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 thatclimbs 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?
