Page 7 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

Outside, the city is alive with mid-morning energy. I check my GPS, calculating drive times to Tyson’s school. Planning what I’ll say to him, how I’ll handle this latest crack in our carefully constructed normal.

The elementary school parking lot is its usual chaos of minivans and SUVs. I spot Blythe first, pigtails bouncing as she weaves through the crowd. Tyson trails behind, shoulders hunched under his backpack, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Mom!” Blythe crashes into me with the force of a small meteorite. “Kara’s mom said I can sleep over Friday and we’re going to make slime and watch?—”

“We can’t do sleepovers this weekend,” I say, catching Tyson’s eye as he slides into the backseat. He looks away quickly. “Dad has to work.”

Her face falls. “But you said?—”

“I know, baby. Plans change sometimes.” I swallow the sigh that wants to follow. “We’ll plan something for next weekend, okay?”

Tyson slams his door harder than necessary. In the rearview mirror, I can see him picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, jaw set.

“Want to tell me what happened in gym?” I ask, navigating through the pickup line.

“No.”

“Mrs. Gannett said?—”

“She doesn’t know anything.” His voice cracks slightly. “Neither does Kyle Stevens.”

“Whatever he said?—”

“He said Dad left because of me.” The words explode out of him. “Because I’m weird and quiet and don’t play any sports.”

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, Blythe has gone very still, the way she always does when we talk about Before.

“That’s not true,” I say carefully. “Your dad loves you. He just?—”

“Has important work,” Tyson finishes. “I know.”

The rest of the drive home is quiet except for Blythe’s occasional humming. She’s working on “Let It Go” again, which feels appropriate.

In the kitchen, I start pulling out dinner ingredients while they settle into their homework routines. Tyson at the counter, math worksheets spread around him. Blythe at the table, tongue caught between her teeth as she practices spelling words.

“Mom,” she says suddenly. “How do you spell ‘necessary’?”

“Sound it out,” I tell her, chopping carrots for the stir-fry.

My phone buzzes. Evan again.

Can’t do next weekend either. Department needs all hands for surveillance operation.

The knife slips, nearly catching my finger. Two weekends in a row. He’s never done that before.

That’s not enough notice. I have commitments.

Then uncommit. This is important.

“Mom?” Blythe again. “Is necessary like necessary necessary or necessary necessary?”

I blink at her. “What?”

“The spelling.” She holds up her paper. “I did it twice because I wasn’t sure.”

“First one’s right, sweetie.” The carrots are uneven, but they’ll cook. “Tyson, how’s the math?”

He grunts, which could mean anything from ‘almost done’ to ‘considering running away to join the circus.’

Don’t make this difficult Golda.

“Can we have ice cream after dinner?” Blythe asks. “Since we can’t do the sleepover?”

“Yeah, mom,” Tyson joins in, something softening in his face. “We still have that mint chip you hide behind the frozen peas.”

I should say no. Should stick to routines, healthy choices, all the things good parents do.

“Only if homework’s done,” I say instead, and their matching grins make my chest ache.

Later, after they’re in bed, I stand in the dark kitchen. The dishes are done, everything prepped for tomorrow, another day successfully navigated. My phone sits silent on the counter, Evan’s last message still unanswered.

I finally pick up my phone to respond.

We’ll make it work. But the kids need stability. They need to know they can count on you.

They can count on me to provide for them. To keep them safe.

What he doesn’t understand – what he’s never understood – is that safety isn’t just about locks on doors and money in accounts.

I trace the tally marks through my sleeve, a habit for when I feel cornered.

My coffee’s gone cold by the time we make it to the rink, but I drink it anyway. The parking lot feels like stepping into another world—one where I don’t belong. SUVs with hockey stickers, families unloading equipment bags that cost more than my monthly grocery budget.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Tyson asks, clutching his borrowed skates. The rental fee alone made me wince, but buying skates for kids who might hate skating seemed even more financially irresponsible.

“This is it,” I say, checking the address on my phone for the third time. “Learn to Skate, Saturdays at 10 AM.”

Blythe bounces on her toes. “I can’t wait! Do you think I’ll be able to spin like in the Olympics?”

“Let’s start with not falling down,” I suggest, gathering our things.

The decision to sign them up still feels impulsive, dangerous.

Money we can’t afford for an activity Evan will hate.

But watching Tyson fold into himself after the school incident, hearing him ask if Dad left because he wasn’t good at sports. ..

“Mom, what if I’m terrible?” Tyson’s voice is small as we approach the entrance.

“Then you’ll be terrible together with all the other kids who are just learning,” I tell him. “That’s the point.”

Inside, the rink buzzes with Saturday morning energy. Families cluster around benches, wrestling kids into gear. The ice looks impossibly large and slippery, intimidating even from behind the glass.

“Find a bench anywhere,” a volunteer calls out. “Coach will be with you in a few minutes!”

I claim a spot and help Tyson with his skates, trying to remember the YouTube video I watched about proper lacing. Blythe wiggles into hers with the confidence of someone who’s never met a physical challenge she couldn’t conquer through pure enthusiasm.

“Too tight,” Tyson mutters.

“Has to be snug,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure. “Otherwise you’ll wobble.”

Around us, other parents chat easily about previous seasons, their kids’ progress, upcoming competitions. The Rink Moms—I can spot them already—with their designer athletic wear and easy familiarity with this world. They belong here in a way I clearly don’t.

“Look!” Blythe points toward the ice where someone’s setting up cones. “That must be our coach!”

I glance up and my stomach drops straight to my shoes.

Dex Malone.

The hockey player from the coffee shop is gliding across the ice in full gear, arranging equipment for the lesson. My coffee shop acquaintance—the one who made me laugh despite myself—is about to become my children’s skating instructor.

“Oh no,” I breathe.

“What?” Tyson follows my gaze. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Before I can answer, Dex looks up from his cone arrangement and scans the benches. His eyes find mine across the rink, and I watch recognition dawn on his face. That same confident grin from the coffee shop spreads across his features.

He starts skating toward us.

“That’s Dex Malone!” a mom behind us stage-whispers. “The actual NHL player! I heard they assigned him to coach as community service, but I didn’t believe it!”

My cheeks burn. Community service. Of course. This is his punishment for whatever scandal landed him here, and my kids are part of his sentence.

“Ready for your first lesson?” Dex calls out as he approaches the boards, that practiced charm dialed up to eleven. His eyes lock on mine. “I have to say, this is a pleasant surprise.”

The other parents turn to look at me, curiosity written across their faces. Why is the NHL star talking to the frazzled mom in Target leggings?

“You know Coach Malone?” Another mom asks with poorly concealed envy.

“We, um—” My cheeks burn hotter. “We’ve met. Briefly.”

“Well then!” Dex’s grin widens. “This should be fun. What are your names, guys?”

“I’m Blythe!” My daughter launches into her introduction without hesitation. “This is my first time skating and I want to learn to spin and maybe jump and?—”

“Whoa there, speed racer,” Dex laughs. “Let’s start with standing up. And you?” He turns to Tyson with that same easy warmth.

“Tyson,” my son says quietly, suddenly shy.

“Great to meet you both.” Dex’s attention shifts back to me. “And… I don’t think I caught your name at the coffee shop.”

Every parent within earshot is now staring. Coffee shop. He’s making it sound like we had some kind of meet-cute instead of an accidental collision and a single conversation.

“Golda,” I manage, my voice coming out higher than intended. “Um, it’s Golda.”

“Nice to officially meet you, Golda.” The way he says my name makes my stomach flutter traitorously. “Looking forward to working with these two.”

“Right. Yes. They’re... they’re excited to learn.” I’m babbling now, acutely aware of every other parent listening. “About skating. Learning to skate.”

He studies me for a moment longer, clearly trying to figure out why his coffee shop charm isn’t working. Then he nods and pushes off from the boards.

“Alright, everyone!” he calls to the group of kids now assembled on the ice. “Welcome to Learn to Skate! I’m Coach Dex, and we’re going to have some fun today!”

As he launches into his introduction, I sink onto the bench, laptop balanced on my knees, and try to focus on anything other than the way he moves on the ice—confident, graceful, completely in his element.

The other parents are chattering about how lucky their kids are to have a “real” NHL player as their coach.

Lucky. Right.

I watch Tyson tentatively step onto the ice, using the boards for support. Blythe immediately attempts something that might generously be called movement, windmilling her arms for balance. And Dex...

Dex skates between them with easy patience, offering encouragement and gentle corrections. He doesn’t seem to mind when kids fall—which happens frequently—or when they ignore his instructions in favor of their own creative interpretations of skating.

“Looking good, Tyson!” he calls out when my son manages three wobbly strides without falling. “Remember what I said about bending your knees!”

The praise makes Tyson’s face light up in a way that twists something in my chest. When’s the last time a man showed interest in his progress without criticism attached?

“Mom!” Blythe waves from the ice, where she’s managed to remain upright for a whole ten seconds. “Did you see? I’m doing it!”

“I saw, baby!” I call back, pulling out my phone to snap a picture. “Very impressive!”

As I’m adjusting the camera angle, a shadow falls across my bench.

“Great kids,” Dex says. He’s somehow gotten off the ice without me noticing, now standing beside me with his helmet tucked under his arm. “Tyson’s got natural balance, and Blythe’s got more determination than half my teammates.”

“They’re trying their best,” I say carefully, not looking up from my phone.

“Listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “About the coffee shop—I hope this isn’t weird. I was just surprised to see you here.”

“No, it’s not—I mean, it is a little—” I fumble with my words, hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “I just didn’t expect... I mean, when they said there’d be a coach, I thought...”

“You thought you’d get some college kid, not the guy who spilled your coffee?”

Despite everything, that pulls a small smile from me. “Something like that.”

“For what it’s worth, you’re getting the same instruction everyone else gets. Maybe better, since I owe you for that whole collision thing.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say quickly. “Really. This is just... it’s their first lesson, and I want them to have a good experience.”

“They will,” he says, “I promise.”

Before he can respond, a crash from the ice draws our attention. Tyson’s down in a tangle of limbs, looking like he might cry.

“Excuse me,” I say, already moving toward the boards.

But Dex is faster, gliding across the ice to where Tyson sits rubbing his knee.

“You’re okay,” he says, offering a gloved hand. “Happens to everyone. Want to know a secret? I fell seventeen times in my first lesson.”

“Really?” Tyson’s voice is small but interested.

“Really. My dad said I looked like a baby giraffe.” Dex helps him to his feet. “But you know what? Baby giraffes eventually figure it out. Come on, let’s try again.”

I watch from the boards as he skates slowly beside Tyson, offering quiet encouragement that I can’t quite hear. My son’s shoulders relax, his stride becoming more confident.

This is exactly the kind of thing I was afraid of. Not the falling or the expense or even Evan’s inevitable disapproval.