Page 4 of Rookie’s Redemption (Iron Ridge Icehawks #5)

Chapter Three

Ryder

T he weight room at The Nest feels like a second home—one that smells like testosterone, Icy Hot, and ambition. Morning sun blasts through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the hockey rink beyond into a blinding sheet of white. Perfect for an early morning grind.

I push through my third set, the bar heavy across my chest. Two-twenty-five isn't my max, but it's enough to make my triceps burn in that addictive way my body craves.

"That all you got, rookie? Pretty sure your girl Mia could outlift you."

Blake looms over me, hands hovering near the bar as he spots. His captain's smirk is legendary around here. Half encouragement, half challenge.

I push the weight up with a grunt. "Keep talking, old man. You'll throw out your hip."

"Cute." Blake adds a little pressure to the bar just to be a dick. "One more. Don't embarrass yourself."

I lock my elbows, racking the bar with a satisfying clang that echoes through the gym.

Sitting up, I grab my towel and wipe sweat from my face. The mirror across from me doesn't lie… I look good. Years of professional training has sculpted me into something different from the lanky kid who left Iron Ridge.

Logan catches my eye in the reflection, biceps bulging as he curls what looks like small cars. "You two done flirting over there?"

"Jealous?" I fire back, but he just grunts, turning back to his own reflection.

Connor's rowing machine hisses rhythmically behind us. "Some of us are trying to work here."

"Yeah, real brutal cardio day you're having, Walsh."

I toss my towel at him, which he catches without breaking stride.

"Unlike some people, I don't need to compensate with glamour muscles." Connor rows faster. "Some of us actually stop pucks for a living."

Coach Brody circles us like a shark, clipboard in one hand, protein shake in the other. His eyes miss nothing.

"Scott, your left side's still favoring. Add another set of side planks." He scribbles something down. "Kane, those shoulders better be ready for Montreal next week. Their forwards hit like freight trains."

"Yes, Coach." Logan doesn't even look up.

I grab my water bottle, gulping down half of it.

This is the dream… being part of the Iron Ridge elite. Custom weights with the Icehawks logo, a sound system pumping beats that would make clubs jealous, and cold towels in a mini-fridge by the door. Not to mention training alongside guys whose hockey cards I collected as a kid.

"Montreal's got that new center—Beaulieu." Blake grabs weights for his next set. "Fast little bastard. We need to shut him down early."

Coach nods. "That's why we're running the neutral zone trap in practice today. Scott, you'll be on the second line with Jackson."

"Got it." I stand, stretching my arms overhead.

"Speaking of fast..." Blake's grin turns wicked. "Heard you've been spending time at that animal shelter. That's where Mia Harper works, right?"

The gymnasium goes quiet. Even Connor stops rowing.

"Just helping out." I keep my voice casual, reaching for another plate to add to the bar.

"Helping out." Blake mimics, eyebrows raised. "Sure, rookie."

"Drop it, Maddox."

Blake studies me, then shrugs. "Alright… Okay… Touchy subject. Noted."

I turn back to the weights, focusing on the familiar movement instead of the hollow feeling in my chest. Eight years of hockey, three teams, two championships, and somehow Mia's name still hits harder than any check I've taken on the ice.

"She still got that mean right hook?" Connor asks, breaking the tension circling around us. "I remember when she decked Miller at prom for grabbing her ass."

I laugh and shake my head.

I'll never forget that night. The memory remains crystal clear in my mind, even to this day. Miller's hand on Mia's ass, her face shifting from shock to fury in a heartbeat.

I was halfway out of my chair when her fist connected with his jaw.

"Yeah. That's my—" I catch myself, the word "girl" dying on my lips. "That was Mia."

The girl I love. Loved . The tenses blur together in my head. Eight years and I still can't get it straight.

Blake's watching me with that captain's stare that sees too much.

"Anyway," I mutter. "She's always handled herself just fine."

Coach Brody claps his hands twice, bringing the chatter to an immediate halt.

"Alright, ladies. That'll do. Finish your sets and hit the ice in thirty. We've got systems to run and a game to prepare for."

The guys disperse, the moment broken. I grab my towel, wiping sweat from my neck as I stare at my reflection.

Maybe there are some things you can't fix with a good workout or a winning goal.

But damn, I still want to try.

The players' lounge feels like another world after the brutal practice we just endured. Recessed lighting casts a warm glow across the custom walnut tables and plush seating areas. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the mountains beyond Iron Ridge, snow-capped and perfect against the afternoon sky.

I load my plate at the buffet station where Chef Martina, the new chef Big Mike has poached from some five-star restaurant in Chicago, oversees our post-practice feast.

The pancakes rise in fluffy, golden stacks beside bowls of fresh berries and house-made maple syrup infused with bourbon vanilla. I pile on strips of thick-cut bacon that somehow manages to be both crispy and tender, glistening under the pendant lights.

"Don't forget your greens, Scott," Chef Martina says, sliding an acai bowl topped with geometrically arranged kiwi slices and bright pink dragon fruit toward me.

"Thanks, Chef." I add it to my tray, then fill a glass with the cold brew concoction our nutritionist insists will "realign our gut biome" or some shit.

It tastes like chocolate milk with a weird aftertaste. But whatever. I'll drink anything if it keeps me on the ice.

I sink into one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, the butter-soft material practically swallowing me whole. My muscles ache in that satisfying way that only comes after pushing past your limits in an intense practice session run by the best in the business.

The pancakes dissolve on my tongue, sweet and fluffy with bursts of blueberry.

"Hungry much?" Connor drops into the chair across from me, his plate more reasonable but still loaded with protein.

"Mumma says I'm a growing boy," I joke and grin through a mouthful.

Blake settles on the couch nearby, scrolling through his phone while absently forking egg whites. Logan takes the armchair to my left, his plate piled even higher than mine.

"So you coming to Ridgeview tonight?" Connor asks, cutting into his chicken breast like it's butter. "Pool table's got your name on it. I need to win back that fifty you took last week."

I wash down my food with a gulp of the gut-health brew. "Nah, I can't. Got shit to do at home."

"Let me guess..." Blake doesn't look up from his phone, but his mouth quirks into that smirk we know all too well. "Cleaning up dog crap again?"

"Or just hoping Mia needs someone to lift a fifty-pound bag of kibble with his shirt off," Logan snorts.

The guys laugh, and I force myself to join in. I shove another forkful of pancake into my mouth instead of answering.

"You know," Connor says, leaning forward, "if you're serious about this girl, maybe spending all your free time with rescue mutts isn't the play."

"What would you suggest?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.

"Take her somewhere. Dinner. Movie." He shrugs. "Normal people shit."

"She's not exactly talking to me," I admit. "And anyway, she loves those 'rescue mutts.'"

"Wait, wait, wait..." Blake's eyes grow wider and he drops his phone in his lap. He glances at Connor and they're both wearing those shit-eating grins that make me squirm in my chair. "She's not talking to you?"

"Yeah. Hold up. Our resident dog whisperer is giving you the cold shoulder?

" Connor inches forward on his seat, looking way too interested.

"Why? Haven't you been there every day for like—" He rolls his eyes and makes an exaggerated gagging noise.

"— forever . Cleaning kennels, lifting bags, probably writing sonnets to rescue puppies or whatever it is you do. "

"Look, I fucked up, okay?" I blurt out, slamming my fork down. "I left for the draft and just… dumped her. Didn't even say a proper goodbye. Just... left."

The guys stare at me, and then Connor bursts out laughing. Blake joins in, nearly choking on his egg whites. Even Logan, Mr. Stone Face himself, cracks a smile.

"You've been volunteering at an animal shelter for weeks and she still hates your guts?" Connor wipes at his eyes. "Man, that's dedication to a grudge."

"It's not funny," I snap, heat rising to my face. "I broke her heart. She trusted me and I just... I walked away like a fucking idiot, man."

"Relax, rookie." Blake holds up his hands. "We're not laughing at you. Well, not just at you."

"Easy for you all to say. You've never fucked up something that mattered."

I push my plate away, appetite officially gone.

The laughter dies down. Connor leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"Listen, Scott. You can't undo what happened. But I don't think cleaning up dog shit is gonna fix it either."

"What Connor means," Blake cuts in, shooting Walsh a look, "is that you need to stop tiptoeing around her. You're not the same kid who left. You're a man now, not some high school dork with a crush."

Logan sets his fork down. "The dipshits are right, man. Show her who you are now ."

I blink at him, surprised he's speaking at all, let alone offering relationship advice.

"But what if who I am now isn't enough?"

"Then at least you'll know," Blake says. "But right now, you're just the guy who left her hanging out with some rescue dogs."

"I'd start with an actual apology," Connor adds. "Not puppy eyes and volunteer hours."

I nod slowly, considering their words. They're right. I've been playing it safe, hoping proximity would be enough. But Mia deserves more than that. She deserves the truth.

"Thanks," I mumble, feeling the weight in my chest shift slightly. "Even if you're all assholes about it."

"That's what teammates are for," Blake says with a grin. "To call you on your bullshit."

I finish up my food and leave the arena half an hour later, taking the winding back roads to my house, letting the Jeep eat up the curves.

Blake's words rattle around in my head. Show her who I am now.

But who am I?

Hockey player? Hometown returnee? Professional apology-avoider?

The wheels crunch on the gravel driveway as I pull up to my place. Well, my so-called 'home'.

I yank the keys from the ignition and sit for a minute, staring at the cabin-style house I bought three months ago. The porch needs staining. The gutters need clearing.

The whole place needs... me.

I push open the front door and it sticks, like always. Immediately, I step into mid-renovation chaos. The entryway light flickers when I flip the switch and I drop my keys on the dusty console table, stepping over a pile of mail I haven't bothered to open.

"Home sweet home," I mutter to the empty room.

Paint samples stain the living room walls in patches of forest green, slate gray, and, from as far as I can tell, three nearly identical shades of white.

The couch slumps beneath a mountain of unfolded laundry. Half-empty boxes of belongings I haven't unpacked yet crowd the corners.

This is where I should be investing my time. Not at the shelter. Not hovering around Mia like some guilty ghost.

But every time I try to focus on this place, it feels too big. Too much.

And too far from what I really want.

I drift toward the back window, from favorite spot in the house. Constantly, I find myself drawn by the view that made me buy this disaster in the first place.

I smile as I look out the window, beyond my overgrown backyard and the sagging fence line, up to a winding path that climbs the gentle slope. At the top stands a massive oak tree, its branches spreading wide against the afternoon sky.

My heart jumps at the sight of it, the same way it did the day I toured this house. The realtor thought I was crazy, making an offer based on a tree.

But she didn't understand what it meant.

This tree isn't just a tree.

This tree symbolizes everything that brought me back here. To Iron Ridge. To this exact spot.

I drop onto the couch, shoving laundry aside. My phone's in my hand before I take breath. Muscle memory opens Instagram, and my thumb finds the Tails and Paws account without conscious thought.

To my delight, there's a new post added an hour ago: "Closed this afternoon due to unexpected events. Sorry for the inconvenience! - Mia"

My finger hovers over her contact. One tap and I could call her. Check if everything's okay. See if she needs help.

The urge is physical, like a hand pushing against my back. She might need me.

Show her who you are now. You're a man now.

I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.

Two rings, and she picks up.

"Ryder, now is not a good time."

Mia's voice is stretched thin, like she's holding something back. In the background, it sounds like the entire dog population of Iron Ridge is having a collective meltdown.

"Everything okay? I saw your Insta post and thought you might need help?"

I'm already standing, keys jingling in my free hand.

There's a beat of silence, filled with frantic barking and what sounds like... is that a goat?

A soft sigh filters through the phone. "No. I told you. I've got it."

"Yeah. I know you do." I pause, hearing the lie in her voice. The stubborn independence that's both infuriating and so quintessentially Mia that it makes my chest ache.

And she's probably right.

I should stay here. Fix the leaky roof. Organize the stack of bills on the kitchen counter. Be an adult and focus on my own life for once instead of orbiting hers like some guilty satellite.

The responsible thing would be to hang up and respect her boundaries. Let her handle her own problems like she's telling me she can.

But I'm just frozen here, gazing at the oak past my yard's edge, recalling the afternoon we etched our initials into its trunk and shared our first kiss underneath those swaying, mighty limbs.

Every time I stand here, I can remember the taste of her lips, the look in her eyes when we finally let go.

The letters are still there. Faded, but stubborn. Just like us.

And that's why I'm here.

That's why I bought this house.

And that's why when I turn around and look away from the tree that holds my most treasured memory, I'm already halfway to the door.

I grab my keys from where I just set them down.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," I say, not asking permission.

She starts to protest, but I'm already ending the call, pulling the door shut behind me.

The Jeep roars to life as I back out of the driveway, out of my house—with all its half-finished projects and empty spaces—shrinking in the rearview mirror.

I don't look back.

Some things you don't choose. Some things just choose you.