We walk to the parking garage in comfortable silence, the umbrella creating a small bubble of dryness between us. At my car, I turn to thank him and find him closer than I expected, close enough to see the genuine warmth in his eyes.
“Golda,” he says, and my name sounds different in his voice than it did weeks ago. “I know I’ve asked before, but... would you like to have coffee sometime? Just the two of us?”
The question hangs between us. He’s not asking as the charming hockey player working his way through a challenge. He’s asking as someone who’s actually interested in getting to know me.
“Coffee,” I repeat, testing the word.
“Coffee. Or tea. Or hot chocolate. Whatever you drink when you’re not at hockey rinks or recording studios.”
I think about his world—the yacht photos, the magazine covers, the comments from women who see him as a fantasy. But I also think about the way he talked about Tyson today, the genuine respect in his voice, the fact that he remembered our son wanted to master backward crossovers.
“Okay,” I say, and the word surprises us both.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Coffee sounds nice.”
His smile could power the entire city. “When?”
“I’ll text you,” I say, then realize he doesn’t have my number.
“Here.” He hands me his phone, already open to a new contact screen.
I enter my information, thumb hovering over the keyboard as I decide what to put for my name. Finally, I just type “Golda” and hand it back.
He stares at the screen for a moment, then looks up with an expression I can’t quite read. “You know,” he says, voice dropping to something more intimate, “sometimes the simplest moments hold the most promise.”
I blink at him, then let out a surprised laugh. “What?”
His face goes red instantly. “Never mind. That was—that was dumb. I’ll text you.”
He practically shoves the phone back at me and steps away, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to erase whatever just happened.
“Drive safe,” he says, voice back to normal but his cheeks still flushed.
I get in my car, still smiling at his embarrassment, but as I pull out of the parking garage, his words echo in my head.Sometimes the simplest moments hold the most promise. That sounded exactly like a line from a romance novel—the kind of perfectly crafted dialogue that real people don’t actually say.
But why would Dex Malone be quoting romance novels?
8
DEX
The notification soundon my phone might as well be a siren. I’ve checked it approximately seventy-three times since practice ended two hours ago, and every buzz that isn’t Golda’s response makes me want to throw the damn thing across my condo.
This is insane. I don’t wait for women to text me back. I’ve got three different models who’ve been trying to get my attention this week alone, and here I am obsessing over whether a hockey mom is going to agree to coffee.
A hockey mom with kids and an ex-husband and probably a minivan.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The text I sent twenty minutes ago sits there, delivered but unread.
Hey, it’s Dex. Ready for that coffee we talked about? I know a place.
I’ve rewritten it fourteen times, which is about thirteen times more effort than I’ve put into any text message in my life. Usually it’s justmy place, 9 PMand that does the trick.
My phone buzzes. I lunge for it so fast I nearly knock over the protein shake I forgot I was drinking.
