Page 44 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

His face goes red, jaw working like he’s trying to keep from exploding. “I have witnesses who’ll testify to your inappropriate relationship with my wife?—”

“Ex-wife,” Brody cuts him off, voice conversational but with an edge that anyone who’s played with him recognizes. It’s the same tone he uses right before he drops gloves. “And we’ve got witnesses too. Lots of them.”

The entire team has moved closer now, not crowding but definitely positioning themselves. It’s not planned, just instinct. This is what happens when someone threatens one of ours.

“Clear the ice!” Barrett’s shouting now, but I notice Almardon’s got his phone out, recording everything. Smart kid.

“You want to do this here?” I skate forward a few feet, close enough that Evan has to crane his neck to look up at me from ice level. “In front of cameras? In front of witnesses? You really want to discuss your history with your family in a building full of people with phones?”

One of his lawyers grabs his arm, whispering something urgent. But Evan’s beyond listening to reason. He’s got that look Golda described from their marriage—the one that means he’s about to do something stupid because he can’t stand not being in control.

“She’s mine,” he snarls, and the possessiveness in his voice makes my jaw clench. “The kids are mine. You think you can just walk in and?—”

Brody slaps his stick against the boards, the sound immediately interrupting Evan’s unhinged tirade.

Evan opens his mouth again and suddenly the sound of twenty hockey sticks hitting the ice together cuts him off.

It’s deafening in the arena, echoing off the rafters like thunder.

A wall of sound that says everything about where we stand on this.

“Last chance,” Barrett calls from the bench, and his voice has gone deadly quiet. “Walk away. Now. Before I let them off this ice.”

Evan looks around—at twenty professional athletes, all of them bigger than him, all of them clearly pissed off and protective. At phones recording his every word. At the absolute certainty that he’s miscalculated badly.

“This isn’t over,” he says, but the confidence has drained out of his voice.

“Yeah, it is,” I reply, keeping my tone level even though I want to jump the boards and show him exactly what happens when you threaten kids.

“Because now we have you on video making threats. Showing up at someone’s workplace to harass them.

Proving exactly why a judge shouldn’t let you near children. ”

His lawyers are actively pulling at him now, clearly realizing their client is digging his own grave. But before they can drag him toward the exit, I call out.

“Oh, and Evan? Next time you want to threaten my family, maybe don’t do it in front of twenty guys who make their living hitting people.”

The doors slam shut behind them. For a moment, the arena is dead quiet except for the hum of the ventilation system.

Then Barrett’s whistle pierces the silence. “Everyone off the ice. Conference room. Bring your phones.”

“AND THEN THE GUINEA PIG JUST VANISHED!” Blythe’s dramatic conclusion to what has apparently been a very involved story about classroom pet drama greets me as Golda opens the front door that evening.

“Like, into thin air?” I ask, setting down bags of takeout on the entry table. “Or more of a tactical retreat situation?”

“Ms. Miller says he’s just hiding somewhere in the classroom,” Blythe informs me with the skepticism of someone who’s clearly considered all possibilities. “But I think there’s been foul play. A guinea pig conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy by who?”

“Haven’t figured that part out yet. But the evidence is suspicious.”

Tyson appears from the living room, book in hand. “She’s been working on this theory all day. There’s diagrams.”

“Diagrams?” I raise an eyebrow. “This is serious investigative work.”

“Very serious,” Blythe confirms. “I’m considering a career in guinea pig detective services.”

“Market’s probably pretty specialized,” I agree solemnly.

Golda laughs, taking one of the food bags from me. “How was practice? After your unexpected visitor?”

I glance at the kids, not sure how much to share with them in earshot. “Educational. For him, mostly.”

“What happened?” Tyson asks, perking up with interest.

I look at Golda, who nods slightly. “Your dad showed up at practice. Made some threats. The whole team made it very clear that wasn’t acceptable.”

“The whole team?” Tyson’s eyes widen.

“All twenty guys. Barrett too. And it’s all on video, so if he tries to say we were the problem, we’ve got proof otherwise.”

Tyson processes this with the seriousness he brings to everything important. “So he won’t try that again?”

“Not after today. Too many witnesses, too many people clearly not on his side.”

Relief flickers across his face, followed by something that might be pride. “Good.”

“Very good,” Golda agrees, ruffling his hair. “Now, who’s hungry? Dex brought enough food to feed an army.”

“I wasn’t sure what everyone liked,” I admit, following her to the kitchen. “So I got a little of everything.”

“A little?” She starts unpacking containers, eyebrows rising as the counter fills with food. “Dex, there’s enough here for a week.”

“Better to have too much than too little.”

“Dad never brought us Indian food,” Blythe announces, climbing onto a stool at the kitchen island. “He said it was too greasy and bad for our development.”

But before I can figure out how to respond, Tyson’s already moving past it.

“Can I try that? I’ve never had it before.”

“Of course. Try whatever you want.”

Dinner ends up being surprisingly normal.

Blythe explains her guinea pig conspiracy theories in elaborate detail, complete with hand gestures and sound effects.

Tyson asks intelligent questions about hockey strategy that make me realize the kid’s been studying the game seriously.

Golda tells stories about her more ridiculous voice acting jobs, including one where she had to voice a talking washing machine with a Brooklyn accent.

“You’re making that up,” I accuse.

“I am not! It was for a commercial about fabric softener. The washing machine was supposed to be wise and street-smart.”

“Did you keep the accent consistent throughout?”

“I am a professional,” she says with mock dignity. “Of course I kept it consistent.”

“Can you do it now?” Blythe asks, bouncing in her seat.

“Absolutely not.”

“Please? Pretty please with extra sprinkles?”

“Extra sprinkles?” I look at Golda. “That’s a new level of bribery.”

“She’s escalating her tactics,” Tyson explains seriously. “Last week she offered to clean her room for a month.”

“And did you take the deal?”

“I’m not stupid,” Golda laughs. “Her room would be a disaster again within three days.”

“Hey!” Blythe protests. “I’m very organized!”

“You have twenty-seven stuffed animals on your bed,” Tyson points out. “And you name them all.”

“They need names! How else would they know who they are?”

The conversation devolves into a debate about proper stuffed animal nomenclature that’s so ridiculous I find myself genuinely entertained.

This is what I’ve been missing, I realize.

Not just the domestic stuff—the shared meals and inside jokes—but the sense of belonging somewhere.

Of being part of something bigger than myself.

After the kids go to bed—with minimal argument, probably because they’re both exhausted from the day’s excitement—Golda and I clean up the kitchen together. It’s becoming a routine, this quiet end-of-day ritual.

“So,” she says, loading chopsticks into the dishwasher, “what really happened at practice? The unedited version.”

I consider sugarcoating it, but we’re past that point. “He made threats. Said it wasn’t over, that a lot could happen between now and the hearing. Implied he had ways of making my life difficult.”

Her hands still on the plate she’s rinsing. “He threatened you? Specifically?”

“Vaguely. But with no real leverage and thirty witnesses.” I take the plate from her hands, set it aside. “Look at me.”

She does, reluctantly.

“You think I’m going to back down because some asshole in an expensive suit tried to intimidate me?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “This is all so complicated, and you didn’t sign up for?—”

“Yes, I did.” The words come out harder than I intended, but I need her to understand this. “Maybe not consciously at first, but the moment I decided I cared about you and those kids, I signed up for all of it.”

Something flickers in her expression—surprise, maybe, or hope she’s trying not to feel.

“Dex—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Golda. Not because of Evan, not because of legal battles, not because your daughter has declared war on small appliances.”

She laughs despite herself. “She really has.”

“I know what I want,” I continue, stepping closer until I can see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. “I want this. You, the kids, the whole messy, complicated package. All of it.”

Her eyes search my face, looking for doubt or hesitation or signs that I’m just saying what she wants to hear. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says simply.

“Okay?”

“I’m all in too.” She reaches up, touches my face with fingers that are slightly trembling. “Even though it scares the hell out of me.”

“Good scared or bad scared?”

“Good scared. I think.” She pauses, “It’s just been a long time since someone chose me. Chose us. Usually people run when they realize how complicated things are.”

“Their loss.” I cover her hand with mine.

“Kiss me,” she says softly.

I don’t need to be asked twice. I kiss her slow and thorough, trying to pour everything I can’t quite articulate into it. She responds immediately, melting against me, making my head spin and my heart race.

“Bedroom?” I suggest against her lips.

“Bedroom,” she agrees breathlessly.

This time, there’s no desperation driving us, no crisis pushing us together. We take our time undressing each other, exploring with growing confidence and familiarity. She’s less hesitant now, more willing to show me what she wants, to ask for what she needs.

When we finally come together, it’s with a rightness that feels inevitable—like we’ve been building toward this moment for longer than we’ve known each other. I watch her face as we move together, memorizing every expression, every sound she makes.

“I love you,” she whispers afterward, the words so quiet I almost miss them.

They hit me like a perfect pass—unexpected but exactly what I needed to hear.

“I love you too,” I tell her.

She tilts her head to look at me, something vulnerable and wondering in her expression. “Really?”

“Really.” I brush damp hair back from her face. “Think you’re stuck with me now.”

“Good,” she whispers, settling back against my chest with a contentment that matches my own. “I like being stuck with you.”

I hold her close, listening to her breathing slow toward sleep. Tomorrow there’ll be more legal battles, more complications, more of Evan’s attempts to control and intimidate. But tonight, we’re here. Together.

And that feels like enough to build a whole future on.