Page 3 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

Chapter Two

Mia

I 'm running on three hours of sleep and pure spite when I push through the door of Chapter & Grind. The bell jingles cheerfully, mocking my foul mood as the scent of cinnamon and fresh espresso wraps around me like a hug I'm too cranky to appreciate.

Emma spots me from behind the counter, her eyes widening as she takes in my disheveled appearance. I didn't even bother with makeup this morning, and my hair is still damp from the world's fastest shower.

"Well, good morning, sunshine," she calls out, already reaching for my usual mug. "Why do you look like you wrestled a raccoon in your sleep?"

"Because I did," I mutter, shuffling toward the counter. "Not in my sleep. At five this morning. Behind the shelter dumpster."

Emma's eyebrows shoot up. "You're not serious."

"Deadly serious. The little bastard was trying to break into our food storage. Again." I rub my eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. "I named him Bandit. And he's my nemesis now."

"Mia!"

I turn to see Natalie waving from their usual corner table, where she's sitting with Sophia.

They've claimed the plush velvet couch by the window, surrounded by half-empty coffee cups and pastry crumbs.

Sophia's laptop is open but ignored as they're deep in conversation, both grinning like they've been trading gossip that has nothing to do with hockey.

Great. Just what I need. The Iron Ridge Inquisition.

"Go sit," Emma says, nudging me toward them. "I'll bring your coffee over."

I trudge to their table, collapsing into an armchair with a dramatic sigh.

"You look like hell," Sophia says, examining me over the rim of her mug.

"Thanks. That's exactly the look I was going for today."

Natalie laughs and slides a plate with half a chocolate croissant toward me. "Eat this. It'll help with whatever..." she waves her hand vaguely at my entire existence, "...this is."

"This is what happens when you run a shelter single-handedly and have to chase wildlife at dawn," I grumble, but I take the pastry anyway. Free food is free food.

Emma appears with my coffee—black, no sugar, strong enough to raise the dead—and sets it down with a smirk.

"So," she says, perching on the arm of my chair. "Have you seen him yet?"

I freeze mid-sip. "Seen who?"

All three of them stare at me with identical expressions of disbelief.

"Really?" Natalie says. "We're going to play this game?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter into my mug.

"Ryder Scott," Sophia says, cutting through my bullshit with the two words that. "Your high school sweetheart. The one that Blake says won't stop talking about you in the locker room before and after every practice."

"I hate this town," I groan, sinking deeper into my chair.

"No, you don't," Natalie says. "You love it here. That's why you stayed when he left."

"So?" Emma presses, leaning forward with that gleam in her eye that means she's about to meddle in my love life. "How has it been seeing him again? Did you talk? Did he apologize for being an absolute idiot eight years ago?"

"Emma!" I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one's listening. "Can you not broadcast my personal life to the entire café?"

"Oh please, everyone already knows," she waves dismissively. "Now spill."

I take another long sip of coffee, buying myself time. "There's nothing to spill. He showed up with muffins from his mom. We talked about a dog. He left. End of story."

"Muffins?" Sophia perks up, eyes narrowing. "What kind?"

"Why does that matter?"

"It absolutely matters," Natalie insists.

I sigh. "Lemon blueberry."

All three of them exchange loaded glances.

"What?" I demand.

"Sunday muffins," Emma says softly.

My throat tightens. Of course they remember. Everyone in this damn town remembers everything.

"This isn't about him," I snap, more harshly than intended. "This is about caffeine and getting through the damn day."

Emma reaches over to squeeze my hand. "Honey, it's always been about him."

"I need another coffee," I mutter, standing abruptly. "And a muffin. To go, please."

"For yourself?" Sophia asks innocently, batting those dark long lashes at me.

"Yes. It's for a volunteer I've got to help out today," I say, knowing they can see right through me and lying definitely won't work this time.

"Mhmm," Emma hums, already bagging up an apple cinnamon muffin that's bigger than a Saint Bernard's paw. "A volunteer whose last name happens to be Scott?"

"I hate all of you," I grumble, snatching the bag.

Their laughter follows me out the door. They know me too well, these women who've held me together for eight years.

And they're right. I'm absolutely not thinking about Ryder Scott.

Not even a little bit.

I shove the muffin into my overflowing tote bag and slam the café door behind me. The blast of winter air feels good against my heated cheeks. My ancient Honda sits in the parking lot, covered in a fresh dusting of snow that makes it look almost respectable. Almost.

"Just another Tuesday," I mutter, fumbling with my keys. "Nothing special about today."

The key sticks in the frozen lock. I jiggle it, curse under my breath, and slam my hip against the door until it finally gives way with a rusty groan.

"That's my girl," I pat the dashboard affectionately. "Just you and me against the world, Bessie."

I turn the key in the ignition. The old girl coughs, splutters, and then backfires with a sound like a shotgun blast that echoes across the pristine winter landscape of Iron Ridge. Several birds take flight from a nearby tree, and an older couple walking by jump in unison.

"Sorry!" I call out the window, waving apologetically. "She's just... enthusiastic!"

The engine settles into its familiar asthmatic rumble as I crank the heat. The radio crackles to life, static giving way to Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know." Because of course the universe would choose that song right now.

"Nope." I jab the preset buttons until I find something less accusatory. A Backstreet Boys ballad fills the car instead. "Not much better."

I reach for my coffee in the cup holder, which is perpetually sticky despite my best cleaning efforts.

The town slides by outside my window—the hardware store where Mr. Wilson is already sweeping the sidewalk, the library with its "Winter Reading Challenge" banner, the ice cream shop that somehow stays in business even during the coldest months. Everything exactly where it's been my entire life.

"You're a grown woman with a career and a purpose," I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror. "You don't have time for... whatever this is."

This . This being the way my stomach flips every time I think about Ryder standing in my shelter, holding those stupid muffins, looking at me like I'm something he lost and just found again.

"Just because your teenage hormone demon of a crush grew into a 6'2 hockey superstar with a jawline that could cut glass doesn't mean you're in trouble," I say to my coffee cup. "And yes, talking to inanimate objects is totally normal."

The coffee cup, wisely, says nothing.

I brake at a stop sign and watch as a group of kids trudge to school, hockey sticks strapped to their backpacks. One wears an Icehawks jersey with SCOTT emblazoned across the back.

"Seriously?" I glare at the universe.

A car honks behind me. I realize I've been sitting at the stop sign too long, lost in thoughts I shouldn't be having.

"Eight years," I remind myself, accelerating too quickly. Bessie protests with a wheeze. "Eight years he was gone. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. And now he thinks he can just walk back into my life with his perfect hair and his mother's delicious muffins?"

The shelter comes into view, and I grip the steering wheel tighter to steer gently over the black ice on the road.

"You built this life without him. You're fine on your own. You've always been fine on your own, Mia. Just. Keep. Going."

I pull into the Tails & Paws parking lot, where my designated spot sits empty beneath the crooked "Director" sign Hank from the hardware store made me last Christmas. The faded red building stands against the winter sky like a defiant splash of color in Iron Ridge's landscape.

"Home sweet home," I whisper, taking in the peeling paint, the slightly askew adoption drive banner from last summer, and the flower boxes now filled with snow instead of petunias.

This building, this converted fire station with its quirks and creaks… is the first thing I've ever truly owned. Well, technically the town owns it, but every bent downspout and worn floorboard feels like an extension of myself.

From inside, I can already hear the morning chorus.

Dogs barking their breakfast demands, cats meowing for attention, and somewhere, the distinctive chatter of Bandit the raccoon plotting his next escape.

"I swear if that trash panda has reorganized my medical supplies again..." I mutter, grabbing my bag. "Twenty-six rescue dogs, fourteen cats, two surprise goats, and I'm being outsmarted by eight pounds of masked chaos with opposable thumbs."

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel for one last moment of peace before my day of animal wrangling begins.

Just forget about him.

I open the shelter door, balancing my coffee, the muffin, and a poop scoop I'd left outside yesterday after washing it to within an inch of it's life.

The usual strong scent of dog shampoo and disinfectant greets me. Yep. That's the perfume of my life. Not some decadent fragrance of a handsome prince from a land of far-far-away.

Looking down, I notice the trail of kibble scattered across the floor like breadcrumbs in that particular fairy tale that's somehow gone wrong. Very wrong.

"Oh no."

I follow the trail to the small office where my desk drowns under paperwork. Adoption forms, vet bills, fundraising letters, and grant applications. And sitting proudly atop the mess is Biscuit, a four-month-old border collie mix, tail thumping against my keyboard.

"Seriously? You're the escape artist?"

Biscuit tilts his head, looking adorably guilty as his tail sends a stack of invoices fluttering to the floor.

"Mia! Thank god you're here!" Zoe, my teenage volunteer, appears in the doorway.

Her hair is frizzled and practically standing on it's ends, and there's what looks like wet paw prints across her Iron Ridge High sweatshirt.

"I've been chasing puppies for twenty minutes.

Biscuit figured out the latch thing and organized a jailbreak.

The goats are eating your fern, and Bandit—" She stops, eyes wide.

"Actually, I haven't seen Bandit, which is probably worse. "

I take a long sip of coffee. "Good morning to you too."

"Sorry." She pushes her glasses up. "Please don't send me back to school. I got here early to get a head start on the feeding, but then—"

"Chaos ensued. Well, Zoe… Welcome to animal rescue." I set down my coffee and hand her the muffin I bought for her. "You did good, Zoe. Most people would've run screaming by now."

"Wow. Thank you. Ms. Jones says you're scarier than any animal disaster." She clamps her hand over her mouth and snatches the muffin bag away from Biscuit's sniffing wet nose. "I mean—"

I laugh. "Your guidance counselor's not wrong. It's not the first time that I've been told I'm the shelter's scary dog mom."

"But like, in a cool way," Zoe adds quickly. "Everyone knows you're the best with the difficult cases. Like how you got that aggressive pit bull to stop lunging yesterday."

"He's not aggressive, Zoe. He's just scared." I scoop up Biscuit, who licks my chin. "Aren't you going to ask why I'm not yelling about the great kibble explosion of Iron Ridge?"

"Because you secretly think it's funny when they outsmart us?"

"Smart kid. You'll make a good vet someday." I hand her Biscuit. "Now, let's round up the fugitives and get to work."

As Zoe carries the puppy out, my eyes land on the plastic Tupperware container on the front counter. Ryder's muffins from last night. The sight of them sends an unwelcome warmth through my chest.

Lemon blueberry. The taste of Sunday mornings at his parents' kitchen table. The way he'd stumble downstairs with bedhead and sleepy eyes, kiss my temple and steal bites of whatever we were making...

I always saved the biggest muffin for him. And looking into the container, I can see the exact one I'd pick out to do the same right now. All just to see that big smile he used to give me.

I shake my head, grabbing the mop from the supply closet with unnecessary force.

"Nope. Not today, memories. I've got literal crap to clean."

I attack a suspicious puddle near the cat room, scrubbing harder than necessary.

This shelter is everything I've built on my own. My reputation, my purpose, my future. I'm not the same girl who cried for weeks when Ryder left, who felt like half a person for years without him.

I'm whole now. Complete.

The director of Tails & Paws who handles emergencies before breakfast and saves animals others have given up on.

I glance at the half-eaten muffin I'd brought from the café, sitting innocently beside my cooling coffee. With sudden determination, I grab it and toss it in the trash bin.

"Let's just get through today without letting a boy ruin it."

From the kennel area comes a chorus of excited barks, followed by a spectacular crash and the unmistakable sound of metal bowls clattering across tile.

I sigh, shoulders slumping.

"Or… let's just get through it."