Page 5 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“My team thinks I’m a liability. My family thinks I’m a disappointment. And I’m pretty sure I exist only as tabloid news.”

“Cheers to that,” she says, raising her wine glass. “Here’s to spectacular career failures.”

We clink glasses, and I find myself genuinely smiling for the first time all night.

Callie’s funny, sharp, and refreshingly honest about her own problems. When she mentions she could use some company tonight, and I suggest my place has a better view, leaving together feels like the most natural thing in the world.

At least someone’s night is looking up.

The elevator to my penthouse feels smaller than usual, probably because Callie is pressed against me, her hands already working on my shirt buttons.

“This place is incredible,” she breathes against my neck as the doors open directly into my living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Seattle skyline, all glass and steel and money.

“Thanks,” I mutter, already losing interest. She’s beautiful—they always are—but there’s something perfunctory about this. Like I’m going through the motions because it’s expected, not because I want to.

She’s got her dress half off before we reach the bedroom, and I’m trying to summon enthusiasm for what’s about to happen. Callie’s gorgeous, willing, and clearly knows what she’s doing. This should be exactly what I need after tonight’s disaster.

But as she pulls me down onto the bed, all I can think about is that tabloid article. “Dex’s Dozen.” Twelve different women in twelve months. And here I am, about to make it thirteen.

Afterward, as Callie dozes against my chest, I stare at the ceiling and feel absolutely nothing. No satisfaction, no connection, just the familiar hollow ache that follows these encounters. She’ll be gone in the morning and we’ll both pretend this meant something it didn’t.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A notification from Instagram. VictoriaCarhart tagged you in a story.

I ignore it. More buzzing. A text from a number I don’t recognize.

Saw the news about the Space Needle. You wild Call me.

Another buzz. Another notification. The constant stream of women who think breaking headlines make me more attractive, not less.

Callie stirs against me. “You okay? You seem tense.”

“Just thinking,” I say.

“About what?” She traces patterns on my chest with her fingernail.

About how empty this feels. About how I’m thirty-two years old and this is all I have to show for it. About how Roman looked at me tonight like I was already a lost cause.

“Nothing important,” I lie.

She falls back asleep, but I stay awake, staring at the city lights and wondering when exactly my life became such a fucking cliché. The rich athlete with too much money and too little sense. The guy who can score goals but can’t score anything meaningful off the ice.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s an email notification from a gossip blog: “brEAKING: Space Needle Scandal Photos Inside!”

I don’t need to open it to know what I’ll find. Photos of me leaving the hotel with Alessandra, Katerina, and Olivia. Photos of security escorting us out. Probably photos of me signing autographs afterward, grinning like the whole thing was one big joke.

By morning, this will be everywhere. Sports blogs, social media, probably the local news. Another chapter in the ongoing saga of Dex Malone’s spectacular lack of judgment.

Callie leaves at dawn with a kiss on the cheek and promises about ‘doing this again soon’ that we both know are bullshit.

My condo feels even emptier after she’s gone.

Thirty-two floors above the city, surrounded by expensive furniture I never use and art I bought because someone told me it was “investment quality.”

This is my life. This is what years of professional hockey and more money than I know what to do with has gotten me. A revolving door of beautiful women who see me as a conquest, a team that’s running out of patience with my bullshit, and a reputation that’s becoming more toxic by the month.

The worst part? I’m not even sure I know how to be anything else anymore.

I make coffee in my pristine kitchen and flip on the morning news, already dreading what I’ll see. Sure enough, there’s my face splashed across the sports segment. “Hockey Star’s Space Needle Stunt” runs across the bottom of the screen while footage of me and the models plays on repeat.

“Seattle’s Dex Malone is making headlines again,” the anchor says with barely concealed amusement, “but not for his performance on the ice.”

My phone starts ringing. Management. Press. Probably my mother, who’s going to pretend she’s not disappointed while asking pointed questions about when I’m going to “find a nice girl and settle down.”

I silence it all and head for the shower. Whatever consequences Roman mentioned are coming whether I’m ready or not. Time to face the music for last night’s spectacular display of poor judgment.

The coffee shop near the arena is my usual pre-meeting ritual. Nothing says “I’m taking this seriously” like showing up with artisanal lattes for the entire PR team. Bribery via caffeine – a tactic that’s served me well through eight years of occasionally spectacular poor judgment.

I’m scrolling through my order list when I see a slightly familiar woman ahead of me in line.

“Large oat milk latte, no sugar.”

Copper hair. Curves for days. It’s her – the woman whose coffee I destroyed a few weeks ago.

I step up behind her just as she’s reaching for her wallet. “I’ve got this one,” I tell the barista, sliding my card across before she can protest.

She turns, and I catch that moment of recognition followed immediately by wariness. “You again.”

“Me again.” I flash my most charming smile. “Though I promise I’m much less dangerous when I’m not in motion.”

“That remains to be seen.” She steps aside but doesn’t leave, watching as I rattle off my usual team order. “Four coffees, two pastries, and what appears to be enough caffeine to power a small aircraft. Big meeting?”

“The kind where I find out exactly how much trouble I’m in.” I lean against the counter while we wait. “Figured I’d show up armed with premium bribery material.”

“Smart strategy. Though if you’re going for maximum impact, you probably should have gone with donuts. Everyone loves a good donut.”

“Noted for next time.” I study her face, trying to read her mood. “Speaking of smart strategies, what brings you to this particular corner of coffee excellence?”

“I’m heading to the recording studio.”

“Recording studio? Like music?”

“Commercials usually.” There’s something guarded in her tone, like she’s not sure how much she wants to share.

“That’s actually really cool. I’ve always wondered what that’s like – sitting in a booth, making ordinary scripts sound interesting.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Most people assume it’s easy. Just reading, right?”

“Most people are idiots.” The response is automatic, but I mean it. “I can barely make grocery lists sound coherent. The fact that you can make people want to buy whatever you’re selling? That’s talent.”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

“Order for Dex!” the barista calls out.

As I collect my caffeine arsenal, she grabs her single latte and heads toward the door. I catch up with her on the sidewalk.

“So,” I say, falling into step beside her. “Since I’ve now successfully purchased you coffee without causing any collateral damage, I’m thinking this counts as character growth.”

“Don’t get too excited. The day is young.”

“True. I could still trip over my own feet and take out a fire hydrant or something.” I pause at the crosswalk. “Though in my defense, the coffee incident was at least fifty percent your fault.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“You were sitting there, looking all...” I gesture vaguely at her, “focused and professional. Very distracting for those of us who are easily confused by competence.”

She stares at me for a moment, and I think I’ve gone too far.

Then she laughs – not the polite little chuckle I get from dates, but a laugh that lights up her whole face.

The sound hits me like something I didn’t see coming, it’s raspy and sexy and real and now the only thing I want to do is hear it again.

“That’s got to be the worst excuse I’ve ever heard,” she says, but she’s still smiling.

“Thank you. I’ve been practicing terrible excuses for years. It’s become something of an art form.”

“I can tell.” The light changes, and we cross together. “Let me guess – you’ve used the ‘distracted by competence’ line before?”

“Actually, no. That one was specifically crafted for this moment.” I grin at her. “How’d I do?”

“Terrible,” she says, but there’s warmth in it now. “Absolutely terrible.”

“I’ll take it.”

We reach the other side, and she pauses, coffee cup cradled in both hands. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something else. Then her expression shutters again, just slightly.

“Well,” she says, “thanks for the coffee. And for not spilling this one.”

“Yet,” I add helpfully. “There’s still time.”

Another small smile. “Try to resist the urge.”

I watch her walk away, noting the way she doesn’t look back. Most women would. Would find some excuse to turn around, to check if I’m still watching, to give me another opening.

She doesn’t. She just disappears around the corner, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my drink carriers and the strangest feeling that I just had the most interesting conversation I’ve had in months.

My phone buzzes. Roman, probably wondering where the hell I am.

On my way. Coffee in hand.

You better have more than coffee. Your ass is grass, Malone.

I head toward the arena, already planning my charm offensive for whatever punishment they’re about to hand down. But part of my mind stays with the copper-haired woman who laughed like she meant it and walked away like I was just another guy buying coffee.