Page 10 of Rookie's Redemption
"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."
