Page 29 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

Chapter Eighteen

Ryder

T he smell of Mom's pot roast hits me the moment I walk through the front door, instantly transporting me back to Sunday dinners when I was twelve years old and my biggest worry was whether I'd made the cut for the youth team.

"There's my boy!" Mom calls from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her floral apron. "Perfect timing. Everything's just finished."

Dad's already at the dining room table, sleeves rolled up and a cold beer in his hand. The sight of him waiting for his family to gather around the table makes something warm settle in my chest.

"Tom, help your son with his coat," Mom calls over her shoulder as she carries a steaming casserole dish toward us.

"I've got it, Mom," I protest, but she's already bustling back to the kitchen for the next course.

Dad chuckles, standing to give me one of those brief, back-slapping hugs that somehow convey more affection than a dozen words. "You know better than to argue with her when she's in hostess mode."

The dining room table is set perfectly as always. Fresh flowers sit in the center, flanked by serving dishes that make my mouth water just looking at them.

Pot roast with carrots and potatoes, green bean casserole that's been her signature dish since I was in grade school, fresh-baked dinner rolls that are still warm from the oven, and what looks like apple pie cooling on the kitchen counter.

"You outdid yourself, Mom," I say, settling into my usual chair as she appears with the last of the dishes.

"Oh, nonsense. This is nothing compared to what your grandmother used to make for your grandfather's business trips.

" She smooths her apron and takes her seat.

"But I figured you should have a proper meal before you're stuck eating airplane food and whatever passes for cuisine in hotel restaurants. "

I could tell her that the team actually looks after us pretty well.

But then she'd stop making this delicious spread every time I went on the road.

I tuck in and soon enough, dinner conversation flows easily, the way it always has in this house. Even with the absence of my sister who's apparently gone up-state to visit 'some guy she's met'.

As if to distract himself from this news, Dad tells us about a particularly difficult customer at the hardware store who insisted on buying paint that was completely wrong for his project, despite multiple warnings.

Mom chimes in and shares gossip from her book club, including the ongoing drama about whether they should switch from romance novels to literary fiction.

"Those women are still pushing for that depressing book about war," Mom says, rolling her eyes. "I told them we read books to escape reality, not to be reminded of how terrible the world can be."

"Smart woman," Dad agrees, reaching for another dinner roll. "Life's hard enough without adding fictional misery to it."

I find myself only half-listening, my mind wandering to Mia and the chaos I left behind at the shelter earlier. The way she tried to hide her anxiety about the road trip, how she forced that bright smile when I told her the schedule.

Mom's voice snaps me back to the present. "How are things going with Mia, sweetheart?"

There it is. The question I've been expecting since I walked in the door.

"Really good," I say, and I can hear the happiness in my own voice. "Better than good, actually. It's like..." I pause, searching for the right words. "It's like we picked up right where we left off, but better. More mature."

"That girl's got a good head on her shoulders. Always did, even when you two were teenagers." Dad takes a swig of his beer. "As for you…"

He gives me a look and a raised brow.

"I know, Dad. She's incredible," I agree. "You guys should see what she's done with the fundraiser money. The shelter's being completely renovated, and she's got everything organized down to the last detail."

My parents stare at me with matching expressions.

Mom's eyes are practically glistening, and Dad's trying to hide his smile behind his beer, but failing miserably. The unspoken "that's our boy" hangs in the air between us, thick as the gravy on my half-empty plate, and just as warm.

"I just..." I run a hand through my hair, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "I don't want to screw it up again. She's giving me this second chance, and I can't shake the feeling that I don't deserve it."

"Oh, sweetheart." Mom's expression softens. "You were eighteen years old when you left. Eighteen! Of course you made mistakes. That doesn't mean you don't deserve happiness now."

Dad leans back in his chair. "You planning to marry this girl?"

"Dad! Marriage?"

The word should terrify me, should send me into a panic about commitment and responsibility and all the ways I could mess it up.

Instead, it feels... right. Like the most natural thing in the world.

Like why the hell didn't I already think of it myself.

"You know what," I say quietly, shifting to the edge of my seat like I've just had some kind of epiphony. "I think I am."

Mom makes a soft sound of delight, her hand flying to her heart.

"Oh, Ryder. That's wonderful!"

"Wait. Just hold up a second," Dad says, and I can already hear the lecture coming, "Son, before you can even consider such a big move, you need to get your life in order. Starting with that disaster you call a house."

Fuck. Here we go.

"Dad, the house is fine—"

"Fine?" He raises an eyebrow. "Son, you've been living there for God knows how long and you're still sleeping on a mattress on the floor! You've got paint samples on the walls and half-finished projects in every room."

"I've been busy with hockey and—"

"And finding Mia," Mom finishes. "Which is sweet, but Tom's right. If you're serious about building a life with her, you need to actually build it. Literally."

I want to argue that Mia doesn't care about any of that stuff.

She's not some high-maintenance woman who needs perfect surroundings to be happy. She spends her days cleaning up after rescue animals, for Christ's sake.

But even as I form the arguments in my head, I can hear how weak they sound.

Because maybe they're right. If I'm serious about this, which, with the way my heart is pounding right now, I am… then I need to give her the life she deserves.

And no girl of Ryder Scott's should be summoned to sleep on the floor.

"Look," Dad continues, his voice gentler now. "I'm not saying you need to have everything perfect before you propose. But you need to show her that you're ready to build something permanent. Something that says 'this is our home, our future.'"

"You only get one chance to make up for lost time," Mom adds quietly. "Don't waste it."

Don't waste it.

The words hit deeper than they should, settling into my chest like a weight I'll carry with me on the road.

An hour later, I'm driving home through the quiet streets of Iron Ridge, my parents' advice ringing in my ears, circling endlessly like a broken record.

You only get one chance to make up for lost time.

The phrase follows me all the way home, growing louder as I pull into my driveway and stare at the house that's supposed to represent my future.

In the moonlight, it looks exactly like what it is: a work in progress.

The porch railing I've been meaning to fix leans at an odd angle. The front steps creak under my weight as I climb them. Inside, the chaos of renovation greets me like an old friend.

Paint cans stacked in the corner of the living room. Drop cloths covering furniture I haven't assembled yet. Tools scattered across the kitchen counter where I abandoned them three weeks ago when I got distracted by a text from Mia.

This is what I'm bringing her home to.

The thought bothers me more than it should. Mia's not shallow—she's proven that over and over. And this isn't about impressing her. It's about showing her I'm serious. That I'm ready to build the life we talked about when we were seventeen and thought we had all the time in the world.

I lean against the wall and let out a sigh, surveying all the work that needs to be done. I should go to bed, with an early flight scheduled for tomorrow.

Instead, I pull out my phone and text Mia.

Ryder: Missing you already. Any chance you want to come over for one last night before I abandon you for six days? Promise I'll make it worth your while… (Winky-Face Emoji)

Her response comes back immediately.

Mia: How worth my while are we talking? Scale of 1 to "forget my own name", please.

I grin, typing back quickly.

Ryder: Definitely forget your own name territory. Maybe forget how to walk properly too.

Mia: Sold. Give me twenty minutes to escape the left-over contractor chaos.

Ryder: I'll be ready for you.

Morning sunlight streams through the kitchen window as I flip the last pancake, the golden surface perfectly crispy around the edges just the way Mia likes them.

Coffee percolates in the machine beside me, filling the house with a rich aroma as Mia emerges from the bathroom, hair damp from her shower. She's wearing one of my t-shirts, one that hangs to mid-thigh on her smaller frame.

"Smells incredible in here," she says, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind and pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades.

"Your breakfast demands, my lady," I gesture to the spread I've laid out. "Pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and coffee. Strong coffee after what I put you through last night."

"You're going to spoil me rotten."

"That's the plan."

She settles at the small table I managed to assemble last week, one of my few completed furniture projects. Her hair catches the morning light, and there's something peaceful about her expression that makes me want to fake an injury and cancel the road trip entirely.

I just want to stay here and spend the day with her. Watch her eat pancakes in my kitchen while she wears my t-shirt.

"What time do you have to be at the arena?" she asks, cutting into her stack with the carefulness of someone who takes her pancake-to-syrup ratio very seriously.