Page 46 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“Ms. Adler, this court recognizes the courage it took to document the abuse you and your children suffered, and to bring these allegations forward despite the professional intimidation you faced. The evidence you provided was crucial in protecting your children from further harm.”

I’m crying again, but these are different tears. Relief and vindication and the overwhelming realization that it’s finally, actually over.

“The orders I’ve issued today will be filed immediately and are effective as of this moment. Detective Adler, you are ordered to have no contact with Ms. Adler or the minor children outside of the supervised visitation schedule, which will be arranged through the court.”

The gavel comes down with a finality that echoes through my bones.

It’s over.

After three years of fear and court battles and walking on eggshells, it’s actually over.

Jessica’s whispering something about paperwork and next steps, but I can’t focus on her words.

Across the room, Evan’s face has gone completely white.

His attorney is leaning over, speaking urgently in his ear, but Evan’s not listening.

He’s staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen before—not anger, not frustration, but something colder. More dangerous.

This might be over legally, but it’s not over for him. Not really. He’s already calculating, already planning whatever comes next.

“Don’t,” Dex says quietly, suddenly beside me, his hand warm on my back. “Don’t let him back in your head. You won. It’s over.”

“Is it?” I’m shaking and I can’t seem to stop. “Because he looks like someone who’s already planning his next move.”

“Let him plan. He’s got nothing now. No power, no badge, no legal access to you or the kids. He’s just a man with anger management issues and a restraining order.”

The logical part of my brain knows he’s right. But the part that lived with Evan for eight years, the part that learned to read his moods and anticipate his reactions, knows better. Cornered animals are the most dangerous kind.

“Come on,” Jessica says, gathering her papers with barely contained triumph. “Let’s get out of here before the press figures out what happened.”

Right. The press. Because of course this story—decorated police detective loses custody for child abuse—is going to be news. Another complication I’ll have to navigate.

As we file out of the courtroom, I catch fragments of conversation from the hockey players.

“—about fucking time?—”

“—if he comes near those kids again?—”

“—team lawyer says the Internal Affairs investigation?—”

Their protectiveness still amazes me. These men who barely knew me six months ago, rallying around my family like we’ve always been part of their circle.

The courthouse lobby is bustling with the usual mix of lawyers, defendants, and families dealing with their own legal dramas. For a moment, we’re just another group of people leaving court, blending into the crowd of human conflict and resolution.

“So what happens now?” I ask Jessica as we reach the parking garage.

“Now you go home and live your life,” she says simply.

“The protective order is in effect immediately. Evan has to arrange supervised visitation through the court system, which will take at least a week or two to set up. You have sole custody, which means you make all the decisions about the kids’ lives without having to consult him or get his permission. ”

The freedom of that concept is so foreign I can’t quite grasp it. No more arguing about school activities or medical appointments. No more having to justify my parenting decisions to someone who uses them as weapons.

“And if he violates the order?” Dex asks, all business.

“Immediate arrest. No questions asked.” Jessica’s satisfaction is evident. “Judge Harris made that very clear.”

We reach our cars, and suddenly I don’t want to separate from this group of people who’ve helped make today possible. Going home means facing the kids, explaining what happened, starting the process of helping them understand that their world has fundamentally changed.

“Hey,” Dex says, reading my hesitation. “Want me to follow you? Help you talk to the kids?”

The offer is exactly what I need to hear. “Yes. Please.”

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Jessica promises. “The paperwork will be filed by end of day, and I’ll send you copies of everything. For now, just... breathe. You did it, Golda. You actually did it.”

The drive feels surreal, like I’m floating slightly above reality.

Every red light, every turn, every familiar landmark looks the same as it did this morning, but everything has changed.

The kids I left at Elliot’s house this morning are the same kids I’m about to pick up, but legally, officially, finally, they’re safe.

Elliot’s house is in chaos when we arrive, which is apparently normal for a Saturday afternoon. She meets us at the door with paint-covered hands and an apologetic smile.

“Sorry—art project emergency. Blythe decided the kitchen table needed to be ‘enhanced’ with finger paints, and Tyson’s been helping me minimize the damage.”

Through the doorway, I can see my son carefully cleaning paint off chair legs while Blythe explains something elaborate about color theory and artistic expression.

“How did it go?” Elliot asks quietly, studying my face.

“We won. Everything. Sole custody, protective order, the whole thing.”

Her face lights up with relief and joy. “Oh, thank god. How are you feeling?”

“Terrified,” I admit. “Now I have to explain it to them.”

“They’re going to be fine,” she assures me. “Kids are more resilient than we give them credit for.”

“Mom!” Blythe’s voice carries from the kitchen, followed by the sound of running feet. She crashes into my legs with her usual enthusiasm, leaving small paint handprints on my court dress. “Did you win? Did the judge say we don’t have to be scared anymore?”

Trust her to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“Yes, baby,” I tell her, kneeling down to her level. “The judge said you don’t have to be scared anymore.”

Her smile is brilliant, uncomplicated by the adult understanding of what this all means. “Good. Can we get ice cream to celebrate?”

“Definitely ice cream,” I promise.

Tyson appears more cautiously, his expression serious as always. “What exactly did the judge say?” he asks, because of course he wants the details.

“Why don’t we go home and talk about it there?” I suggest. “All of us together.”

The drive home is filled with Blythe’s chatter about the art project and her theories about why finger paints are superior to regular paints. Tyson’s quieter, processing in his usual way, occasionally asking practical questions about logistics and timing.

At home, we settle in the living room—me and Dex on the couch, the kids in their usual spots on the floor with books and toys scattered around them. The familiar domestic scene makes today’s courtroom drama feel even more surreal.

“So,” I begin, trying to find the right words. “You know how we went to court today to talk to the judge about Dad and what happened?”

Both kids nod, their attention focused on me with the intensity they usually reserve for Christmas morning or the reveal of surprise activities.

“The judge listened to everyone who talked to her—me, Dex, the lawyers, the doctors who looked at Tyson’s bruise. And she decided that what Dad did was wrong, and that there need to be consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?” Tyson asks, ever practical.

“Well, the judge said that Dad can’t come to our house anymore. He can’t come to your school or your hockey practices or skating lessons. He has to stay far away from us unless it’s a special visit that the court arranges.”

“So he can’t just show up?” Blythe asks, her voice smaller than usual.

“No, baby. He can’t just show up. The judge made a rule that says he’s not allowed to.”

“But we can still see him?” Tyson’s question is careful, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“Yes, you can still see him. But it will be at a special place, and there will be another adult there whose job is to make sure everyone feels safe and comfortable.”

“Like a referee?” Blythe asks, perking up at a concept she can understand.

“Exactly like a referee. Someone who makes sure everyone follows the rules.”

Tyson processes this with his characteristic thoughtfulness. “What if Dad doesn’t like the rules?”

“Then he’ll get in trouble with the court. The judge was very clear that Dad has to follow these rules, and if he doesn’t, there will be bigger consequences.”

“Good,” Tyson says with surprising firmness. “He should have to follow rules like everyone else.”

The simple moral clarity of it—the understanding that adults should be held accountable for their actions—makes my chest tight with pride and sadness. These kids have learned lessons no child should have to learn, but they’ve learned them with grace and wisdom that humbles me.

“So what does this mean for us?” Blythe asks, ever focused on the practical implications. “Do we still live here? Do we still go to school?”

“Everything stays the same,” I assure her. “This is your home. You go to the same school, play the same sports, have the same friends. The only thing that changes is that you won’t be going to Dad’s house every other weekend anymore.”

“What will we do instead?” Tyson asks.

I glance at Dex, not sure how to handle this part of the conversation. We haven’t talked about logistics, about what our relationship looks like now that the legal battle is over.

“Well,” Dex says carefully, “that depends on what you guys want to do. And what your mom wants to do.”

“I want to do normal stuff,” Blythe announces. “Like families on TV. With pancakes and movie nights and maybe a dog.”

“We’ve talked about the dog thing before,” I remind her. “Dogs are a lot of responsibility.”

“But now we have more time!” she argues with eight-year-old logic. “Because we don’t have to go to Dad’s house and be quiet all the time!”