Page 40 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

I grab my pants from the chair and figure I can at least get coffee started while she sleeps.

The machine’s just finishing when I hear feet on the kitchen floor. Blythe appears in the doorway, hair sticking up like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket, eyes going wide when she sees me.

“COACH DEX!” Full volume, as usual. “YOU’RE STILL HERE!”

“Morning voice, remember?” I say automatically. “Yeah, I stayed over. Wanted to make sure you guys were okay after yesterday.”

She squints at me, clearly not buying it. I’m already regretting not grabbing my shirt from Golda’s bedroom floor.

“DID YOU HAVE A SLEEPOVER?”

Christ. “Something like that. You hungry? I can make toast. Maybe eggs if you’re feeling brave.”

“I WANT PANCAKES! WITH SPRINKLES!”

“Indoor voice,” Tyson says, shuffling in behind her. He stops when he sees me. “Coach Dex? Why are you here?”

Perfect.

“I stayed over,” I tell him, going for casual. “After everything yesterday.”

Tyson gets it immediately. His eyes widen for a second, then he just shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Cool. Can you make coffee? Mom’s impossible before coffee.”

“Already done.” I point to the full pot. “Pancakes are apparently happening. With sprinkles.”

“Mix is in the top cabinet,” Tyson says, climbing onto a stool. “Sprinkles are hidden behind the flour because Blythe would dump them on everything if she could reach.”

“I WOULD NOT!” Blythe protests, then immediately proves him right. “OKAY MAYBE I WOULD. SPRINKLES MAKE EVERYTHING BETTER!”

I laugh despite myself. This is... nice. Weird as hell, but nice.

By the time Golda appears—hair messy, looking like she’s not sure where she is—I’ve got a decent stack of pancakes going and both kids are settled at the table.

“Morning,” I say, trying to play it cool despite the fact that I’m shirtless in her kitchen after spending the night doing things that would make a hockey locker room blush.

The look she gives me—seeing me here, making breakfast for her kids—does something to my chest I’m not ready to think about.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says, taking the coffee mug I offer.

“Wanted to.” I steal a quick kiss, aware of our audience. “Apparently sprinkles are a breakfast requirement.”

“THEY’RE VITAL NUTRIENTS!” Blythe announces through a mouth full of rainbow pancake.

“Swallow first,” Golda tells her, settling at the table.

The next bit flows easier than it should—me packing lunches while Golda handles the usual morning chaos of backpacks and teeth brushing.

“Ten minutes,” Golda calls, checking the clock. “Tyson, you find your math folder?”

“Under the couch. Blythe used it for fort construction yesterday.”

“I NEEDED IT!”

I’m washing dishes, listening to this everyday family chaos, and thinking this could be normal. This could be every morning. The thought should scare the hell out of me, but it doesn’t.

The doorbell kills the moment.

“I’ll get it,” I say, heading for the door before remembering I’m still shirtless.

I check the peephole and my blood turns to ice. Evan. In full uniform, looking pissed.

“Golda,” I call, keeping my voice steady. “It’s Evan.”

She goes pale. “What’s he doing here? It’s not his day.”

Evan starts pounding on the door. “Golda! Open up. I know you’re there.”

“Let me grab my shirt,” I say, gesturing at myself. “Can you?—”

She nods, already moving. “Kids, stay in the kitchen.”

I sprint to the bedroom, throwing on yesterday’s clothes while listening for trouble. Through the quiet I hear Golda open the front door.

“Evan. This is unexpected.”

“Is it?” His voice is pure ice. “After yesterday? That social media bullshit? Playing house with your hockey player?”

“The children are getting ready for school. This isn’t?—”

“I’m taking them,” he cuts her off. “Both of them. Emergency paperwork went through this morning. Temporary custody change until the hearing.”

“You can’t do that. There’s no?—”

“Check your email. Judge Willis signed it an hour ago. Family instability. Bad influences. Public exposure without permission.”

I come out of the bedroom fully dressed and ready to throw punches. Golda’s blocking the doorway, but she’s gone white.

“You need to leave,” she tells him. “We’ll handle this through lawyers.”

“I’m not handling anything.” He pushes past her into the house. “Tyson! Blythe! Get your stuff. You’re coming with me.”

“Dad?” Tyson appears looking confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Change of plans, buddy.” Evan switches to fake-cheerful dad voice. “You’re staying with me for a few days. Sound good?”

“But we have school,” Tyson says. “And hockey practice.”

“I’ll handle school. We’ll figure out the rest later. Where’s your sister?”

“I’m calling my lawyer,” Golda says, going for her phone. “This is completely inappropriate.”

“Call whoever you want.” Evan spots Blythe coming out of the kitchen. “There she is! Ready for an adventure?”

Blythe, for once in her life, is quiet. She looks around at all the tension, eyes wide and scared.

“I don’t want to go,” she says, voice tiny. “We have pancakes. With sprinkles.”

Evan’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t up for discussion, Blythe. Get your backpack. Now.”

“No.” She moves toward Tyson, who puts his arm around her. “I want to stay with Mom.”

Something dangerous flashes in Evan’s eyes. He starts toward the kids, and I move without thinking, putting myself between him and them.

“You should leave,” I say, keeping my voice level even though I want to knock his teeth in. “Come back when you have real paperwork, not whatever your golf buddy rubber-stamped.”

“Stay out of this,” he snarls. “This is family business.”

“Dex is right,” Golda says, phone in hand. “I’m calling Jessica. And if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops to report kidnapping.”

“I AM the cops,” he snaps, voice getting louder. “And I have temporary custody.”

“Show me the order,” she challenges. “The actual document.”

He hesitates, and immediately I know he’s full of shit. There is no emergency order. Just another mind game.

“The kids are coming with me,” he insists, trying to get past me.

I don’t move. “No, they’re not.”

“You don’t get a say,” he spits, face going red. “You’re nothing to them. Just another guy their mother’s screwing around with.”

“That’s enough,” Golda says, voice like a blade. “Leave. Now.”

“I’m not leaving without my kids.” He lunges around me, grabbing Blythe’s arm. She cries out.

“Dad, stop!” Tyson tries to pull his sister away.

What happens next feels like slow motion. Evan, pissed off and losing control, swings his arm to shove Tyson back. But it’s not a shove—it’s a backhand that catches Tyson across the face hard enough to drop him.

Everything stops.

Blythe screams. Tyson hits the floor, stunned, a red mark already blooming on his cheek. Golda drops to her knees, pulling him into her arms, her face a mix of shock and pure rage.

“You hit him,” she says, voice shaking. “You hit our son.”

Evan stares at his own hand like he can’t believe what just happened. “Tyson, I didn’t?—”

“Get out.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Low and deadly. “Right fucking now.”

“This isn’t over,” he says, backing toward the door. “You turned them against me?—”

“GET OUT!” Golda screams, still holding Tyson. The mark on his face is already darkening. Blythe’s pressed against the wall, crying silently.

Evan looks at all of us, and something cold slides across his face. “This changes nothing,” he says. “Hearing’s still Wednesday. And after this? Your chances just got a lot worse, Golda.”

Then he’s gone.

The silence after the door slams is brutal. I move first, scooping up Blythe and carrying her over to where Golda’s kneeling with Tyson.

“You’re safe,” I tell them both. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

“He hit me,” Tyson says, sounding lost. “Dad hit me.”

“I know, baby,” Golda whispers, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

We huddle together on the floor—all of us hurt and shaken but together. Golda checks Tyson’s face with gentle fingers.

“We need pictures,” she says after a minute, getting practical. “Documentation. I need to call Jessica.”

“And the real cops,” I add. “What he just did? That’s assault. Child abuse.”

She nods, something hard settling in her eyes. “You’re right. No more excuses. No more protecting him.”

I get the kids settled on the couch, grab ice for Tyson’s face and tissues for Blythe. While Golda calls her lawyer, I step into the kitchen for my own calls.

My agent first. “Tony, clear my schedule for the next few days. Family emergency.”

Then the team lawyer. “Jim, it’s Dex. I need help with a situation. Seattle detective. Child abuse allegations. Yeah, it’s personal.”

Finally, Roman. “He showed up. Hit the kid. We need everything you’ve got on him. Now.”

When I get back, Golda’s taking pictures of Tyson’s bruise and writing down everything that happened. The kids are quiet, all the morning’s pancake happiness completely gone.

“No school today,” she says as I sit down next to her. “Jessica’s filing for an emergency protective order.”

“Good.” I take her hand. “Team lawyer’s coming. Roman’s bringing whatever dirt he’s got on Evan.”

She squeezes my fingers, getting stronger by the minute. “This ends today. No more threats. No more being scared. No more letting him control us.”

“Damn right.” I look at Tyson trying to be brave, at Blythe gone quiet and watchful, at Golda with something fierce and determined in her eyes.

“Whatever it takes,” I promise all of them. “We’re fixing this. Together.”

I mean every word. Somewhere between teaching kids to skate and falling for a woman’s voice in the dark, these three became mine. My family. My responsibility. My everything.

And I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt them again.