Page 34 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

Chapter Twenty-One

Ryder

T he private jet hums beneath us as we cruise at thirty thousand feet, New York City sprawling like a glittering circuit board through the cabin windows.

I'm sprawled in one of the plush leather seats, half-listening to Connor and Jackson argue about whether the Rangers' new goalie is actually any good or just lucky.

"I'm telling you, he's got holes in his technique you could drive a truck through," Connor insists, dealing another hand of poker to the guys clustered around the small table. "Guy telegraphs his movements like he's semaphore signaling."

"Says the man who let in three goals against Detroit," Jackson fires back with a grin.

"Hey, that's different. Detroit's got some serious shooters this year."

Blake glances up from his cards, catching my eye. "You've been quiet, Scott. Usually you're right in the middle of these debates."

I shrug, pulling out my phone to check for texts from Mia for probably the twentieth time in two hours. "Just focused, I guess."

"Focused on that woman of yours, more like," Logan observes from across the aisle, where he's reading what looks like a business magazine. Even retired, the guy still keeps track of everything.

"Maybe," I admit.

The truth is, this whole road trip has felt different.

Not just because I miss Mia—though Christ, I miss her like I'm missing a vital organ—but because for the first time in my career, hockey feels like it's part of something bigger. Part of a life I'm building instead of just a thing I do.

"Best I've ever seen you play, Scott," Coach Brody calls from his seat up front, not looking up from the tablet where he's reviewing game footage. "Whatever she's doing, bottle it."

The guys laugh, and Connor throws a peanut at my head while Jackson makes exaggerated kissing sounds. Blake elbows me in the ribs with a shit-eating grin.

"Aww, look at him blushing," Connor teases. "Our little rookie's all grown up and in love."

"Fuck off," I mutter, but I'm smiling despite myself.

But they know it just as well as I do… there's nothing but truth in Coach's words.

The hat trick against Detroit, the assist in Chicago, that ridiculous save I somehow made in Boston when I was playing out of position.

I'm playing the best hockey of my life.

"All jokes aside man, you're different lately," Blake says, tossing his cards down and leaning back in his seat. "Good different. Like you finally figured out what you're playing for."

Yeah. I have.

I'm playing for the woman who watches every game on her phone between checking on rescue animals.

The woman who texts me pictures of puppies because she knows it'll make me smile.

The woman who's probably asleep right now wearing my hoodie and dreaming about things that have nothing to do with hockey but everything to do with me.

"Three wins down, one to go," Connor adds, gathering up the cards. "You keep playing like this against the Rangers, we might actually sweep this thing."

"Don't jinx it," Jackson warns.

The team flight attendant glides toward us from down the aisle.

She's carrying a silver tray of drinks that catch the cabin's lighting like amber jewels.

The ice cubes clink against crystal tumblers as she sets down my sparkling water with a twist of lime.

Perfect. She remembers my pre-game ritual without me having to ask.

It's these little moments of being truly seen, of someone anticipating what you need before you even know you need it, that makes our team feel like family.

And that's exactly what it feels like whenever I'm with Mia.

But somehow even better. Like I'm the one giving her the iced drink, not the other way around.

Six days ago, I thought I was going to die of separation anxiety. Now? Now I feel like I could take on the entire league single-handedly, because I know exactly what I'm coming home to.

Four hours later, we're walking down Fifth Avenue after what might have been the most expensive team dinner in the history of professional sports. The food was incredible and the waiters treated us like visiting royalty.

But I barely noticed any of it.

I spent half the meal FaceTiming with Mia, showing her the ridiculous gold-leafed ceiling while she showed me the progress on the shelter renovations that are finally coming to a close.

She was wearing my Icehawks t-shirt and had paint in her hair from helping Bear with some kind of trim work, and she looked more beautiful than any five-star restaurant in the world.

"You coming to that bar Connor found?" Blake asks as we stroll past the glittering storefront windows that make this New York street famous around the globe.

"Maybe in a bit," I say absently, then stop dead in my tracks.

Holy shit.

There, in the window of Tiffany & Co., sits the most perfect engagement ring I've ever seen in my life.

It's not huge or flashy. No . This bad boy is elegant, classic, with a brilliance that seems to capture every light on the street and reflect it back like glittering starlight.

It's damn near perfect… just like...

Just like Mia.

"You guys go ahead, I'll catch up," I manage, unable to look away from the ring.

"You sure?" Blake follows my gaze to the jewelry store, and his eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, shit . Scott, are you—"

"Just go," I interrupt, moving toward the entrance which is fronted by two stern looking security guards. "I'll meet you later."

I hear Connor's laughter echoing down the street as they walk away, but I don't care. All I care about is getting inside that store before they close.

The interior of Tiffany's is exactly what you'd expect. Soft, ambient light and total elegance. Like stepping into a jewelry box designed by someone with unlimited funds and impeccable taste.

I look around the store as a sales associate approaches immediately, probably recognizing the slightly desperate look of a man on a mission.

"Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"

"The ring in the window," I say with a slight mumble. "I need to see it."

"Of course." She glides away with the kind of look on her face that comes from dealing with smitten men spending ridiculous amounts of money. "That's a stunning choice. Vintage-inspired solitaire, platinum setting. It's an internally flawless diamond."

She places it on a midnight velvet tray, and under the store's perfect lighting it's even more breathtaking than it looked in the window.

The diamond catches every ray of the carefully positioned spotlights, fracturing them into a personal light show that dances across my vision like the Northern Lights.

The platinum band catches the light, its understated elegance reminding me of all my promises to Mia.

Of lazy Sunday mornings with her fingers laced through mine, our bodies wrapped in tangled sheets.

It's perfect. She's perfect.

"I'll take it," I say without asking the price.

The associate blinks. "Would you like to know the—"

"I'll take it," I repeat firmly. "Whatever it costs."

Twenty minutes later, I'm walking out of Tiffany's with a small blue bag that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and contains my entire future.

My phone buzzes as I hurry toward the hotel.

Coach Brody: SCOTT! Where the hell were you? We've got a game in four hours!

Shit.

I break into a run, dodging tourists and late-night shoppers as I race the six blocks back to the hotel. Coach is waiting in the lobby, arms crossed and wearing the expression that usually precedes sprints until someone pukes.

"Sorry, Coach!" I pant, sliding to a stop in front of him. I try to hide the smile on my face, but it won't go away. "Had to take care of something important."

"Important enough for push-ups?" His eyes narrow dangerously. "Drop and give me fifty! And don't disappear on me again before a game!"

He smacks the back of my head, hard enough to make my eyes water, then shoves me forward until I'm facing the glossy marble tiles of the hotel foyer.

The Tiffany bag crinkles against my chest as I drop, trying to protect it while simultaneously accepting my punishment.

"Yes, sir."

I start counting out push-ups, still smiling. A few teammates have gathered to watch, clearly entertained by my punishment, but I'm grinning like an idiot the entire time.

Totally worth it.

"...forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!" I spring back to my feet, slightly winded but still smiling.

Coach shakes his head, but I catch the hint of amusement in his eyes. "Whatever you bought better have been worth making me look like an ass in front of the team."

"Trust me, Coach. It was."

The game against the Rangers is a blur of speeding skates, perfectly precise passes and pure adrenaline.

I play like a man possessed, which isn't far from the truth. Every time I think about the small bulge of the ring box in my equipment bag, I skate harder, check cleaner, pass with more accuracy than I've ever managed before in my life.

We win 4-2, and I rack up two assists that have the New York sports writers asking if I'm having a career year. But all I can think about as we celebrate in the locker room is getting home to Mia.

"Flight leaves at eight AM," Blake announces as we pack up our gear. "Which means wheels up at seven-thirty, which means lobby at six-thirty, which means—"

"We know the drill," Connor interrupts. "Some of us have done this before, Captain."

I'm only half-listening, too busy making sure the ring box is secure in my carry-on bag. Tomorrow I'll be home. Tomorrow I can start planning how to propose to the woman who's been the center of my universe since I was seventeen years old.

The flight home feels endless despite being only a few hours. I check my phone obsessively, reading and re-reading Mia's texts from this morning.

Mia: Can't wait to see you! I have a surprise for you when you get home.

Mia: Meet me at your house around 5?

Mia: I love you. Fly safe.

But I smile. Because her surprise has nothing on mine.

The anticipation is killing me. I keep touching the ring box through my carry-on bag, making sure it's real, making sure this isn't some elaborate dream I'm going to wake up from.

"You're vibrating," Blake observes from the seat beside me.

"What?"

"You're literally vibrating with nervous energy. It's like sitting next to a tuning fork." He grins. "When are you going to ask her?"

How the hell does he know?

"Ask her what?"

"Don't play dumb, Scott. The Tiffany's bag kind of gave it away." Blake leans closer, lowering his voice. "So when?"

I run a hand through my hair, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I'm about to do.

"I don't know. Soon. I just... I know I want to marry her. Not someday, not eventually. Now ."

"Good for you." Blake claps me on the shoulder. "She's lucky to have someone who's that sure."

"Nah. I'm the lucky one."

The plane touches down in Iron Ridge and Blake gives me a ride from the airport.

I spend the entire drive adjusting the ring box in my pocket.

My hands are actually shaking. Not the subtle tremor of post-game adrenaline, but the full-on, can't-hide-it quiver of a man who's about to bet his entire heart on four simple words.

I flex my fingers, willing them to steady.

"You want me to stick around?" Blake asks as he pulls into my driveway. "Provide moral support or whatever?"

"Nah, I'm good." I grab my bags from the back seat, then freeze.

Because there are three cars in my driveway.

Mia's beat-up Honda, which I expected.

But also my mom's sedan and... is that Bear's massive pickup truck?

What the hell?

"Everything okay?" Blake follows my gaze.

"I... think so?" I stare at my house, which looks... different somehow. The porch light is on, and there are other lights glowing warmly through windows that I definitely didn't leave on when I left for the road trip.

"Sure you don't want me to wait?"

"No, it's fine. Thanks for the ride, man."

Blake grins. "Good luck, bro. Whatever her surprise is, I'm sure yours will top it."

As his truck disappears down the street, I stand in my own driveway, bags at my feet, staring at my house.

The ring box feels warm in my pocket, a reminder of the life-changing question I'm carrying around.

Deep breath, Scott. Let's do this.