Page 43 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

DEX

W hat wakes me is the smell of something burning downstairs and Blythe yelling about toaster rebellion at a volume that could wake the dead three states over.

Golda’s still asleep next to me, face buried in the pillow, copper hair spread everywhere like she’s been wrestling with it all night.

She looks younger like this, without the constant worry lines around her eyes.

The morning light coming through her bedroom curtains catches the few freckles across her nose that I’m just starting to notice.

“Stay here,” I whisper, though she doesn’t stir. “I’ll handle the chaos.”

Downstairs, I find Blythe standing on a kitchen chair, poking at the smoking toaster with a butter knife while Tyson watches from what he clearly considers a safe distance across the room.

“Whoa, whoa.” I cross the kitchen fast, grabbing the knife away from her. “Rule one of kitchen fires—no metal objects near electrical appliances.”

“It’s not on fire,” she protests with the indignation of someone whose scientific methods have been frequently questioned. “It’s just... really angry.”

“What exactly did you put in there?”

“A waffle. With peanut butter already on it. And maybe some honey. And possibly a few chocolate chips.”

“Jesus Christ.” I unplug the toaster, which is definitely smoking now and making sounds no kitchen appliance should make. “Why would you do that?”

“It seemed more efficient! Like a breakfast sandwich, but toasted!”

Tyson shakes his head with the weary patience of someone who’s witnessed this kind of logic before. “She killed three toasters last year.”

“Impressive,” I admit, using tongs to extract what used to be breakfast from the smoking appliance. The remains look like something archaeologists might find in Pompeii. “New record?”

“She got a waffle maker last month,” Tyson continues. “It lasted two days.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Blythe climbs down from her chair. “The instructions were unclear about everything!”

I examine the charred waffle, trying not to laugh. “Okay, new rule. No more experimental cooking without adult supervision.”

“But how will I perfect my culinary innovations?”

“Maybe start with things that don’t require electricity?”

By the time Golda appears in the kitchen—hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an oversized t-shirt that probably belonged to someone else once upon a time—I’ve got both kids fed, the toaster situation contained, and coffee brewing.

She takes one look at the charred remains in the sink and sighs. “Let me guess. Another casualty in Blythe’s war against conventional breakfast preparation?”

“Your daughter has a real talent for small appliance destruction.”

“It’s a gift,” Blythe says proudly through a mouthful of backup cereal.

“It’s expensive,” Golda corrects, accepting the coffee mug I hand her with a grateful smile. “You don’t have to clean up after us, you know. You’re a guest here.”

“I don’t mind.” And I don’t. The whole morning routine thing—making coffee, dealing with breakfast disasters, listening to Blythe’s elaborate theories about proper toaster usage—it’s weird how normal it feels. “Besides, I think I’m past guest status at this point.”

Something flickers in her expression at that, but before I can figure out what it means, Tyson looks up from his cereal.

“Coach Dex, are you going to practice today?”

“Yeah, buddy. Morning skate at ten. Need to head home and change first.”

“Will you come back after?” The question comes out casual, but there’s something underneath it—a kid who’s had enough upheaval wanting to know what he can count on.

“If that’s okay with your mom.” I glance at Golda, who nods. “Yeah, I’ll come back. Maybe bring dinner so nobody has to cook.”

His smile is small but genuine. “Good. I wanted to ask you about that goal you scored against Vancouver. The one where you went around the defenseman.”

“Which one? I went around a lot of defensemen that game.”

“The second period one. Where you did that spin move thing.”

“Ah, the Michigan. Yeah, I can show you that move sometime.”

“Really?”

“Really. Though maybe we should work on basic stick handling first. That move’s pretty advanced.”

Tyson nods seriously, like I’ve just given him a training plan for the Olympics. It’s the kind of focused attention most kids his age reserve for video games or cartoon characters. But hockey—hockey makes him light up in a way that reminds me of myself at that age.

I finish my coffee and check the time. “I should get going. Need to shower and change before I face Barrett’s wrath for missing team dinner.”

“You missed team dinner for us?” Blythe asks, eyes going wide like I’ve made some massive sacrifice.

“It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“But what if Coach gets mad?”

“Then I’ll run extra suicides and pretend I like it.” I ruffle her hair as I pass. “I’ve survived worse.”

Golda walks me to the door while the kids debate the proper ratio of milk to cereal for optimal sogginess prevention. It’s a surprisingly serious discussion.

“Thank you,” she says quietly once we’re out of earshot. “For staying last night. For being here this morning. For handling the toaster crisis like it’s a normal Tuesday thing.”

“Maybe it is a normal Tuesday thing now.”

She studies my face like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. “You say that like it doesn’t scare you.”

“Should it?”

“Most people would run screaming from a house where kitchen appliances go to die and eight-year-olds conduct breakfast experiments at dawn.”

“Good thing I’m not most people.” I lean down to kiss her, intending it to be quick since the kids are thirty feet away arguing about cereal science.

But she rises on her toes to meet me, and something about the way she kisses me back—like she’s trying to say something she doesn’t have words for yet—makes me linger.

“I’ll text you from the rink,” I say when we break apart.

“You better. And Dex?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful at practice. I have a feeling Barrett’s going to work you twice as hard if you’re late.”

“Probably. Worth it though.”

Her smile at that is soft and a little surprised, like she’s still getting used to being someone’s priority.

“Look who remembered he plays professional hockey,” Roman greets me as I walk into the locker room at the practice facility.

“Barely.” I drop my gear bag on the bench between my stall and his. “Sleep’s overrated anyway.”

“How are they doing? Really?”

The question’s casual, but Roman doesn’t do casual. When he asks something, he wants a real answer.

“Better than I expected,” I tell him, starting to change into practice gear. “Tyson’s tough—tougher than any kid should have to be. The bruise looks worse today, but he’s handling it. Blythe tried to burn down the kitchen this morning, so her spirit’s definitely intact.”

“Good.” Roman nods like this settles something in his mind. “Team wanted me to ask if there’s anything else they can do. Financial help, legal connections, whatever you need.”

The offer shouldn’t surprise me—hockey teams are families, and family takes care of family. But it still hits me somewhere deep that these guys have my back without question.

“Having backup helps more than you know,” I tell him. “And the legal team Jim connected us with has been huge.”

“Always,” Roman says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Coach Barrett appears in the locker room doorway, his eyes scanning until they land on me. “Malone. Nice of you to grace us with your presence. Everything stable on the home front?”

“For now, Coach.”

“Good. Because Edmonton’s coming in hot on Thursday, and their power play’s been lights out. I need your head in the game, not in the stands making googly eyes at your girlfriend.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Better. Ice in ten minutes. And you’re running extra suicides for missing Sunday dinner. Can’t have the guys thinking I play favorites.”

“Fair enough.”

Barrett moves on to torment Rodriguez about his defensive positioning, and I finish lacing up my skates.

Around me, the usual pre-practice chatter fills the room—Brody complaining about his Elliot’s latest home improvement project, Anderson showing off pictures of his daughter, Luca debating the merits of various energy drinks with the intensity of a wine sommelier.

Normal hockey stuff. Except nothing feels quite normal anymore, because now I’ve got something outside this rink that matters more than hockey. It’s not a bad feeling, just... different.

We’re halfway through passing drills when the arena doors slam open with enough force to echo through the building.

Roman goes still beside me, and I follow his gaze to see Evan storming through the entrance.

He’s in a thousand-dollar suit instead of his usual uniform, flanked by two guys in equally expensive suits who have lawyer written all over them.

Jenny from reception is trailing behind, hands up, clearly trying to stop them.

“Practice is closed!” Barrett’s voice carries from behind the bench. “Security!”

But Evan’s not looking at Barrett or security or anyone else. His eyes lock on me across the ice, and there’s something unhinged in his expression that makes my blood run cold.

“This isn’t about practice,” he calls out, voice carrying across the rink. He’s got papers in his hand—legal documents, probably. “This is about him interfering in my family matters.”

I feel more than see my teammates shift.

The soft scrape of blades on ice as guys start moving closer.

Anderson and Rodriguez flanking me without being asked.

Brody and Luca sliding into position slightly ahead.

Roman staying right beside me, all six-foot-four of him radiating the kind of menace that makes opposing forwards think twice about getting cute in front of our net.

“Your family matters?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You mean the ones where you backhanded your ten-year-old son? Those family matters?”