching Olivia’s eye as she returns from exploring the far side of the deck. The third model is quieter than her companions, but there’s something in her gaze that suggests she sees more than she lets on.

“You brought hockey sticks to the Space Needle?” Olivia raises an eyebrow, nodding toward the equipment bag I stashed behind the small portable bar. “Planning on some urban practice?”

Before I can answer, Katerina is on her feet, swaying slightly. “I want to try! I have never held real hockey stick!”

“Me too!” Alessandra straightens, her competitive nature already evident in the quick flash of her eyes. “Show us how to play, Dex.”

Hell, why not? I’m already paying for the space. Might as well make full use of it.

“Careful with those,” I caution as Katerina rifles through my bag. “They’re?—”

“Heavy!” she exclaims, nearly taking out a display placard as she swings one experimentally.

“Here.” I position myself behind her, adjusting her grip, enjoying the feel of her against me. “Like this.”

Within minutes, I’ve created a makeshift shooting range using empty tequila bottles and a small cooler.

The women take turns attempting wrist shots, their laughter echoing off the glass walls as more tequila disappears.

Alessandra has a surprisingly decent form—apparently sports modeling included some hockey promotions—while Katerina’s enthusiasm makes up for her complete lack of coordination.

“Your turn,” Olivia challenges me, holding out a stick. “Show us how the professionals do it.”

I’ve never been one to turn down a challenge, especially from a beautiful woman. I line up for a shot—completely unnecessary in the confined space—and put everything I have into it.

The bottle explodes in a satisfying crash against the far wall.

“My turn!” Alessandra squeals, grabbing another stick. “Show me that move again!”

What happens next gets increasingly creative as the tequila flows and inhibitions disappear. Let’s just say hockey sticks aren’t traditionally used for the activities we discover they’re surprisingly effective for.

We’re so caught up in our... experimentation... that none of us notice the security guard until he clears his throat loudly behind us.

“Gentlemen. Ladies.” His voice carries the weary tone of someone who’s seen too much in this job. “I’m going to need you to step away from the equipment.”

Three pairs of eyes widen in perfect synchronized horror.

“Shit,” I breathe, suddenly a lot more sober than I was five seconds ago. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put your clothes back on,” the guard continues, speaking into his radio. “Yeah, we’ve got a Code Blue situation up here.”

“Time to go!” Katerina squeals, already gathering her things and what remains of her dignity.

But there’s nowhere to go. We’re trapped on the observation deck with security blocking the only exit. The women try to play innocent—adjusting their clothes, claiming they were just “learning about hockey”—but my custom equipment scattered around the deck tells a different story.

Within minutes, more security arrives. Then Space Needle management. Then, inevitably, the calls to team headquarters begin.

“Mr. Malone,” the head of security says, checking his clipboard. “Your reservation was for a ‘private hockey demonstration,’ correct?”

I wince. That had seemed like a clever way to explain the equipment when I made the booking. Now it just sounds perverted.

The models, meanwhile, have transformed into completely different people—professional, apologetic, claiming they had no idea what they were getting into.

Alessandra mentions her modeling agency.

Katerina suddenly develops a thick accent that makes her seem more innocent. Olivia talks about her charity work.

And I’m left standing there shirtless, surrounded by my personalized gear, with no plausible explanation for what security just walked in on.

The next few hours blur together—incident reports, calls to team management, and the gradual realization that I might have actually crossed a line this time.

By the time Roman arrives, I’m sitting alone in the hotel bar, nursing what’s definitely my last drink of the night. The models vanished the moment Space Needle security released us, leaving me to face the music solo.

“Space Needle management is furious,” Roman says without preamble, dropping into the chair across from me. “And before you ask, yes, the team is trying to smooth this over. Again.”

I wince. “Look, I?—”

“Save it.” He holds up a hand. “I’ve heard it all before. The excuses, the promises to do better. But this time is different.”

Fuck. I sit up straighter. “Different how?”

“Coach and I convinced management not to void your contract.”

My stomach drops. “They were going to void my contract? Over some lingerie models?”

Roman’s expression is stone. “Over a pattern of behavior that has become a liability. The Space Needle incident is just the latest headline in what PR is calling your ‘dedicated campaign of self-sabotage.’”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” I mutter, though the nervous twitch in my leg suggests otherwise.

“Is it?” Roman slides his phone across the table. The screen shows a tabloid website, my face splashed across the homepage alongside the yacht incident from last month. “You’re becoming more famous for your exploits off the ice than on it.”

I scroll through the article, my stomach sinking with each paragraph.

Photos of me with different women at various events over the past six months.

The yacht party. The charity gala. Last week’s restaurant opening where I was photographed leaving with some Instagram influencer whose name I can’t even remember.

“‘Malone’s Merry-Go-Round,’” I read aloud. “‘Seattle’s star forward can’t seem to settle down, cycling through Seattle’s most eligible women like he’s changing jerseys.’”

“It gets worse,” Roman says grimly.

I keep scrolling. There’s a photo gallery titled “Dex’s Dozen” featuring twelve different women I’ve been linked with in the past year alone. Some I remember. Some I definitely don’t. A few I’m pretty sure I never actually dated, just happened to be photographed near at public events.

“‘Sources close to the player suggest Malone’s commitment issues stem from an inability to mature beyond his playboy lifestyle,’” I continue reading.

“‘One former companion, who wished to remain anonymous, described their relationship as purely physical. ‘Dex made it clear from the start that he wasn’t looking for anything serious. It was fun while it lasted, but you always knew you were just passing through.’”

I shove the phone back toward him. “So what’s the alternative to voiding my contract? A fine? Suspension?”

“Consequences,” Roman says flatly. “Real ones this time. Management and Coach are finalizing the details, but let’s just say you’ll be spending significantly less time with lingerie models and significantly more time representing the ‘community values’ section of your contract.”

I groan. “Community service? Really?”

“The PR team is drawing up something special. Designed specifically to teach you some responsibility.” A ghost of a smile flickers across his face—never a good sign with Roman. “You’ll get the full briefing tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter.

Roman stands, but pauses before leaving. “One more thing, Malone. Whatever they assign you? Take it seriously. Because if this doesn’t work...” He leaves the sentence hanging, but the implication is clear.

After Roman leaves, I sit alone in the hotel bar, contemplating how quickly life can change course. Forty-eight hours ago, I was Seattle’s golden boy scoring the game-winning goal. Now I’m one step away from being a cautionary tale coaches tell rookies on their first day.

My phone buzzes with a text from my sister, Maggie.

Heard about the Space Needle. Mom’s worried. Call her.

New phone, who dis?

NOT FUNNY. Call her tomorrow or I’m sending all 3 of my children to Seattle to stay with Uncle Dex for the weekend.

That actually makes me laugh. My nieces and nephew are agents of chaos on a good day. On a hangover day? Weapons of mass destruction.

Will call. Promise.

I silence the phone and order another whiskey, even though I know I should stop. Which is when I notice her, a twenty- something blonde, sitting three stools down nursing what looks like not a first glass of wine.

“Rough night?” I ask, moving closer.

She looks up, and I can see she’s been crying. “Parent conferences,” she says with a bitter laugh. “You’d think after five years I’d be used to parents telling me how to do my job.”

“Teacher?”

“Third grade. And you’re...” She tilts her head, studying my face. “Wait. You’re that hockey player. The one who just made the news for all the wrong reasons.”

“Guilty as charged.” I extend my hand. “Dex.”

“Callie.” She shakes it, her grip firm. “So what’s your excuse for drowning your sorrows? Besides the obvious property damage.”