Page 41 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

M y kitchen table has seen better days. Coffee rings from years of rushed mornings, crayon marks from Blythe’s “artistic periods,” and now it’s covered with legal documents that could change everything.

Jessica sits across from me, her laptop open, typing notes while she talks. “The emergency protective order is straightforward. Physical assault of a minor, multiple witnesses. The judge will sign it.”

“How long until it goes through?” I ask, watching Tyson through the doorway. He’s building something elaborate with Legos, but I can see him touching his cheek every few minutes, like he’s making sure the bruise is still there.

“Few hours. This judge isn’t in Willis’s golf circle, so we don’t have to worry about any... complications.”

The team lawyer—Jim something—checks his phone. “My contact says we’re first on the docket. Should have papers by noon.”

I nod, trying to focus on logistics instead of the image burned into my brain of Evan’s hand connecting with Tyson’s face. The sound it made. The way my son just... dropped.

“Mom?” Blythe appears beside my chair, still in her school uniform. “Can I have a snack? My stomach is making angry noises.”

Right. Food. Normal parent things that don’t stop happening just because your world implodes.

“PB&J okay?” I ask, already getting up.

She considers this with the seriousness of a UN negotiator. “Strawberry jelly?”

“The only kind.”

“Can I have chocolate milk too? Since it’s a weird day?”

“It’s a weird day,” I agree, laying slices of bread onto plates.

Dex walks in, his hair sticking up at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it. “Coffee?”

“Made some an hour ago. Should still be hot.”

He moves around my kitchen like he’s been doing it for years, not since last night. Gets a mug from the right cabinet, knows where I keep the sugar. It should feel strange, but it doesn’t.

“Dad’s not coming back, is he?” Tyson’s voice from the doorway makes everyone freeze.

The lawyers look uncomfortable. Dex sets down his coffee mug. I crouch down to Tyson’s level, struggling to think of what to say.

“Not for a while,” I tell him. “There’s going to be a rule that says he has to stay away from us.”

“Good,” he says, surprising me with the firmness in his voice. “He scared me.”

“I know, buddy. He scared me too.”

Tyson nods, then goes back to his Legos. Simple as that. Kids process things differently than adults expect.

“Jesus,” Dex mutters under his breath.

Jessica clears her throat. “We should discuss what happens next. The full hearing is scheduled for?—”

“Not now,” I interrupt. “Let’s just get through today first.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression stops her. “Of course. I’ll call when the order comes through.”

After they leave, the house feels too quiet. Blythe’s eating her sandwich, Tyson’s clicking Legos together, and Dex is washing dishes that don’t need washing.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“Gives me something to do with my hands,” he admits. “Otherwise I might punch a wall.”

“Don’t punch my walls. I just painted them.”

He almost smiles. “Fair enough.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Elliot.

How are you holding up?

Still standing.

That’s something. Need anything?

Maybe later.

I put the phone down, suddenly exhausted despite it being only 10AM.

“Coach Dex?” Blythe’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Are you Mom’s boyfriend now?”

I nearly choke on my coffee. Dex freezes, dish towel in hand.

“Blythe—”

“Because you slept in her room and made pancakes. That’s what boyfriends do. Jordyn’s mom has a boyfriend and she says he makes eggs.”

Leave it to an eight-year-old to cut straight through adult complications.

“Yeah,” Dex says simply. “I guess I am.”

“Good,” she decides. “You’re better at pancakes than Dad. And you don’t yell.”

The way that not yelling is some kind of bonus feature rather than basic human decency—makes me see red.

“I need some air,” I say, heading for the back door.

The deck is cold under my bare feet, but the January air feels good on my face. I can hear Seattle waking up—traffic on the main road, a neighbor’s dog barking, normal sounds from a normal world where fathers don’t hit their children during a hissy fit about custody.

Dex joins me after a minute, bringing my coffee and a throw blanket.

“You okay?”

“No.” I pull the blanket around my shoulders. “But I will be.”

We stand there not talking like it’s any other day.

“What Blythe said,” I start. “About you being my boyfriend. You don’t have to?—”

“I want to,” he interrupts. “All of it. The good parts and the shit parts.”

“There might be a lot of shit parts.”

“I figured.”

I study his profile, looking for doubt or hesitation. But he just looks tired and determined and maybe a little sad.

“You sure about this? It’s not going to be simple.”

“Nothing good ever is.” He turns to face me. “Besides, simple’s overrated. I tried simple. It was boring as hell.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “We are definitely not simple. Are you using my kids to solve your boredom problem?”

“I’d rather have complicated with you than boring alone,” he says, no jokes this time.

My phone rings from inside.

“That’s probably Jessica,” I say.

“Hopefully good news.”

“How do you know?”

“Because today you’re getting what you deserve instead of what you’re afraid of.”

I hope he’s right.

“Emergency protective order granted,” Jessica’s voice comes through the speaker. “Full no-contact order. He can’t come within five hundred feet of you or the children.”

“What about his job?” I ask.

“Administrative leave pending Internal Affairs investigation. His service weapon’s been surrendered.”

I sink into the couch, relief hitting me so hard I feel dizzy. “So he can’t just show up here anymore.”

“If he does, you call 911 and he gets arrested. Simple as that.”

Simple. Right.

“There’s one more thing,” Jessica continues. “The file of evidence you have on Evan? There’s an IA officer who wants to talk to you. Off the record.”

“About what?”

“Other complaints. About Evan. Apparently, you’re not the first.”

That stops me cold. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll let her explain. Can she come by this afternoon?”

I look at Dex, who nods. “Okay.”

After Jessica hangs up, I just sit there, processing. Other complaints. Other women who dealt with Evan’s version of love and control.

“Hey,” Dex sits beside me. “You’re doing that thing where you disappear inside your head.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How many other people he’s hurt. How long this has been going on.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? I stayed with him. I let him?—”

“Stop.” His voice is firm but not harsh. “You survived. You got out. You protected your kids. That’s what matters.”

Before I can argue, Tyson appears in the living room doorway.

“Mom? Can we order pizza for lunch? I don’t think you should cook today.”

Smart kid.

“Sure, buddy. What kind do you want?”

“The kind with everything on it. And can Coach Dex stay?”

“If he wants to.”

Tyson looks at Dex hopefully. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah, I want to.”

“Good. Because I have questions about that goal you scored against Vancouver.”

And just like that, we’re talking about hockey instead of protective orders and Internal Affairs investigations. Normal conversation in an abnormal day.

My phone buzzes again.

Bringing wine and Chinese food at 6. No arguments.

I show the text to Dex. “Apparently we’re having company for dinner.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“I’m not alone. You’re here.”

“I meant after the detective leaves. After all the official stuff is done and you have time to actually think about what happened.”

He’s right. I’ve been moving from crisis to crisis, handling each thing as it comes up. But eventually, there won’t be another phone call or meeting or decision to make. Eventually, I’ll have to sit with what Evan did and what it means.

“Will you stay?” I ask. “Tonight?”

“As long as you want me to.”

From the kitchen, Blythe calls out, “Are we ordering pizza or what? I’m STARVING and my stomach is making REBELLION NOISES!”

“We’re ordering pizza!” I call back. I glance at Dex, “Crisis management through room service. That’s basically been my parenting strategy for two years.”

“Seems to be working out okay,” he says, watching Tyson explain something complex about hockey positioning to his sister, who’s listening with the intensity of someone learning state secrets.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe we’re all going to be okay.

Detective Gonzalez looks younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, tired eyes, the kind of careful posture that comes from being the only woman in a room full of cops for most of your career.

“I want to be clear,” she says, settling into my kitchen chair with coffee I made too strong. “This conversation is off the record. I’m here as someone who’s seen Evan Adler’s pattern of behavior, not as an official representative of Seattle PD.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say.

“There have been three complaints filed against Detective Adler in the past five years. Two were dismissed due to lack of evidence. One was never officially filed because the complainant was... discouraged from pursuing it.”

My stomach drops. “What kind of complaints?”

“Domestic incidents. Use of excessive force during what should have been routine calls. Abuse of authority.” She pauses. “The complainant who was discouraged? She was a dispatch operator. Filed a harassment complaint, then suddenly transferred to another department.”

“Jesus.”

“The thing is, none of these women had the kind of documentation you have. The recordings, the photos, the witnesses. And none of them had...” she glances toward the living room where Dex is helping the kids with a puzzle, “...the kind of support system you’ve built.”

“So what does this mean?”

“It means if you’re willing to go on record about your experiences with Detective Adler, we might be able to build a case that protects other women. Future victims.”