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?
