Page 13 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

"Tom," he corrects, just like his wife. "Come here, kiddo."

His hug is gentle, and for a moment I'm a teenager again, standing in this same driveway after prom, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

"Come on," Carol says, linking her arm through mine. "Dinner's almost ready, and I want to hear everything. Tom, help Ryder with... whatever it is men help with."

"The groceries in the truck," Ryder calls after us, but Carol's already whisking me into the house.

The kitchen smells like heaven. Pot roast and roasted vegetables and fresh bread that makes my mouth water. The dining room table is set with Carol's good china, the kind she only used for special occasions when I was younger.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," I protest as she pours me a glass of wine.

"Nonsense. Having you here is worth celebrating." She pauses in her bustling to look at me seriously. "I've missed you, Mia. More than you know."

My throat gets tight. "I've missed you too."

"Good. Then we're all caught up on that front." She hands me the wine with a smile. "Now, tell me about this shelter of yours. Tom and I drive by it sometimes, and we're so proud of what you've built."

I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face, and an hour later, I'm stuffed full of the best pot roast I've ever eaten and feeling more relaxed than I have in weeks.

Tom's been regaling us with stories from his old hardware store, each one more ridiculous than the last. Carol keeps refilling my plate despite my protests.

And Ryder...

Ryder's been the perfect dinner companion. Charming without being overwhelming, funny without being the center of attention. His hand found my thigh halfway through the main course, a warm weight that sends little sparks up my spine every time he shifts.

"So, Mia… This fundraiser night on Saturday," Tom says, leaning back in his chair with the look of a man who's eaten too much. "Ryder tells us it's going to be quite the event."

"It is," I agree, still not entirely believing it's real. "Your son has gone a little overboard."

"That's my boy," Carol says proudly. "Always did have a flair for the dramatic."

"Hey," Ryder protests. "It's not dramatic. It's thorough ."

Tom chuckles. "I have to say, Carol and I are pretty excited about it. We haven't been to a hockey game in years."

"I even convinced your mother to loosen those purse strings a little," Tom adds with a wink at his wife. "We're sponsoring one of the vendor tables."

Carol swats at him with her napkin. "Don't make it sound like I'm cheap, Thomas Scott."

"Never, my dear."

Tom winks at me and I laugh at their banter, feeling that familiar warmth that comes from being around people who genuinely love each other.

This is what I missed. Not just Ryder, but this. The feeling of being part of a family that actually works.

"Well," Carol says, standing to start clearing plates. "I think this calls for dessert. I made that chocolate cake you used to love, Mia."

"You remember my favorite cake?"

"Honey, I remember everything about you." Her smile is soft and knowing. "Some things in life are too important to forget."

As she bustles into the kitchen, Tom stands and stretches.

"And I think I'll check on the weather. Snow's been coming down pretty steady for the past hour."

Through the dining room window, I can see fat flakes swirling in the porch light. What started as a light dusting when we arrived has turned into something more serious.

"We should probably head out soon," I say to Ryder. "I don't want to get stuck."

"We'll be fine." His thumb rubs my thigh, sending heat spiraling through my core. "My truck handles snow like a champ."

Famous last words? I hope not.

Thirty minutes later, we're saying goodbye on the porch, loaded down with leftovers and promises to visit again soon. The snow is coming down harder now, snowflakes that stick to everything and make the world look like a snow globe.

"Drive careful," Carol calls from the doorway. "And Mia? Don't be a stranger."

"I won't," I promise, meaning it.

Ryder helps me into the passenger seat of his truck, and I immediately turn up the heat. "Okay, maybe you were right about the snow."

"It's not that bad," he says, but I notice he's gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual as we pull out of the driveway.

The roads are slick, and visibility is getting worse by the minute. What should be a fifteen-minute drive back to my place stretches into twenty, then twenty-five.

Ryder's focused on the road, both hands on the wheel, jaw tight with concentration.

"You sure you're okay?" I ask as he takes a particularly sharp turn.

"Fine. Just being careful."

But instead of heading toward my neighborhood downtown, he's driving up into the hills above town. The road gets narrower, winding between tall pines heavy with snow.

"Ryder? Where are we going? This isn't the way to my house."

"I know." He pulls into a driveway I can barely see through the snow and puts the truck in park. " Phew. We're here."

I peer through the windshield at what looks like an old farmhouse, dark and slightly rundown. The porch sags a little on one side, and there are shutters missing from some of the windows.

"And where exactly is ' here '?" I ask as Ryder comes around to open my door.

"Come on, I'll show you."

He takes my hand and helps me down from the truck, then starts walking up a snow-covered path toward the house. The front porch light flickers on as we approach, throwing a yellow glow across the weathered wood.

"Ryder, seriously. What are we doing here? Whose house is this?"

He stops at the front door and turns to look at me, his expression serious in the porch light. Snow catches in his hair and on his eyelashes, making him look younger somehow. More like the boy I fell in love with all those years ago.

"This is my home," he says simply.

I stare at him, then at the house, then back at him. "Your home? But you said you bought a cabin. You said it needed work, but this is..."

"A disaster?" He grins, that boyish smile that makes my heart skip. "Yeah, I know. But it's my disaster."

"I don't understand. You are literally a millionaire hockey player. You could own any house in Iron Ridge."

"Just… shhhh." He presses a finger to my lips. "Come inside. Let me show you."

He unlocks the front door and steps back to let me go first.

The interior is dark, but he flips a switch and an old chandelier flickers to life overhead, the light wavering with the storm outside.

"This is..." I trail off, looking around at what's clearly a work in progress. The walls are freshly painted, the hardwood floors have been refinished, and there's drop cloths covering furniture in what I assume is the living room.

"Home," Ryder finishes quietly. "Or it will be, eventually."

I turn to stare at him, something clicking into place in my brain. "The cabin you said you bought. The one that needed work. This is it, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"But this isn't a cabin, Ryder. This is..." I gesture around us, taking in the high ceilings and the wide staircase leading to the second floor. "This is a real house. A family house."

"I know."

"So why did you buy it? Why this place?"

Instead of answering, he takes my shoulders and guides me down the hallway, his chest warm against my back. His hands are gentle but sure as he positions me in front of a large window at the far end.

"Look," he murmurs against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine.

Through the glass, past the snow-covered yard and up a winding trail barely visible in the storm, stands a massive oak tree. Even with snow piled so high around its base that our old initials are probably buried, I'd recognize that tree anywhere.

"Our tree," I breathe, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Our tree," he confirms quietly. "I bought this house because every morning I can wake up and see the place where we carved our names. Where we had our first kiss. Where I promised you forever."

My throat closes up completely. "Ryder..."

"I came home for you, Mia. I've always been coming home for you."

I turn in his arms, and this time I don't hesitate.

I rise up on my toes and kiss him with eight years of longing, eight years of what-ifs, eight years of a love I never quite managed to bury.