Page 2 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

I should be used to it by now. It's been this way since I got back to Iron Ridge. Mia trying to hide behind that wall she's built, pretending she doesn't feel anything when she sees me.

But I caught it at the Icehawks Community Outreach program when we were paired up by Big Mike, forced to work together as a team, like science glass in the tenth grade all over again.

That flash in her eyes when I walked in with the team. The way her lips twitched when I face-planted at the pet parade while juggling ten different leashes, looking less like a volunteer hockey star and more like a human kite being dragged by a canine mafia.

I managed to make her laugh, really laugh… twice .

Yes. I counted.

Because that's the thing about Mia Harper: she might act like I'm just another guy who passed through her life, but her eyes can't lie. They never could.

"I, uh." I hold up the container of muffins. "Mom made these. For you. The muffins, I mean. She made muffins. For you."

Cool. Coolcoolcool. Real smooth, Casanova.

Maybe next time I’ll just throw the muffins at her and sprint back to my truck.

"Muffins." Mia raises an eyebrow. "How thoughtful of her."

She stands, brushing dog hair off her knees, and I catch a whiff of her shampoo. Something citrusy and clean that brings back a rush of memories so strong I almost stagger.

Those late-night 'study' sessions at home. Her head on my shoulder during movies. The way she smelled like sunshine and possibility.

"She said they're your favorite," I manage, setting the container on the nearest surface—a wobbly folding table covered in what looks like a shitload of uncompleted adoption paperwork.

"Lemon blueberry." There's something softer in her voice now, almost wistful. "She always make these. She knows they're my favorite."

"She remembers everything about you."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and Mia's eyes snap to mine. For a second, the walls come down and I see her. The girl who used to laugh at my terrible jokes and steal my hoodies.

But then… the shutters slam back into place.

Dammit.

"That's so sweet of her." She turns back to the kennel, effectively dismissing me. "Tell her I said thanks."

I should leave. Take the hint. Walk away before I make this worse than it already is.

Instead, I take a step closer.

"How's he doing?" I nod toward the pit bull, who's watching our exchange with intelligent brown eyes.

"Poor guy is so scared and confused. Someone dumped him behind the grocery store with a note saying they couldn't afford him anymore." Her voice is steady, professional, but I hear the underlying anger. Mia's always been a fierce protector of the defenseless.

"That's fucked up."

"Yeah, well. People suck sometimes." She glances at me sideways, and I wonder if she's talking about more than just the dog.

"He's lucky he found you," I say quietly.

"We'll see. He might not be ready to trust again."

Yeah. Okay. She's definitely not talking about the dog.

"Sometimes the damage is too deep to fix," Mia finishes with a heavy sigh.

I want to argue, to tell her that's not true, that anything can be fixed with enough time and effort and love. But what do I know? I'm the one who did the damage in the first place.

"Mia—"

"Thanks for the muffins, Ryder." She's already moving toward the front of the shelter, making it clear our conversation is over. "It's late. I should finish up here."

I follow her like a lost puppy, scrambling for something, anything, to keep this going. To prove I'm not the same selfish kid who broke her heart and left town. That I know there is more to life than hockey. That what I did was stupid and immature.

"Listen, I was thinking. If you need help with anything—"

"I don't."

"Mia. I know the community program's over, but I could still—"

"I said I don't need help." She stops at the front desk, putting it between us like a barrier. "I've been managing just fine without you for eight years, Ryder. I think I can handle it. Okay?"

Ouch. Direct hit.

I deserve that. I deserve a lot worse than that, honestly.

"Right. Of course. I just..."

I run a hand through my hair, feeling like I'm seventeen again and asking her to prom.

God, she looked beautiful that night. That emerald green dress that made her eyes shine, the corsage I fumbled with for ten minutes before my dad stepped in to help, the way she'd laughed when I nearly tripped walking up her porch steps.

That night I thought we were invincible, that we'd have a lifetime of moments like that. How could I have known that three years later, I'd throw it all away for a contract and a dream that felt hollow the moment I achieved it?

I take a deep breath and nod my head. Mia's eyes haven't softened one bit, and she gestures to the front door one last time.

"Okay, Mia. But if you change your mind, just call me."

She doesn't respond, just starts shuffling papers around her desk. Message received. Loud and clear.

I'm almost to the door when her sweet, soft voice stops me.

"Tell your mom that…" She takes a breath, like she's not quite sure if she should finish that sentence. But then her eyes close and her lips part every so slightly. "They smell like Sundays."

I turn back, but she's not looking at me. She's staring at the muffins, and there's something raw in her expression. Something that makes my chest tight.

"What?"

"The muffins." Her breath caresses the words, so faint I strain to catch them. "They smell like Sundays. Like... before."

Before I left.

Before I broke everything.

Before I chose hockey over her.

She remembers. All of it.

I want to say something. To apologize. To beg her to let me try again. Tell her I've been thinking about those Sundays every day for eight years.

But she's already walking away, disappearing into the back room without another word.

And I, like the coward I apparently still am, let her go.

Again.