Page 8 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
DEX
G ame day starts with the suit.
Not just any suit—the charcoal bespoke that cost more than most people make in six months, tailored to perfection by a guy in downtown Seattle who charges a fortune to make hockey players look like fucking gods.
I adjust the tie in the mirror, checking the fit across my shoulders.
Perfect, obviously. The fabric moves with me like a second skin, expensive enough that women notice from across the room.
My phone buzzes as I’m grabbing my keys and I see a text from Rodriguez.
Bro you see the crowd forming outside the arena already? Ladies looking FINE today.
Always do when I’m playing. Try to keep up tonight, rookie.
Friday night games against Chicago always bring out the best crowds. The kind of energy that makes the whole building electric, the kind of night where I remind everyone why they put my face on billboards around the city.
The drive to the arena takes me through downtown Seattle, past that coffee shop where I bought the redhead her latte a few weeks ago.
Golda. Even her name sounds classy, like she belongs in some fancy art gallery instead of wrangling hockey gear in a public rink.
The way she got all flustered when she saw me, couldn’t form complete sentences—definitely interested.
They always are, even when they try to pretend they’re not.
She’s got kids, which normally would be a hard pass.
But there was something about watching her during that lesson, the way she looked in those leggings, the challenge of someone who doesn’t immediately fall over herself to impress me.
Plus, single mom probably means she’s not looking for anything serious. Perfect for what I have in mind.
The arena parking garage is already buzzing when I arrive. Media trucks, early fans hoping for autographs, the usual circus. I grab my gear bag, catching my reflection in the car window. Fucking magnificent, as always.
“Dex! Dex Malone!”
The shouts start before I’m halfway to the entrance. A group of women dressed like they’re hitting the clubs after the game, phones already recording. I stop, because disappointing fans is bad for business, and these particular fans look like they’d be very grateful for some attention.
“Ladies,” I say, flashing the million-dollar smile. “Looking gorgeous tonight. Here to watch me destroy Chicago?”
They practically vibrate with excitement as I move closer. One of them, a blonde in a modified Puckaneers jersey that barely qualifies as clothing, presses against my side like she’s trying to melt into me.
“This is the best night ever,” she breathes. “You’re even hotter in person.”
“Well, I am pretty spectacular,” I agree, letting her get her selfie. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Piper. I’m your biggest fan. I’ve been to every home game this season.”
“Dedication. I like that.” I wink at her phone camera. “Think you could handle being my good luck charm tonight?”
She looks like she might actually faint. “I would do anything for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
A brunette pushes forward. “Can you score a goal for me tonight?”
“Sweetheart, I’m planning on scoring three. Question is whether you’ll be around after to help me celebrate.”
They dissolve into giggles and I pose for more photos, letting them crowd around me. This is easy—give them just enough attention to make them feel special, just enough flirtation to keep them interested, just enough promise to ensure they’ll be back.
“Dex!” A dad with two kids interrupts the lovefest. “Could you sign these for my boys?”
I shift gears, kneeling down to the kids’ level. The family-friendly version of Dex Malone is just as calculated as the flirty one, but it plays better on social media.
“You guys play hockey?” I ask, signing their jerseys.
The older one nods enthusiastically. “I’m in bantam league. Coach says I have a good shot.”
“That’s awesome. Keep working on it.” I hand the jersey back. “Who’s your favorite player?”
“You,” he says immediately.
“Smart kid. You’ve got good taste.” I ruffle his hair. “Keep practicing, and maybe someday you’ll be half as good as me.”
The dad laughs, taking photos. “Thank you so much. This just made their whole year.”
“What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”
I continue toward the entrance, stopping for more photos, more autographs, more opportunities to remind everyone why I’m the face of this franchise.
Each interaction gets the full treatment—the charm that’s made me a marketing department’s wet dream, the personality that sells jerseys and fills seats.
By the time I reach the player entrance, I’ve probably made about fifty new fans and gotten at least a dozen phone numbers slipped into my jacket pocket. Not bad for ten minutes’ work.
The locker room is chaos two hours before puck drop, which is exactly how I like it. Guys getting dressed, talking shit, the familiar energy that turns a group of millionaire athletes into something resembling a team.
“Gentlemen!” I announce as I walk in, arms spread wide. “Your salvation has arrived. Try not to embarrass me out there tonight.”
“Fuck off, Malone,” Varga calls out, not looking up from his skates. “Some of us have been here for twenty minutes already.”
“Some of us don’t need twenty minutes to look this good,” I counter, hanging up my suit with the care it deserves. “Besides, I was doing my civic duty, making dreams come true for the fine women of Seattle.”
“You mean you were signing autographs for puck bunnies,” Johnson says dryly.
“Puck bunnies, desperate housewives, college girls with daddy issues—I don’t discriminate.” I start stripping down, already planning my equipment routine. “Equal opportunity fantasy fulfillment, that’s my motto.”
Rodriguez looks up from his pre-game TikTok preparation. “Bro, did you really tell that blonde she could be your good luck charm?”
“Among other things.” I grin, pulling on my compression shorts. “Why, you jealous? Worried I’m gonna steal your twelve-year-old followers?”
“My followers are legal, thank you very much.”
“Barely.” I start laying out my gear with military precision. “Speaking of barely legal, anyone seen the new intern in media relations? Brunette, about yea tall, looks like she’d be very impressed by a hat trick?”
“Jesus Christ, Malone,” Keller shakes his head. “You’re like a walking HR violation.”
“Someone’s got to maintain this team’s reputation. Can’t all be boring family men like Johnson over here.”
“Hey, my wife is—” Johnson starts.
“A saint for putting up with you, we know.” I cut him off. “Seriously though, how do you guys do it? Same woman, same conversation, same everything for years? Doesn’t that get mind-numbingly boring?”
“Some of us appreciate consistency,” Varga says.
“Some of us have functioning relationships,” Keller adds.
“Some of us aren’t terrified of commitment,” Johnson finishes.
I laugh, pulling on my shoulder pads. “Commitment’s for people who can’t do better. Why would I settle for one when I can have my pick of dozens? You seen my DMs lately? It’s like a buffet of beautiful women, all dying to prove they’re worth my time.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Johnson asks with the tone of someone who’s had this conversation before. “All those beautiful women making you happy?”
“Happiness is overrated.” I adjust my chest protector. “I prefer satisfaction. And I get plenty of that.”
“From Instagram models who don’t know your middle name?”
“From women who know exactly what they’re getting.” I pull on my jersey, smoothing it down. “No expectations, no drama, no pretending to care about their feelings or their problems or their kids?—”
I stop, thinking suddenly about last week.
About Tyson’s shy smile when he finally nailed that backward crossover.
About Blythe explaining her elaborate theories about proper skating technique.
About their mom, Golda, watching from the stands with that mix of pride and worry that seemed to define everything she did.
“Earth to Malone,” Keller snaps his fingers. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere. Just thinking about tonight’s game.” I grab my gloves, pushing away thoughts of copper hair and nervous laughs. “Chicago’s defense is soft. I’m planning on making them look like JV out there.”
“You gonna back that up, or just talk about it?” Rodriguez grins.
“Kid, I’ve been backing up my mouth since before you hit puberty.” I stand, fully dressed and ready to destroy. “Question is whether you can keep up when I start feeding you passes. Try not to fan on any easy ones tonight.”
“I never fan?—”
“Tell that to the shot you whiffed in practice Tuesday.” I’m already moving toward the door. “Come on, ladies. Time to show Chicago why they should’ve stayed home.”
The tunnel to the ice is my favorite part of the arena. Dark, quiet, the calm before the storm. I can hear the crowd already, twenty thousand people who paid good money to watch me work. The energy builds with each step, anticipation crackling like electricity.
We burst onto the ice and the crowd erupts, cameras flash, music pounds through the speakers. This is what I live for—the moment when everything else disappears except the game and the knowledge that I’m the best player on the ice.
I take a lap during warmups, stick-handling through cones, letting the familiar routine settle my mind. The crowd noise follows me around the rink, cheers getting louder when I glide past certain sections. I spot the blonde from earlier, front row behind the glass, holding up a sign with my number.
I skate over and tap the glass in front of her, giving her a wink that makes her scream loud enough to hear over the arena noise. Her friends are recording everything, probably already posting to their socials with captions about how I noticed them.
This is my world. My kingdom. And tonight, Chicago’s about to learn why I’m the king of it.