Page 17 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

Chapter Eleven

Ryder

T he automatic doors of Icehawk Arena slide open, and I'm hit with that familiar blast of fresh ice. But today, instead of the usual pre-practice nerves, I'm practically floating through the main entrance.

Because last night actually happened.

My skin still carries the faint remnants of Mia's scent, and every muscle in my body feels loose in that satisfied way that only comes after... well, after the kind of night that's going to replay in my head for the rest of my damn life.

The way she looked underneath me, eyes wide and trusting, her sexy fucking body feeling perfect against mine. The soft sounds she made when I kissed that spot just below her ear. Her skin was like silk under my fingertips, and that intoxicating smell of vanilla made my head spin.

God, she was perfect.

"Yo, rookie! You planning to stand in the lobby all day, or are we doing this thing?"

Blake's voice cuts through my very inappropriate mental replay, and I realize I've been standing frozen in the middle of the arena entrance like some kind of lovesick statue.

"Yeah, sorry. Just tired." I fall into step beside him as we head toward the locker room.

"Tired?" Blake raises an eyebrow, giving me a once-over that's way too perceptive for my comfort. "You look like someone who just won the lottery and solved world hunger in the same day."

Close enough.

"I slept well," I say, which is technically true. Once we actually got around to sleeping, anyway.

Blake snorts. "Right. And I'm the Pope."

The locker room is already buzzing when we push through the doors. Connor's lacing up his skates, Jackson's methodically taping his stick, and about half the team is scattered around in various stages of getting geared up.

The familiar sounds of pre-practice chaos wash over me. Skate blades scraping against concrete, the metallic clang of locker doors, guys trash-talking each other with the kind of affection that only comes from shared suffering on the ice.

"Anyone know why we're here?" Jackson calls out from across the room, pulling his jersey over his head. "I thought Coach said we had the day off until game day."

"Probably wants to run systems again," Connor suggests, not looking up from his skates. "Montreal's power play has been lighting teams up lately."

I settle at my locker, muscle memory taking over as I strip off my street clothes and reach for my gear. First the compression shorts and base layer, then the protective cup that's saved my future children more times than I care to count.

Speaking of future children...

The thought hits me out of nowhere, an image of tiny hands and hazel eyes and maybe a little girl with Mia's stubborn chin who'd rather rescue injured birds than play with dolls.

Whoa, Scott. Slow your roll there.

But even as I try to push the thought away, it sticks around like a song you can't get out of your head. There's something about last night, about the way Mia looked in my kitchen this morning, that makes the impossible feel suddenly possible.

Like the exact reason that I bought that house is starting to come to life. Even if I haven't got the renovations ready like I had hoped.

"Ryder!"

Blake's voice snaps me back to reality, and I realize I've been holding the same shin pad for the last two minutes without actually putting it on.

"What?"

"I asked if you heard from Sophia about the charity thing." He's studying my face with the intensity of someone reading last weeks game film. "The fundraiser for Saturday? The one you've been obsessing over for the past week?"

"Yeah, she texted this morning. Everything's on track." I strap on the shin pads and reach for my hockey pants. "Vendor tables are sold out, Lucy's got social media going crazy, and apparently half the town is planning to show up."

"Good." Blake nods approvingly. "Should be a hell of a turnout. Your girl's going to be impressed."

My girl.

The words send a warm flush through my chest, even though technically I have no idea if Mia's my anything after this morning's conversation. Or lack thereof.

But God, I want her to be.

"She's not my girl," I say automatically, but even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds.

Connor barks out a laugh from across the room. "Bullshit. You've got that 'I just got laid' glow written all over your face, rookie."

Heat crawls up my neck as half the locker room turns to stare at me with varying degrees of amusement and curiosity.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter, focusing intently on lacing my skates.

"Please." Jackson speaks up from his corner, not even bothering to look up from his stick tape. "You look like someone just told you Christmas came early and brought you everything on your wish list."

"Maybe he finally grew a pair and made a move," Connor suggests with a grin.

"About damn time," someone else calls out, and suddenly the whole room is weighing in on my love life like it's some kind of team-building exercise.

"Alright, alright," Blake holds up his hands, but he's grinning too. Asshole. "Leave the man alone. Even in the locker room, some things are sacred. At least for a few days."

He winks at me and I shoot him a grateful look, but my phone buzzes in my gear bag before I can thank him properly Coach Brody's voice booms through the locker room like a foghorn.

"Alright, ladies! Let's move!" Coach bangs a fist on the door. "Ice time starts now, not whenever you decide to grace us with your presence!"

We file out of the locker room in a wild stampede, skates clicking against the rubber mat that leads to the ice.

The arena is empty except for a few maintenance guys and what looks like Sophia and Lucy huddled together in the stands with clipboards and what appears to be an industrial-sized box of promotional materials.

The ice gleams under the bright arena lights, perfectly unmarked for now, waiting for us to tear it up with drills and scrimmages.

"Warm-up laps!" Coach hollers from behind the bench. "Two times around, then we're running systems!"

I push off, settling into the routine of warming up. Long, easy strides that gradually build speed and get the blood flowing. Around me, the rest of the team spreads out across the ice, everyone finding their groove.

This is my happy place. Has been since I was six years old and Mom first strapped skates on my feet. The feeling of controlled speed, the way the cold air burns in your lungs, the sound of blades carving through ice.

But today, even hockey can't completely clear my head.

Every time I round the far end of the rink, my eyes drift up to the arena concourse where I can see Emma hanging a massive " Tails & Paws Fundraiser Night " banner across the café entrance. She catches sight of me and gives an enthusiastic thumbs up that nearly makes her fall off the stepladder.

"RYDER SCOTT!"

Coach's voice cuts across the ice like a whip crack, and I realize I've drifted way too close to the boards while lost in thought about hazel eyes and morning-after kisses.

Shit.

I course-correct and pick up speed, but the damage is done. Coach Brody has that look. The one that means I'm about to get my ass handed to me in front of twenty guys who will absolutely never let me live it down.

Sure enough, when warm-ups end and we gather around the bench for instructions, Coach Brody jerks his head toward the tunnel entrance.

"Rookie. A word."

Double shit.

I skate over, acutely aware that every set of eyes in the arena is following my movement. The guys are trying to look busy with their water bottles and stick adjustments, but I can feel their curiosity, and amusement, radiating across the ice.

Hunter Brody is a intimidating presence on his best day. Six-foot-three of former enforcer with darkened gray eyes that have seen everything the game can throw at him.

Today, in the shadowy entrance to the tunnel, he looks like he could bench press a truck just to prove a point.

"Want to tell me where your head's at today?" he asks, straightening his spine and glaring right into my fucking soul.

"My head's right here, Coach. Ready to work."

"Is it?" He crosses his arms over his chest, his Iron Ridge windbreaker jacket stretching across shoulders that are still impressively broad for a man in his forties. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who's got his priorities confused."

My jaw tightens. "My priorities are fine."

"Are they?" He steps closer, and I'm reminded that even on skates, the man is intimidating as hell. "Because I've been hearing things, Scott. Hearing about one too many late nights. And animal shelters. And charity events that have nothing to do with hockey."

"Coach, with all due respect, what I do in my free time—"

"Affects this team," he cuts me off with a sharp glare. "Affects your performance. Affects whether we win or lose on Saturday night."

"My performance has been fine."

"Has it?" He pulls out his phone and scrolls through what looks like practice footage.

"Tuesday's scrimmage, you missed three passes that should have been automatic.

Wednesday's power play drill, you were half a second late on every play.

And today..." He gestures toward the ice where I just spent ten minutes daydreaming.

"Today you nearly took out the boards because you were too busy staring at the concourse to watch where you were going. "

Each example makes my cheeks get hotter, mostly because he's right. I have been distracted. Have been thinking about Mia when I should be thinking about hockey.

"Look, kid." Coach's voice softens, but there's still steel laced underneath. "I get it. You're young, you're back in your hometown, there's history with some girl. But here's the thing about history, kid. It has a way of repeating itself if you're not careful."

"This is different."