Page 48 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
DEX
T hree months into playoff season, and I’m starting to understand why most guys keep their personal lives separate from hockey.
Not because I want to—hell no—but because having something this important outside the rink changes everything about how you think, how you play, how you handle the pressure.
Case in point: I’m supposed to be reviewing game film right now, analyzing Calgary’s power play setup for tomorrow’s game.
Instead, I’m watching Golda make breakfast through the kitchen doorway, wearing one of my old practice shirts and nothing else, and my brain has completely abandoned hockey strategy in favor of cataloguing the way her legs look in the morning light.
“You’re staring,” she says without turning around, amusement in her voice.
“I’m observing,” I correct, not bothering to deny it. “There’s a difference.”
“And what exactly are you observing?”
“The way that shirt barely covers your ass. The way you’re not wearing anything underneath it. The way you keep stretching to reach things in the top cabinet when you could just ask me.”
She turns around, leaning against the counter with a smirk that makes my blood run hot. “Maybe I know you like the view when I stretch.”
“Jesus, Goldie.” I abandon the tablet completely, crossing the kitchen to cage her against the counter. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“The kids?—”
“Are still asleep. We’ve got at least twenty minutes before Blythe’s internal alarm clock goes off.”
She laughs, but her hands are already sliding under my shirt, nails scraping lightly against my abs. “Twenty minutes? That’s ambitious, even for you.”
“I can work with twenty minutes,” I growl against her neck, lifting her onto the counter. The shirt rides up, and the sight of her bare thighs wrapped around my waist makes me groan. “I’ve been thinking about this since I woke up.”
“This being what, exactly?” Her voice has gone breathy, the way it does when I find that spot on her neck that makes her arch against me.
“Taking you right here in the kitchen. Making you come so hard you forget your own name. Then carrying you back to bed and doing it again properly.”
Her answering whimper goes straight to my cock. I’m already hard, already pressing against her, when we hear the distinct sound of small feet on the stairs.
“Shit,” I mutter, stepping back reluctantly while she hops down from the counter, smoothing the shirt over her hips.
“Later,” she promises, and the heat in her eyes makes the interruption almost bearable.
“GOOD MORNING!” Blythe announces her presence at maximum volume, appearing in the kitchen doorway wearing what appears to be three different pajama sets layered on top of each other. “I couldn’t decide which ones were most appropriate for Thursday, so I chose all of them!”
“Very thorough decision-making process,” I tell her seriously, though I’m still fighting the urge to pull Golda back into my arms.
Tyson follows more quietly, already dressed for school and carrying a hockey magazine. “Morning. Did you watch the Nashville game last night? Their power play looked completely different.”
“I caught the highlights,” I say, grateful for the distraction of hockey talk while my body calms down. “They’ve been working with a new assistant coach.”
As the morning routine unfolds—breakfast, backpack checks, the usual chaos of getting two kids ready for school—I find myself watching Golda with the same intensity I bring to game film.
The way she moves around the kitchen, efficient and graceful.
The way she handles Blythe’s dramatic interpretation of the school lunch menu (“TURKEY SANDWICHES ARE AN AFFRONT TO CULINARY CREATIVITY!”).
The way she patiently explains to Tyson why he can’t wear his playoff jersey to school three days in a row.
This is what I never knew I wanted. Not just her—though god knows I want her constantly, with an intensity that sometimes catches me off guard—but this. The domestic chaos, the shared responsibilities, the way my life feels fuller and more purposeful with her and the kids in it.
Suddenly, she stops in front of me, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Tyson asked you a question.”
“Sorry, buddy. What was it?”
“I asked if you think Coach Barrett might let me sit in on a practice sometime. During summer maybe.”
“I’ll ask him,” I promise. “He’s pretty strict about who’s allowed on the ice during practice, but maybe we can arrange something.”
“Really?” His face lights up with the kind of excitement most kids reserve for Christmas morning.
“Really. Can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
After the kids leave for school—Tyson with his backpack, Blythe with her backpack plus what appears to be a secondary bag for “emergency art supplies”—the house settles into the quiet that only comes after the morning chaos ends.
“So,” Golda says, settling onto the couch next to me with her coffee. “About that twenty minutes we didn’t have earlier...”
“We’ve got about three hours before I have to leave for practice,” I point out, already reaching for her.
“Three hours?” She raises an eyebrow. “What exactly do you have planned?”
“Everything,” I tell her, pulling her onto my lap so she’s straddling me. “Starting with getting you out of this shirt.”
I’ve just gotten my hands under the hem when her phone buzzes on the coffee table. She glances at it, and I see her expression change.
“What is it?”
“Text from Sadie—that’s Tyson’s friend’s mom. Apparently someone posted photos of us leaving the courthouse last month. They’re circulating on social media again.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of photos?”
She shows me her phone. It’s a Twitter thread with several pictures—us walking out of the courthouse holding hands, standing in the parking garage and kissing her forehead while she cries, and finally me helping her into the car.
The captions are what make my jaw clench.
Dex Malone’s GF finally won custody from abusive ex-cop
Seattle defenseman’s new family situation gets MESSY
Hockey WAG drama: the whole story
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrolling through the comments. They’re a mix of supportive and awful, the way internet comments always are. Lots of people defending her, but enough negativity to make me want to throw my phone across the room.
“It’s fine,” she says quickly, but there’s tension in her shoulders. “Sadie just thought I should know in case other parents bring it up at pickup today.”
“It’s not fine.” I set both our phones aside, focusing on her face. “You didn’t ask for this attention. Neither did the kids.”
“No, but it comes with dating you. I knew that going in.”
“Knowing something and living with it are different things,” I point out. “How are you really feeling about all this?”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering. “It’s weird,” she admits finally. “Being recognized at the grocery store. Having other parents at school look at me differently. Knowing that people are discussing my personal life online.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“Both? I mean, most people are supportive. And it’s not like I’m embarrassed about our relationship or what happened with Evan. But sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.”
I study her face, looking for signs of regret or second thoughts. “Do you want me to talk to the team’s PR people? See if they can do anything about limiting coverage?”
“Can they do that?”
“They can try. Make some calls, ask nicely for privacy, especially where the kids are concerned.”
She leans forward, resting her forehead against mine. “You’d do that?”
“Goldie, I’d do anything to make this easier for you. Anything.”
“I know,” she says softly. “That’s part of why I love you.”
The word still makes my chest tight with emotion. Love. Something I thought I understood before I met her, but turns out I didn’t have a clue.
“I love you too,” I tell her, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything. “You and the kids. This whole crazy, complicated, perfect life we’re building.”
She kisses me then, and I can taste her morning coffee, feel the smile still on her lips.
“Show me,” she whispers.
“Show you what?”
“How much you love me. We’ve got three hours, remember?”
I carry her to the bedroom, taking my time undressing her, worshipping every inch of skin I reveal. She’s even more beautiful now than she was three months ago—more confident, more relaxed, more willing to let me see all of her.
“You’re incredible,” I tell her, pressing kisses along her collarbone. “Do you know that? Do you know how fucking perfect you are?”
She arches beneath me, hands fisted in my hair. “Show me,” she says again.
I work my way down her body, taking my time with my mouth until her thighs are shaking around my head. When she comes apart on my tongue, I’m already hard enough to hurt, but I’m not done with her yet.
“Again,” I tell her, sliding two fingers inside her while my mouth finds that spot that makes her hips buck off the bed.
“I can’t—” she starts, but I prove her wrong, making her come again before I finally give us both what we need.
When I push inside her, she’s so slick, so tight around me that I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing control immediately.
“Fuck, you feel good,” I manage, setting a pace that has her meeting me thrust for thrust.
She wraps her legs around my waist, changing the angle, and suddenly I’m hitting deeper, making her gasp my name with every movement.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes against my neck. “Please don’t stop.”
I don’t. I can’t. Not until she’s falling apart beneath me again, taking me with her.
Afterward, we’re sprawled across the bed, sweaty and satisfied. She traces lazy patterns on my chest while I try to remember how to form coherent thoughts. This is my favorite time—the quiet after, when she’s soft and pliant against me, when I can hold her and just listen to her breathe.
“I have to tell you something,” I say, suddenly remembering the conversation I’ve been putting off.
“That sounds ominous.”