Then I find the video.
It’s from a local morning show from months ago. The host, a perfectly styled blonde who’s definitely part of Dex’s usual demographic, is interviewing him about the team’s playoff hopes. But she’s also clearly flirting, leaning forward just enough to show her cleavage, laughing too loudly at his jokes.
“So Dex,” she purrs, “our viewers want to know—what kind of woman catches the eye of Seattle’s most eligible bachelor?”
He grins that practiced media smile. “Someone who can keep up with my schedule. Someone who understands the lifestyle.”
The lifestyle. Like dating him requires a specific skill set that I definitely don’t possess.
I’m about to close the video when the interview cuts to game footage—highlights from their recent win against Vancouver. And suddenly, everything changes.
In uniform, Dex is a completely different person. Gone is the polished media personality, replaced by something raw and focused and devastatingly competent. He’s moving across the ice like he was born there, stick handling the puck with movements so fluid they look choreographed.
The camera follows him as he sets up behind the net, and I find myself leaning closer to the screen. The way his body moves—all controlled power and athletic grace—is mesmerizing. His thighs flex as he pivots, muscles visible even through the hockey pants, and when he whips around to make a pass, the motion is so smooth and precise it’s almost artistic.
“Jesus,” I breathe, then immediately feel guilty for the reaction.
The footage switches to slow motion as he takes a shot—the wind-up, the follow-through, the way every muscle in his body coordinates for maximum power. His face is intense, focused, completely absorbed in what he’s doing. This isn’t the cocky playboy from the yacht photos. This is an athlete at the top of his game, and it’s...
It’s really attractive.
Uncomfortably attractive.
I slam the laptop shut, heart racing for reasons I don’t want to examine. What is wrong with me? Five minutes ago I was disgusted by his lifestyle, by the parade of Instagram models and comments. Now I’m getting flustered watching him play hockey like some kind of sports-obsessed teenager.
But I can’t stop thinking about the way he moved. The precision. The control. All that athletic ability wrapped up in a body that—despite everything I know about his character—is undeniably impressive.
I open the laptop again, telling myself I’m just being thorough in my research.
This time I search for “Dex Malone highlights” and immediately regret it.
The first video is a compilation set to aggressive music, titled “Dex Malone - Pure Skill.” It’s five minutes of him dominating on ice—scoring goals, making impossible passes, checking opponents into the boards with the kind of controlled violence that should appall me but somehow doesn’t.
There’s a shot where he’s coming out of the penalty box, jaw clenched, hair damp with sweat, and he looks like something out of a very specific type of fantasy. The kind I definitely shouldn’t be having about my son’s hockey coach.
“Focus, Golda,” I mutter to myself, but my eyes are glued to the screen.
The next clip shows him in practice gear—just a simple drill video posted by the team’s social media. He’s working on stick handling, moving the puck through a series of cones. His movements are economical, efficient, no wasted motion. Every touch is deliberate.
I find myself wondering what those hands would feel like. How that precision and control might translate to... other activities.
The thought hits me like a slap, and I actually say “No” out loud to my empty bedroom.
This is exactly the kind of thinking that leads to becoming one of those women in his Instagram comments. The ones making embarrassing propositions to a man who sees them as interchangeable entertainment.
But then the video cuts to him helping one of the youth players—a kid maybe Tyson’s age who’s struggling with backwards skating. Dex drops to one knee on the ice, demonstrating the foot positioning with infinite patience, hisvoice gentle and encouraging even though I can’t make out the words.
It’s the same patience I’ve seen him show Tyson. The same focus, but directed at teaching instead of scoring goals. And watching him with that kid, seeing the genuine care in his expression...
That’s even more attractive than the athletic prowess.
Which is a problem. A big, complicated problem that I definitely don’t need in my life.
I close the laptop again, but the damage is done. The image of him on the ice—focused, powerful, completely in his element—is burned into my brain. Along with the memory of how he looked at Tyson during that first lesson, the genuine interest when he listened to my kids’ elaborate theories about hockey.
The man in those videos isn’t the same as the one posing with models on yachts. Or maybe they’re both real, and that’s what makes this so dangerous.
I know I should delete my browser history and forget about all of this. Go back to being the practical single mom who has zero interest in complicated men with public dating lives.
