Page 2 of Rookie's Redemption
Turns out, eight years had changed nothing. Nothing… and everything.
"Christ. She hated me that first day," I mumble.
"Can you blame her?" Cam shrugs. "You left Iron Ridge without looking back."
"That's not—" I start, but the defense dies in my throat.
Because it's true, isn't it?
I left her with tears streaming down her face as I drove away into the sunset.
I chased the bright lights and the roaring crowds, the NHL contract that everyone said I couldn't pass up.
I was barely an adult. Barely old enough to know better. Hell, I didn't even have the guts to ask her to come with me. I just dumped her and left. Like some goddamn coward who walked away from the only person who ever really knew him.
Mom stands from the table, gathering our empty plates. Dad chats about some work investments with Cam and when I'm about ready to make my move to leave, Mom returns from the kitchen.
She drops a blue Tupperware container in my lap.
"These are for Mia. Lemon and blueberry muffins. They're her favorite." She gives me a pointed look. "Donotlet them go stale this time, Ryder Scott. I'm warning you."
Jeez.
To be fair, that look Mom's drilling into me is warranted. Last time, I carried them around for three days before working up the nerve to actually give them to her. By then, they were hard as hockey pucks.
"You do know I'm not her delivery boy," I protest weakly, despite already planning in my head how best to hand these to her.
"No, you're the boy who broke her heart." Mom's voice softens. "But you're trying to fix it, aren't you?"
"Mom, I—"
"Aren't you, dear?" Mom leans on the table and glares at me until I nod. "Good boy."
I stare at the container like it might explode.
These past few weeks at the shelter, washing kennels, hauling food bags, building the new fence all as part of the Icehawks Community Program… it's the happiest I've been since coming back to Iron Ridge.
And weirdly… it's not because of hockey.
It's because of her.
Because sometimes, when she thinks I'm not looking, Mia, my old high school girlfriend… she lets her guard drop. And in that sweet moment, I catch a glimpse of the girl who used to look at me like she did when we were younger.
That softening in her eyes, that almost-smile that flickers across her face before she remembers she's supposed to be mad at me.
It's like watching the sun peek through storm clouds. It's brief, breathtaking, but gone before you can really appreciate it.
Like yesterday, when I was wrestling with this massive Saint Bernard who decided my face needed cleaning. When I finally escaped the tongue bath and looked up, there she was… leaning against the doorframe, eyes crinkled at the corners, that dimple I used to kiss appearing for just a heartbeat before she schooled her expression back to professional indifference.
Those moments are worth all the heavy lifting, all the early mornings, all the ribbing I take from the guys in the locker room about spending my off-days scooping dog shit instead of sleeping in.
I live for those unguarded seconds, collecting them like precious souvenirs. Because they give me hope that maybe—just maybe—I haven't completely destroyed what we had.
Twenty minutes after saying goodbye to my parents, I'm sitting in my truck outside the shelter, muffins on the passenger seat, trying to convince myself this is a normal thing to do.
Just drop them off. Quick in and out. Don't make it weird.
Except everything about this is weird.
