Page 50 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

“ S top fidgeting with it.”

Dex’s hands freeze on his bow tie, caught in the act. “It’s crooked.”

“It was fine until you started messing with it.” I step in front of him, batting his hands away. “Hold still.”

He obeys, watching me with that amused expression he gets when I go into fix-it mode. We’re in his condo getting ready for the team’s playoff celebration—fancy dress, fancy venue, fancy people I still feel weird around sometimes.

“There.” I step back to check my work. “Perfect.”

“We could skip it,” he suggests, pulling me close despite my protests about wrinkles. “Order pizza, watch a movie...”

His phone chimes with the notification that the car is here. I grab my purse, check my lipstick one more time. The green dress I’m wearing is fancier than anything I’ve worn in years, but Dex’s expression when he first saw me in it made the splurge worth it.

“Ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The bar is downtown, the kind of place that requires a reservation and actual dress codes. Security at the door, guest lists, the works. Inside, it’s all dim lighting and expensive liquor, filled with people who look like they stepped out of magazines.

I spot the other hockey wives scattered around—some I know, some I recognize from team photos. They all look comfortable here, like they were born knowing which fork to use and how to make small talk with millionaires.

“Golda!” Elliot appears beside me, looking stunning in red. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d chickened out.”

“He tried to talk me into staying home,” I admit. “But I reminded him you’d hunt us down.”

“Damn right I would. Come on, drinks first. Brody’s got news about that house.”

My stomach flips. We’ve been looking at places in their neighborhood—not seriously, exactly, but keeping our options open.

There’s one house that caught my eye. Big backyard, separate wings for the kids, close enough to Elliot and Brody that we could borrow cups of sugar and babysit each other’s hypothetical future children.

“It’s back on the market,” Brody tells us when we reach the bar. “Financing fell through this morning. Listing agent called me directly.”

Dex looks at me, eyebrows raised. “The one with the tree house?”

“And the finished basement,” Brody confirms. “Perfect for a certain volume-challenged kid and her hockey-obsessed brother.”

I take a sip of wine, trying to slow my racing heart. “We’d need to see it again. With the kids this time.”

“Already called. Tomorrow at two?”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” I tell him.

Before I can argue, Roman appears at my elbow, right arm in a sling and scowling like someone stole his favorite stick.

“Don’t,” he warns before anyone can speak. “I’ve heard enough today.”

“About what?” Dex asks innocently. “Your tragic practice injury or the physical therapist who relocated your shoulder while insulting your intelligence?”

“She was unprofessional,” Roman growls.

“She called you an ‘overbuilt, under-brained hockey stereotype with a hero complex,’” Brody recites cheerfully. “Right before she popped your shoulder back into place. In front of the GM. During her job interview.”

“Someone with that attitude shouldn’t be working with athletes,” Roman insists, but there’s something in his voice that doesn’t quite match his words.

“Funny thing,” Brody continues. “Barrett just told me they offered her the job. She starts in two weeks.”

The look that crosses Roman’s face is priceless—part alarm, part something that might be interest if you squint.

“That’s... unfortunate,” he manages.

“For you, maybe,” Elliot laughs. “For the rest of us, it’s going to be entertainment gold. Dr. Marnie Walker, the only person who’s ever made Roman Varga look genuinely rattled.”

“I’m not rattled.”

“Sure you’re not. That’s why your ears are red.”

Roman mutters something in Russian and stalks off toward the bar, protecting his injured shoulder from the crowd.

“That was mean,” I observe, though I’m trying not to smile.

“He’ll survive,” Dex assures me. “Besides, you should have seen her put him in his place. Five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds, staring him down like he was a misbehaving puppy.”

“I’m looking forward to Monday’s practice,” Brody admits.

The party continues around us—hockey players and their families, team management, sponsors. Normal people celebrating a good season. But I keep catching myself feeling like an observer rather than a participant, like I’m watching someone else’s life.

“You okay?” Elliot asks during a quiet moment.

“Yeah, just... this is still weird for me sometimes. All of it.”

“The fancy parties or the being happy part?”

Straight to the point like always. “Both, I guess. A year ago I was documenting bruises and recording threats. Now I’m looking at houses and planning a future. It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It’s real,” she says firmly. “You deserve every bit of it.”

Across the room, Dex is deep in conversation with Coach Barrett, gesturing about something that has the normally stoic coach almost smiling. When he catches my eye, his face lights up in a way that still makes my heart skip.

“How do the kids feel about the house thing?” Elliot asks.

“We’ve been testing the waters. Casual conversations, trial runs at Dex’s place, hypothetical discussions about what they’d want in a house.”

“And?”

“Blythe’s fully on board. Her only requirements are a purple bedroom and a backyard suitable for ‘scientific experiments.’”

“Reasonable.”

“Tyson’s more cautious. He’s been through so much change already. But Dex mentioned a basement where he could practice hockey, and suddenly he’s asking about square footage.”

“Bribery, but effective.”

Later, as the party winds down, we collect our coats and head out to pick up the kids. In the Uber, Dex takes my hand.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“How different things are from last year’s end-of-season party,” he says. “I showed up alone, left with whoever, didn’t think twice about it.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m leaving with you to pick up the kids and look at houses tomorrow. And I can’t imagine wanting anything else.”

The simple honesty catches me off guard. “Even with all the complications? The therapy appointments and custody schedules and Blythe’s ongoing war against appropriate volume levels?”

“Especially those things. That’s real life, Goldie. That’s what matters.”

In the car heading home—to my house tonight, though the concept of “home” has gotten more flexible lately—I find myself overwhelmed by contentment. The kids arguing about theater versus hockey in the backseat, Dex’s hand warm in mine, actual plans for a shared future taking shape.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“For what?”

“For staying. For loving us, mess and all.”

His eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the road. “Thank you for letting me.”

After the kids are finally in bed—Blythe still planning theatrical improvements to the hypothetical tree house, Tyson pretending he’s not equally excited about the basement—we settle on the couch together.

“So,” Dex says, playing with my fingers. “Are we really doing this? House, kids, combined everything?”

“I think we are. Assuming the house passes inspection and Blythe approves of the acoustics.”

“Of course. Acoustics are crucial.”

I lean against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I love you,” I tell him, the words still carrying wonder.

“I love you too. All of you. Forever.”

Forever. No longer scary, just a promise I actually believe in.

Whatever comes next—hockey seasons and school years, teenage drama and career changes—we’ll handle it together. And that makes all the difference.

The house looks different in daylight than it did during our evening viewing last month. Bigger somehow, more real, with morning sun streaming through the windows and highlighting possibilities I hadn’t noticed before.

“The primary suite is completely separate from the kids’ wing,” the listing agent explains as we tour the upstairs. “Privacy for parents, but close enough to hear if anyone needs anything.”

Beside me, Tyson examines the built-in bookshelves in what would be his room with the intensity of an inspector. “Are these attached to the wall properly? Books are heavy.”

“They’re built-in,” the agent assures him. “Designed to hold a full library.”

“Good. I have a lot of hockey biographies.”

Down the hall, Blythe tests the acoustics of her potential room by singing scales at increasing volume. “The sound carries beautifully!” she announces. “Perfect for vocal warm-ups!”

“Maybe we should test the soundproofing between rooms,” I suggest dryly.

“Already did,” Dex grins. “It’s adequate. Barely.”

The basement is what sells Tyson completely. Finished space with high ceilings, perfect for hockey practice. There’s even a corner that could be converted into a small gym area.

“I could work on my shot accuracy here,” he says, trying to sound casual. “And maybe invite teammates over to practice.”

“Teammates are always welcome,” Dex tells him. “As long as they don’t break anything expensive.”

Outside, the tree house passes Blythe’s inspection with flying colors. “It’s structurally sound and has excellent sightlines to the backyard stage area,” she declares after a thorough examination. “I approve of this residence for theatrical purposes.”

“High praise,” I murmur to Dex.

The backyard is what gets me. Big enough for kids to run around, mature trees for shade, a garden area where I could actually grow vegetables instead of just buying them. Space for birthday parties and barbecues and all the normal family things I never thought we’d have.

“What do you think?” Dex asks as we stand on the back deck, watching the kids explore the yard.

“I think it feels like home,” I admit. “Which is terrifying and perfect at the same time.”

“Good terrifying?”

“Good terrifying. The kind that means something important is about to change.”

He pulls me close, kissing the top of my head. “So we’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this.”