Page 9 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

First period, I’m flying. Everything clicks—my edges are sharp, my passes find their targets, the puck sticks to my blade like it’s magnetized.

Twelve minutes in, I strip the puck from their defenseman at center ice and go coast to coast, beating their goalie five-hole with a shot that’s pure poetry in motion.

The crowd loses its mind. I celebrate like I just won the Stanley Cup, arms raised, gliding past the Chicago bench to make sure they all get a good look at the guy who just made them look like amateurs.

“Nice goal, pretty boy,” their captain chirps as play resumes.

“That’s just the warm-up,” I chirp back. “Wait till I really get going.”

Second period, I feed Rodriguez for a tap-in that he somehow makes look difficult, then score another myself on a power play that’s so pretty the arena video crew will definitely be using it in highlight reels for the next five years.

By the third period, Chicago’s getting desperate. They’re down 4-1, taking stupid penalties, trying to goad me into dropping gloves with their enforcer.

“Come on, Malone,” he says, skating up beside me during a stoppage. “Let’s dance.”

“Sorry, big guy. I don’t fight guys who can’t keep up.” I tap my stick on the ice, grinning. “Besides, I’m too pretty for that shit. Can’t risk messing up this face—the ladies would never forgive me.”

He takes a swing anyway, which I avoid easily, then watch as he gets a misconduct for the attempt. The crowd boos him off the ice while I wave goodbye.

Final horn sounds: 6-2 Seattle. Two goals, three assists. First star of the game, obviously.

“Dex! Over here!” The media scrum descends before I even make it off the ice. “Talk us through that second goal?—”

I give them what they want. The confidence bordering on arrogance, the sound bites that’ll play on SportsCenter, the personality that makes me a marketing department’s dream.

“Tonight was just another day at the office,” I say, helmet tucked under my arm, hair somehow still perfect despite three periods of battle. “Chicago came to play, but unfortunately for them, I came to dominate.”

“That goal in the second period—some are calling it goal of the year.”

“Some are right.” I flash the million-dollar smile. “I’ve been working on that move all season. Figured Chicago was the perfect team to debut it against.”

“Any truth to the rumors about your contract negotiations?”

“I’m focused on playing the best hockey of my career,” I say smoothly. “The rest will take care of itself. This city deserves a champion, and I plan on giving them one.”

“Single women in Seattle want to know—any special lady in your life?”

I wink at the camera. “I’m currently accepting applications. Standards are high, but the position comes with excellent benefits.”

They eat it up, laughing at my jokes, hanging on every word. This is what I do—make them love me, make them need me, make them understand that Dex Malone isn’t just a hockey player, he’s an experience.

The interviews wrap up and I head back to the locker room, adrenaline still pumping through my system. The guys are celebrating, music playing, the loose energy that comes after a dominant win.

“Fucking show-off,” Varga says as I walk in, but he’s grinning.

“Someone’s got to make it look easy,” I reply, starting to strip out of my gear. “Can’t all be defensive specialists who get excited about blocked shots.”

“My blocked shots keep your pretty-boy ass from getting scored on.”

“And my goals keep your defensive lapses from mattering.” I hang up my jersey carefully. “It’s a beautiful partnership.”

My phone’s already blowing up with notifications—fans tagging me on social media, reporters wanting quotes, women sliding into my DMs with congratulations that come with very specific suggestions about how we could celebrate.

This is what success looks like. What being the best looks like. Twenty thousand people chanting my name, highlight reels that’ll play for years, and enough attention to make any man feel like a god.

So why am I thinking about a woman who got nervous just talking to me? Who treated me like any other guy instead of Seattle’s golden boy?

Maybe because she’s the only challenge left in a city full of sure things.

Monday morning team meeting feels like a punishment for Friday night’s perfection. I roll into the conference room fifteen minutes late because punctuality is for people who aren’t leading the league in scoring, sliding into my usual seat while Coach Barrett gives me his trademark death glare.

“Nice of you to join us, Malone.”

“Traffic was murder,” I lie smoothly, pulling out my phone to check the weekend’s damage. My Instagram post from Saturday night—shirtless gym selfie with the caption “Recovery day vibes”—has 847K likes and about 12,000 thirsty comments. Not bad for 36 hours.

“Put the phone away,” Barrett snaps. “Kyla’s presenting the new marketing campaign.”

I glance up at the projector where our marketing director is clicking through slides about demographic reach and brand awareness. Boring corporate shit that pays for my lifestyle but doesn’t require my brain.

“We’ve collected samples from several voice-over artists for the new commercial spots,” Kyla says, pulling up a new screen. “The first option is?—”

A voice fills the room, smooth and professional, wrapping around words like they matter.

“Seattle Hockey. Where legends are made, and dreams come true. Join us this season...”

I sit up straighter, my phone forgotten. That voice—I know that voice. Not just from commercials or random ads, but from somewhere specific. Recent.

“That’s Golda Adler,” Kyla says, checking her notes. “She’s done work for several major brands, very reasonable rates, excellent reviews?—”

Golda.

Holy shit.

Golda fucking Adler.

That’s her voice.

The woman who does voice work for commercials, who mentioned recording studios during our coffee conversation.

She wasn’t just being modest—she’s actually good at this.

Really good. The kind of voice that could sell ice to Eskimos or convince people to spend their mortgage payment on season tickets.

And she got nervous talking to me. Me. The woman who sounds like she could seduce half of Seattle through a microphone turned into a stuttering mess because I bought her coffee and taught some of her kids’ skating lesson.

Now that’s interesting.

“Moving on,” Kyla continues, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m thinking about that first Saturday, about how she couldn’t meet my eyes when she said her name, how her cheeks turned pink when the other moms started watching our conversation.

She knows exactly who I am. Probably Googled me after our coffee encounter, saw the photos, the headlines, the whole Dex Malone experience laid out in digital glory. And instead of being impressed, she got nervous. Defensive. Like she was afraid of what I might want from her.

Smart woman. She should be afraid.

Because now I know something she didn’t tell me. Now I have a way in that she doesn’t expect. The nervous single mom act might work on other guys, but I’ve heard her real voice now. I know what she sounds like when she’s not pretending to be flustered.

The meeting drones on for another twenty minutes—budget discussions, schedule confirmations, the usual corporate bullshit that comes with being a professional athlete. But I’m barely listening, too busy planning my next move.

“Malone,” Barrett calls as people start filing out. “Stay behind. We need to discuss your youth program commitment.”

Great. More community service lectures.

“How’s it going?” he asks once we’re alone. “The learn-to-skate program. Juliette says you’ve been showing up early, staying late. Very dedicated for someone who’s supposed to be serving a sentence.”

“Kids are alright,” I say with a shrug. “Some of them actually have potential.”

“Uh-huh. Like the ones belonging to a certain single mom who’s been catching your attention?”

I keep my expression neutral. Barrett’s been coaching long enough to read players like open books, and the last thing I need is him thinking I’m using community service as a hunting ground.

“Don’t know what you mean, Coach.”

“Right. Well, whatever your motivation, it’s working. PR loves the family-friendly angle, parents are happy, kids are learning. Just...” He pauses, studying my face. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“When have I ever fucked anything up?”

“You want the chronological timeline or the highlights reel?”

Fair point.

“I’m a professional, Coach. I know how to handle myself around families.”

“Do you? Because your track record with women suggests you know how to handle yourself around Instagram models and club promoters. Suburban moms are a different species entirely.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?” Barrett leans forward. “Because these aren’t women looking for a good time and a story to tell their friends. These are mothers trying to give their kids normal childhoods. They don’t need some hockey player treating them like conquests.”

The lecture is starting to piss me off. Like I don’t know the difference between a club bunny and a hockey mom. Like I can’t turn on the charm without crossing lines.

“Message received,” I say, standing. “Anything else?”

“Just remember—those kids look up to you. Their parents trust you. Don’t give me a reason to regret extending your community service.”

I head for the door, already irritated by the implication that I can’t handle a simple coaching gig without causing drama.

So what if I’m interested in one of the moms?

I’m not some predator stalking suburban soccer fields.

I’m a professional athlete with options, and if Golda Adler happens to be one of those options, that’s between me and her.

Besides, she’s obviously interested. Women don’t get that flustered around men they’re not attracted to. The nervous energy, the stammering, the way she couldn’t quite meet my eyes—classic signs of attraction mixed with intimidation.