“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.
Nowthat’sinteresting.
“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?”
