Page 15 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

Chapter Ten

Mia

I wake up to the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears and the unfamiliar weight of a deliciously muscled arm draped across my waist.

But then my eyes open and…

Oh. Oh no.

The events of last night come flooding back in vivid, mortifying detail. The dinner with his parents. The snowstorm. The house. The tree.

And then... oh God, and then.

Ryder's arm tightens around me as he shifts in his sleep, pulling me closer against his chest. His skin is warm and solid against my back, and I can feel every ridge of muscle, every steady breath he takes.

I slept with him.

Not just slept with him. I had earth-shattering, mind-melting, wake-the-neighbors sex with Ryder Scott in his half-renovated house while snow fell outside and our oak tree stood witness through the bedroom window.

Shit . What does this mean? What does ANY of this mean?

My brain starts spiraling at warp speed, cycling through every possible interpretation of last night's events like I'm some kind of deranged relationship analyst.

Was it just sex? Really good, life-altering sex that made me see stars and possibly left permanent claw marks on his shoulders, but still just sex? Or was it something more?

Something that means we're... what? Back together? Dating?

And what about the fundraiser? The dinner with his parents? The house he told me he bought because of our tree? Is this all part of some elaborate seduction plan, or does he actually—

"Morning, beautiful."

Ryder's voice is rough with sleep, and I can feel his lips brush against my shoulder. The contact sends heat spiraling through my body, which is both inconvenient and deeply unfair considering my current mental state.

I shoot upright so fast that Ryder's arm falls away from my waist, and I immediately scramble out of bed, clutching the sheet to my chest like it's armor.

"Um, I think I need a shower," I blurt out, making the fateful mistake of actually looking at him. "Jesus Christ, Ryder! Put that thing away!"

He glances down at himself with zero shame, then back up at me with a grin that's pure male satisfaction. "Put what away?"

"You KNOW what!"

"I'm not doing anything. It's morning. This is what happens in the morning." His grin widens and he doesn't even try to hide his… morning wood. "Especially after a night like last night."

"Shower. Right now. Where's your bathroom?"

"What's the hurry? You weren't complaining about it a few hours ago."

My face goes nuclear. "SHOWER. NOW. BYE."

"Down the hall, first door on the left, but—"

I'm already fleeing, sheet trailing behind me like the world's most inappropriate wedding dress.

When I step inside, Ryder's bathroom is a study in masculine neglect.

The shower is decent enough—good water pressure, thankfully—but there's a soggy towel crumpled on the floor that looks like it's been there since the dawn of time. Seriously. It's probably growing its own ecosystem by now.

"Gross, Ryder. Just... gross."

I kick the offending towel into the corner and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering scent of his cologne and the image of what I just walked away from.

Okay. Deep breaths. You're a grown woman who made a decision last night. A very good decision, if we're being honest. An exceptionally good decision that involved multiple orgasms and that thing he did with his tongue that made you forget your own name.

But what does it mean going forward? That's the bit I keep getting stuck on.

I scrub my hair with his shampoo—which smells annoyingly good—and try to organize my thoughts into something resembling logic.

He said he loves me. He said he bought a house because of our tree. He's organizing a charity event for my shelter.

I'm sorry, but those aren't casual hookup behaviors.

Those are... relationship behaviors. Serious relationship behaviors.

But what if I'm reading too much into it? What if this is just guilt and nostalgia and really good chemistry? Then again, what if he gets bored again? What if the NHL comes calling with some amazing opportunity and he—

Stop. Just... stop.

I turn off the water and wrap myself in the least questionable towel I can find. In the foggy mirror, my reflection looks thoroughly wrecked. My hair is a disaster, my lips are swollen from kissing, and there's a distinctly satisfied glow about me that's probably visible from space.

Great. I actually do look like I just had the best sex of my life.

Through the bathroom door, I can hear sounds from the kitchen. The clatter of pans, the sizzle of something cooking, the rich aroma of coffee that makes my stomach growl traitorously.

Of course he's cooking. Because apparently Ryder Scott is determined to check every box on the 'Perfect Morning After' checklist.

I get dressed in yesterday's clothes, the emerald dress that seemed so appropriate for dinner with his parents and now feels completely ridiculous for a morning-after walk of shame, and steel myself to face whatever he's doing in the kitchen.

Low and behold, the kitchen is a sight to see.

Not because it's particularly fancy. It's clearly mid-renovation, with mismatched cabinet doors and a backsplash that's only half-finished. But because Ryder Scott is standing at the stove, shirtless, flipping what appears to be the most elaborate breakfast spread I've ever seen in a home kitchen.

He's got his back to me, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the play of muscles beneath tanned skin as he moves around the kitchen with surprising grace.

"Coffee's fresh," he says without turning around, like he has some kind of sixth sense about my presence. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffee maker."

"Oh. Thanks," I say, moving towards where he points.

I pour myself a cup of coffee that's strong enough to wake the dead and settle at the small kitchen table. From where I'm sitting, I have a perfect view out the back window to the oak tree, majestic even with snow piled around its base.

I still can't quite believe he bought this house. This whole property. Because of that tree. Because of us .

How many times did we walk that trail? Hundreds?

We'd cut through the field after school, our backpacks bumping against each other as we raced to our spot. The bark was rough against my back as we'd sit and talk about everything and nothing.

I remember one particular autumn afternoon, the leaves a kaleidoscope of amber and crimson around us.

How nervous he looked, how his eyes kept dropping to my lips before shifting away.

When he finally kissed me, the world tilted on its axis.

His hands cupped my face like I was something precious, something he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch.

I went home that night and lay awake until dawn, my fingers tracing my lips, certain that my life had fundamentally changed. And it had.

That tree witnessed the beginning of us. And now, somehow, it's witnessing... what? Our resurrection?

Ryder continues to work at the stove, humming to himself and I watch him plate what appears to be enough food to feed a small army. Fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon, hash browns, and pancakes stacked high enough to require a degree in structural engineering.

Oh yeah. This is athlete food. The kind of breakfast that requires a professional sports career to justify eating this much food and looking that good doing it.

"So… are you feeding me or preparing for the apocalypse?"

He laughs, setting a plate in front of me that could probably feed three normal humans. "I'm used to cooking for post-workout appetites. Sorry if it's too much."

"Too much?" I stare at the mountain of food.

"Just eat what you can. I'll finish the rest."

He settles across from me with his own equally ridiculous plate, and without ceremony, leans over to press a quick kiss to my lips.

Just like that. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like we've been sharing morning-after breakfasts for years instead of having our first one ever.

The casualness of it makes my chest tight. It's so easy, so comfortable, so absolutely terrifying in its simplicity.

"So," I say, cutting into my pancakes and popping a mouthful in. "This kitchen is huge. What are your plans for this place?"

Nice change of subject. The perfect distraction.

"Full renovation, obviously. The kitchen needs to be completely redone—those cabinets are older than we are. I want to open up this wall between the kitchen and living room, create more of an open concept flow. Make it more modern."

"And you're doing all this yourself?" I raise an eyebrow. "With your own two hands?"

"Yeah." He shrugs his shoulders like it would be no biggy. "Some of it, anyway. The stuff I can handle."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Ryder. Sweetie. I've seen you try to fix things. Remember the great air conditioning disaster of last week?"

His ears turn pink. "That was different."

"Was it? Because I distinctly remember smoke alarms and panicked animals and you looking like you'd been attacked by a particularly vindictive appliance."

"Okay, fine. I'll hire professionals for the electrical work. And the plumbing. And probably anything involving tools more complicated than a screwdriver."

"Smart man." I take a bite of bacon that's perfectly crispy and seasoned. "But seriously, with a bank account the size of yours, why not just hire contractors for everything?"

He grins and cuts through his bacon. "What do you know about how big my… bank account is?"

He finishes with a wink that makes my core clench.

"I'm just saying," I bite back, ignoring the innuendo and suggestive twinkle in his eye. "You could have this place finished in a month instead of... however long it's going to take you to fumble your way through DIY home improvement."