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

Chapter Four

Mia

T he fluorescent lights above me buzz like angry wasps, casting everything in that sickly hospital glow that makes even healthy things look half-dead.

Which is fitting, because I'm pretty sure I'm dying right now.

Death by animal rescue.

"Okay, Princess," I mutter to the ancient pug trembling in my arms, her thunder vest askew and her bulging eyes wide with terror. "I know the world is ending, but can we please not pee on me again?"

Princess responds by doing exactly that.

Perfect.

The shelter sounds like a rock concert from hell. Every dog in the building is barking, yipping, or howling in perfect discord.

The senior lab who ate an entire box of crayons is producing rainbow poops that would be artistic if they weren't coating half the kennel floor.

The goat dropped off earlier today is systematically destroying my clean towel supply.

Yes, that's right. A fucking goat.

And somewhere in this beautiful chaos, my phone is ringing for the hundredth time today with a cracked screen and a battery hanging on at two percent like a stubborn martyr.

"Tails and Paws, this is—" I juggle Princess while diving for the phone, nearly slipping on a suspiciously wet patch near the cat room. "This is Mia, how can I—"

"Is this the place with the puppies?" The voice on the other end sounds like it belongs to someone who thinks animals are accessories.

"We're a rescue shelter, not a pet store," I snap, my words slicing through the phone like a paper cut. Princess whimpers, and I immediately feel guilty. "Sorry, it's been a rough day. What can I help you with?"

"I want a small dog. Something cute for my apartment. Do you have anything in white? White would match my couch."

I close my eyes and count to three.

"Ma'am, we don't color-coordinate pets to furniture. We match animals with families based on—"

The line goes dead.

"Compatibility and love," I finish to no one, setting Princess down in her freshly cleaned kennel. She immediately goes to hide under her blanket fort, which honestly sounds like a solid life plan right now.

And it would be an even better plan if I had backup.

But Zoe had to leave early. Something about a dentist appointment or a math test or maybe a complete meltdown over fake eyelashes… Honestly, at seventeen, every crisis feels apocalyptic.

Either way, I've been flying solo since noon, which explains why everything has gone to hell in a handbasket.

I take a deep breath and look around.

The AC unit in the lobby sounds like a dying helicopter, blasting arctic air that has me shivering despite wearing three layers already.

Meanwhile, the back kennels feel like a sauna designed by Satan himself.

Sweat drips down my spine as I grab the mop bucket, which sloshes murky water onto my already-stained jeans.

This is glamorous. This is living the dream.

"At least the vet will be here soon," I tell Bandit, who's watching me from his emergency kennel with those masked eyes that suggest he's plotting his next escape. "Dr. Martinez will check on the lab's rainbow situation, and then maybe—"

My phone buzzes with a text that makes my stomach drop: Sorry Mia, emergency at the clinic. Can't make it today. Will reschedule. - Dr. M

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I shout at the ceiling, startling a litter of kittens who scatter like furry pool balls.

This is when Hercules, the saint bernard mix who thinks he's a lap dog, decides to express his feelings about the chaos by howling like his heart is broken. Which sets off a chain reaction of sympathetic howling that would make wolves jealous.

I'm ankle-deep in kibble, covered in various bodily fluids from at least four different species, and my hair is doing that thing where it defies both gravity and good sense.

The peanut butter smeared across my shirt—which is a long story involving a Kong toy and a very determined beagle—is starting to attract flies.

This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm a professional and this is my dream.

I'm wrestling with a bag of dog food when the front door chimes.

"Oh God. Didn't I lock that?! Please be someone normal," I mumble quietly.

I turn around, kibble still cascading from the torn bag like the world's least appetizing waterfall.

And there he is.

Ryder Scott, looking like he stepped off the cover of Men Who Don't Belong in Chaotic Animal Shelters Monthly .

Golden afternoon light streams through the windows behind him, creating this ridiculous backlit effect that makes him look like some kind of Roman god who took a wrong turn on his way to the gladiator ring.

His hair is perfectly messy in that way that takes normal humans thirty minutes and three different products to achieve. His shoulders fill out that gray shirt like he was carved from marble and then wrapped in the softest cotton money can buy.

And those jeans? They hug his thighs so tight makes my brain short-circuit.

Of course. Of course he'd ignore my pleas not to come here. And looking like that. Like a statue. A Roman one. And I am absolutely not wondering about the size of his... proportions.

"Rough day?" he asks, that easy smile spreading across his perfect face as he takes in the war zone that is my life.

I want to die.

I want to melt into the floor and disappear into the earth's core where no one can see me like this. I'm a disaster. A walking, talking advertisement for why people like me shouldn't be allowed to run things without supervision.

"Just peachy," I manage, trying to scoop kibble back into the bag with my bare hands. "Living the dream over here."

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over that distractingly perfect chest, and just... watches me. Like I'm entertainment. Like my suffering is amusing.

"Need help?"

"Nope. I told you on the phone. I've got it under control." Another handful of kibble escapes my grasp. "Totally under control."

His lips twitch. "I can see that."

Smug bastard.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" I snap, finally getting the last of the kibble secured. "Practice or... or whatever it is hockey players do in their spare time?"

"Practice was this morning." He pushes off the wall, and I swear the man moves like liquid mercury. All fluid grace and contained power. "Thought I'd swing by. See if you needed anything."

"I told you on the phone—"

"You told me you had it handled." His eyes scan the chaos around us—overturned water bowls, the rainbow poop situation, the distant sound of our goat roommate apparently eating something expensive. "This is you having it handled?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "Everyone has off days."

"Mia." His voice softens, and that's somehow worse than the teasing. "When's the last time you took a break?"

"I don't need a break. I need a functioning air conditioning system and a vet who doesn't cancel last minute. And maybe a fairy godmother who specializes in animal waste management."

He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Goddammit.

"Let me help."

"I don't need—"

But he's already grabbing the broom from the supply closet like he owns the place. Like he belongs here.

"Ryder, don't! That broom is—"

SNAP.

The broom handle breaks in half in his hands. He stares at the pieces, a look of horror on his face.

"Well," I say, trying not to laugh. "That's helpful."

"Don't worry. I'll buy you a new one," he mutters, looking genuinely apologetic. "A better one. Industrial strength."

"It's fine. Just... maybe don't touch anything else?"

But he's already spotted the broken AC unit, that helpful gleam in his eyes that means trouble.

Some things never change.

Back in high school, Ryder was always eager to help. Fixing my bike chain, building that rickety birdhouse in the trails behind my house, attempting to rewire my desk lamp.

He's always been like this. Sweet, earnest, and absolutely hopeless with his hands.

But despite all of this, his eager determination was adorably catastrophic every single time. And as it turns out… it still is.

He runs his hands around the outside of the AC unit. "Oh yeah. I can fix that. Easy peasey."

"Ryder, no—"

But it's too late.

He's already yanking the front panel off, his forearms flexing as he pokes around inside. I try not to stare at the way his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of tanned abs that make my mouth go dry.

I try not to stare at the way his muscles ripple beneath his shirt. Dear God . The thin fabric clings to his broad shoulders and tapers down to narrow hips that I remember all too well.

My fingers itch to trace the defined ridges of his abs peeking out, memories of exploring that tanned skin making my cheeks flush hot.

Focus, Mia. Focus on literally anything else.

"See, this wire here is—"

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The smoke detector screams to life, piercing through the room and echoing off every surface. Every animal in the building loses their collective minds. Dogs howl, cats yowl, and somewhere in the distance, our goat friend bleats in what I can only assume is either terror or approval.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" I shout over the noise.

"I HAVE NO IDEA!" he shouts back, frantically waving his hands at the detector like that might help.

I grab a towel and start fanning the device until it finally shuts up, leaving us in relative quiet broken only by the continued animal protests.

"Maybe," I say carefully, "you should stick to hockey."

His cheeks are pink with embarrassment, which is ridiculously endearing and makes me want to do stupid things like forgive him for being a total walking disaster.

"In my defense," he says, "that thing was already broken."

"It was working fine until you—"

Another crash from the back room cuts me off. We both freeze and stare at each other without moving.

"Please tell me that wasn't—"

"THE GOAT!" we say in unison.

I close my eyes and count to ten. Then move towards the back of the shelter.