Page 10 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I stare at Beckham’s text, stunned by his question. My pulse quickens, and my stomach gets all fluttery inside.

He asked me to go out with him.

Wait. Stop. NO.

He’s not being serious.

My senses return to normal, and I draw a breath of air to reset my head. Beckham is obviously taking great joy in messing with me like I am with him, and that’s all this is.

So why do I feel disappointed as this realization hits me?

I blink. Disappointed? How can I feel that? Beckham is only playing a part here, and he’s not the kind of guy I’d ever date in the real world.

Remember that Beckham, I sternly remind myself.

I decide to give him a reply before I get my dinner:

Okay. We can go out if YOU dare. Because I will not step foot inside a bar or club with you. If there’s a DJ spinning or bottle service involved? You’re on your own, Grumpy.

There. That should crack him up. I drop my phone back into my tote and head over to the buffet. I pick up a plate and begin to ponder the offerings. You can tell it’s the week before Thanksgiving because the menu decidedly falls on the holiday side of things. There’s a spiral-cut ham with an apricot glaze. Roast turkey and gravy and prime rib …

I opt for the ham, knowing I’ll get more than enough turkey next week. After all, I now have three Thanksgivings to attend. Mom’s, Dad’s, and one with Beckham.

Buzz!

My stomach tingles again. I know Beckham has replied, but I’m not going to look at my phone until I’m back at the table. I continue to fill my plate, and ooh, they have brioche rolls. I grab two of those and then some green beans and mashed potatoes. There. I can eat all this and sit like a lump in my seat the rest of the night, then go home and change into my Christmas pajamas, and find some holiday movie to fall asleep to.

Perfect.

I reach the table, and Sofia is eating while Aaron cuts up meat for the twins. I smile. Just from what I’ve witnessed tonight, I can tell he is a true co-parent. He helps with the girls, which is something my dad didn’t like to do. He liked to have fun with us, yes. But parenting? He dumped a lot of that on to my mom.

I definitely want to find a man who will co-parent. My husband won’t just show up for the good times, but help parent when things aren’t easy.

I put my plate down and smile at Sofia and Aaron. “That buffet is incredible. It’s going to take all my willpower not to go back for dessert.”

“Oh, you should,” she enthuses. “The desserts here are delicious.”

I glance down at the big piece of ham on my plate and think it would be terrible not to at least try a dessert. I mean, how many games will I be going to during the next month? A handful. I’ll never be at this level again.

“You might have convinced me,” I say. I retrieve my phone before hanging my tote on the back of my chair and glance down at the screen. Once again, my pulse quickens when I see Beckham has replied:

I take it back. Your nutcrackers aren’t maniacal. You are.

I smile. Another text follows that one:

Fine, we play by your rules, Cupcake. I know the timeout I’ve been placed in. We’ll do something more your speed. I’m bored going straight back to my hotel room every night and I could use a change of scenery.

Ah. So that’s why I got the invite. Well, it makes sense, right? He barely knows his teammates, and for all I know, a lot of them have significant others to go home to.

So that fuzzy, tingly feeling in my stomach? It was stupid to have that response in the first place. I text him back:

I know a place that’s open late night that has killer shakes.

Then I hit send and resume eating. This ham is way better than the dried-out stuff my mom throws down on the Thanksgiving buffet. This is delicious. I’m about to take another bite when my phone buzzes again.

Beckham has answered:

Cupcake, is it 1955? You want to go out for SHAKES?

I can’t help it. Laughter escapes my lips, and both Aaron and Sofia look at me.

“Sorry,” I say, blotting my lips with a napkin. “Beckham just sent me the funniest text.”

I don’t miss the look exchanged between them.

“No, it’s no big deal,” I explain. “We’re going to hang out after the game. I told him I would go get a shake with him and he finds that very strange.”

Aaron snorts. “I bet.”

Buzz!

Fine. Your terms. We’ll get a shake.

I grin and reply:

Just to be clear, these aren’t boozy shakes, Grumpy.

Beckham is typing …

Please, I know I’m going out with the Sugar Plum Fairy. I’ll brace myself for an implosion of sugar and sprinkles.

I giggle at that and put my phone down—and try to avoid the curious stares of Sofia and Aaron.

“Is he going to do that?” she finally asks.

I nod as I finish another bite of my dinner. “Yep. I told him these aren’t boozy shakes, so he shouldn’t get his hopes up, and he called me the Sugar Plum Fairy and said he understood.”

More silence.

More staring at me.

“That’s interesting,” Aaron finally says as he cuts up another piece of ham for Stella.

“Very, very interesting,” Sofia adds slowly.

My neck grows hot under their scrutiny. “He’s bored, that’s all there is to it,” I say simply. “And look at the positive! He’s not going to a bar. The wildest thing at the place I’m taking him to is espresso.”

“You know what, Georgie?” Sofia says. “I think you are going to be a bigger influence on him than any of us ever could have imagined.”

Despite myself, my heart does that weird flutter thing inside my chest.

With a jolt, I realize it matches that feeling in my stomach.

Just like that, a new Swiftie song appears in my head.

“Blank Space.”

And for tonight, at least, I’ve already written Beckham Bailey’s name in it.

* * *

Tonight was incredible.

I’m still on a high as I walk with Sofia, Aaron, and the girls—both now in Elsa braids wrapped around their heads—to the family lounge after the game. The Manatees won, 2-1, and I had no idea hockey was so much fun to watch.

Or that watching Beckham made the game infinitely more interesting.

I know I’m getting myself into so much trouble. But it was fun to cheer him on with his family tonight. I winced when he crashed against the glass. Cheered for him when he took a shot. Even though he didn’t score, Aaron told me he was playing well tonight. He pointed out that Beckham’s passing put the Manatees into position to score one of the goals, and that was exciting to discover.

And I won’t deny that seeing Beckham on the ice was hot. I loved the way his inked skin peeked out from underneath his jersey sleeves. There was also one moment when he lifted his jersey to wipe some sweat off his chin and I nearly choked on the Diet Coke I was drinking when I saw what was underneath.

A completely ripped torso.

Every single one of Beckham’s abs was defined and chiseled. That simple flash of the body underneath that jersey was enough to make heat rush through me. His body was like nothing I had ever seen before. Pure, raw muscle and strength.

And it was the hottest thing ever.

“This is the family lounge,” Sofia says, interrupting my thoughts. “As Beckham’s girlfriend, you can come here whenever you attend a game. Before, during, after—whatever you like.”

I hesitate on the threshold of the room as Sofia and Aaron enter with the girls. This will involve more lying. I cringe. None of these realities hit me when I first agreed to be Beckham’s girlfriend. I look around, spotting gorgeous women dressed in killer designer shoes and clothing, and some even have jackets or tops with the name and number of their significant other on them.

These women are most likely going to welcome me into this fold, never suspecting I’m only here to rehab Beckham’s image.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people,” Sofia says breezily.

I decide I won’t feel guilty. I’ll be gone in a month, a blip on the radar, and I’m still doing what I am being paid to do—help Beckham establish himself as a serious, committed player on his new team.

Before long, I’m introduced to a bunch of women, and I do my best to try and remember their names and player affiliation.

I repress a grin as I see some curious looks at what I’ve chosen to wear this evening. Let’s just say my maniacal nutcracker sweater is a standout in the land of wives’ and girlfriends’ fashion.

I make small talk and tell the same origin story I used on my mom. We were introduced through Sofia, and we had a first date that went so well, we decided to be exclusive straightaway.

Stella and Lucy begin to get cranky—I know it’s way past their bedtime—and I’m about to encourage Sofia and Aaron to leave when players begin walking into the lounge.

I keep my eyes peeled on the doorway as player after player walks in. Then I see who I have been waiting for.

Beckham.

My lips part in surprise. Because he’s absolutely breathtaking.

His dark brown hair is tousled and swept off his forehead. Beckham’s dressed in a gray suit with a white dress shirt. There’s no tie, and the shirt is open at the neck to reveal his tanned skin that has no doubt been kissed by the Miami sun. A white pocket square is in his pocket, a nice attention to detail on his part. I can’t help but let my eyes roam over him, taking in how his trousers hug those massive, athletic thighs of his that have been built by skating.

I shift my gaze upward to his face, and I suck in a breath in response to what I find.

Because Beckham is already staring at me.

My heart thumps wildly. The words to “Blank Space” roll in my head. Beckham smiles and walks toward us, and I feel my body becoming a complete mess.

“Uncle Beckham!” Lucy cries, thrusting her tiny arms out toward him as he joins us.

He grins and takes her from Sofia’s arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he teases, kissing her on the cheek.

My heart instantly shifts gears from thumping to melting as I see how he is with his niece.

“We’re about to go,” Aaron says, holding Stella’s hand as she tries to get back to the play center that is in the lounge. “We didn’t want to abandon Georgie at her very first hockey game.”

“Speaking of that,” Beckham says, fishing in his suit pocket, “I have something for you, Georgie.”

Curious, I watch as he pulls out a hockey puck with a piece of masking tape on it. “Here. Whenever you have a big occasion in hockey, you get to keep the puck. Like first goal, for example. Well, this is your first game so I thought you should have it.”

What’s left of my heart has officially become a puddle as he holds the puck out to me. I take it and glance down at the tape, which says: “Georgie’s First Game” with today’s date on it.

I glance up at him and find his eyes completely locked on mine. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe you did this for me.”

“I had a random lapse of thoughtfulness,” he says, grinning at me.

“I’d say.” Sofia’s eyes shift from Beckham to me and back to Beckham.

He shoots her a look, a look like one I give Ella when I want her to shut up.

And seeing that look makes my pulse quicken in excitement.

“I think it’s time for us to get these girls to bed,” Aaron says cheerfully, changing the subject.

Goodbyes are said, and then it’s just me and Beckham. “Come on, Cupcake,” he says. “Let’s go have this retro date you’re insisting on.”

“You will not regret it,” I assure him as he leads me back out into the caverns of the arena. “And this is a real treat, because they launched their Christmas flavors this month and I haven’t had a chance to try them.”

“Does Christmas ever turn off in your brain?”

I grin. “Not really. I’m always sad when the season is over, but all year-round I’m looking for things for my collection.”

He lifts an eyebrow at me. “Do you have a warehouse to store all your Christmas shit in?”

“No!”

Beckham doesn’t need to know about the climate-controlled storage unit I have rented specifically for that purpose.

We reach an area of the arena that is manned by security, and I see row after row of expensive sports cars.

“Care to guess which one is mine?” he asks, stopping at the threshold.

“If you’re letting me guess, I’m assuming you don’t have a license plate that says BECKS,” I tease.

“No. I don’t need to make it that easy for fans to follow me.”

I never thought of that. Fans probably do try to follow him. I would hate that part of being famous.

Actually, I would hate a lot of it.

Which is probably why I’m trying to make a living painting jars, where I’m left alone to be creative.

I clear my throat. “It has to be something fast and sporty,” I say, skimming over the rows of vehicles. “Hmm. That appears to be a thread here.”

“Yes, but there are Bentleys and Mercedes.”

“Yes, but that’s not you. At least not at this point in your life.”

“Interesting. Okay, go on. Which one?”

I narrow down my choices between a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a Porsche.

“I’m going to go with the Lamborghini,” I say.

Beckham makes a noise like a buzzer when you give the incorrect answer on a game show.

“You aren’t even close,” he says. “I drive a Bronco.”

A Bronco. This completely surprises me. I’d never picture him in a car that wasn’t flashy, or the price of a home. “I did you wrong,” I declare. “I totally saw you in some insane sports car.”

We resume walking toward the gray Bronco. “Well, in full transparency, I do have a sports car in storage right now. Once I have my house and a garage, I’ll get it out. But I kind of associate my sports car with my wild nights, so for now, I’m mothballing it. This Bronco works just fine.”

My brain zeroes in on that. “You really want to change from the person you were in Denver, don’t you?”

Beckham stops walking. “I wouldn’t be doing all of this if I didn’t. I know I messed up, Georgie. But the more I think about it? Do I want to be the man I was?” He pauses and looks around, making sure nobody is within earshot of us. “I understand now how I have to take the game seriously. But I also see that if I want to attract the right kind of people into my life, I can’t be the person I was before.”

I feel my heartbeat quicken inside my chest. These don’t sound like the words of a man who merely wants to play a part for a month for damage control with a new team.

These sound like the words of a man who is truly ready to change.

“You just have to be true to yourself,” I encourage quietly. “If that’s the person you want to be, then you can be him, Beckham.”

Our eyes meet. I think I can hear my heart beating, it’s so loud.

“Right,” he says simply. Then he clears his throat and walks over to the passenger side of his SUV, opening the door for me. “Do you need a lift up?” he teases.

“No,” I say, climbing up into the Bronco. “But thank you for the kind offer. That was gentlemanly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t get used to it. I did that by accident. I’m not a gentleman.”

I smile smugly at him. “You are, and you don’t even know it.”

“Hmph.”

I watch as he walks around to his side of the car. He opens the back door and takes a moment to slip out of his suit jacket, draping it across the back seat. Then I watch as Beckham unbuttons his cuffs, and holy mother of God, he’s rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Is there anything sexier than a good-looking man with his shirtsleeves rolled up?

I tear my gaze away from him, so I don’t get caught looking, and consider my answer to that question.

Nope. There’s not.

Beckham finally opens the driver’s side door, slipping behind the wheel. His inked arms are visible from the wrists to right below the elbows, where the tattoos disappear beneath the fabric of the white dress shirt. One arm has a huge watch on it; the other has leather bracelets.

I have so many questions I want to ask, so I decide to just ask them.

“You never told me about your tattoos at dinner last night,” I point out as he turns on the engine.

“That’s a personal question.”

I know he’s teasing me by the smug smile on his handsome face.

“Well, then make something up, because it’s part of our origin story.”

He snorts. “The origin story again.”

“Beckham. It’s important. I want to get the details right. I mean, what if one of the women in the family lounge would have asked me how we met? I couldn’t say your sister picked me up at a craft show!”

“But my sister did pick you up at a craft show. That’s actually a truthful thing we can say. I think that’s the start of our story.”

“That’s fine, your sister thought I’d be perfect for you after meeting me at a craft show,” I say as he winds his way out of the arena garage. “Now tell me about your ink.”

“I highly doubt anyone is going to ask you about my ink.”

Damn. He’s probably right about that.

“But it will help me get a better picture of who you are. The deeper we can get into character, the better.”

“Wait, am I a character or me?” Beckham asks.

“I’d rather have you, but I’ll work with whatever you give me.”

“Oh, what a little gamer you are,” he teases.

“Come on, Beckham. Tell me about your tattoos.”

We drive out onto the street. “Wait, where am I going? Please tell me it’s not some retro diner with a drive-in.”

“No, smart aleck, it’s not, but I should find one just for you,” I declare. “Anyway, I’ll pull it up on Google Maps for you.”

I enter the address into my phone, and soon Beckham is being given directions to the gourmet shake bar in South Beach.

“This is so weird,” he says as he drives. “Thanksgiving is next week, but I’m somewhere with ocean breezes and palm trees. It screws with my mind.”

“It’s so funny because this is all I’ve ever known,” I reply. “Oh, speaking of Thanksgiving, Sofia said I should stop by for pie. And social media opportunities.”

Beckham snorts. “She’s taking this way too seriously. I mean, she uprooted her family to Miami for a month, that’s insane.”

“I think that says how much she loves you and is worried about you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and a sad expression passes over his face.

“My family is like that,” he says. “The only reason Mom and Dad aren’t here is because they run an inn in Wisconsin. They always host a big Thanksgiving dinner for their guests, and they book out a year in advance. But they wanted to refund all their guests and come down here to make sure I got straightened out. They only backed off when Sofia and Aaron promised to come over from Atlanta and do it for them.”

“Really?” I ask, fascinated by this.

Beckham makes a right turn and stops at the red light. “Yeah.” He pauses and rubs his hand over his mouth. “It’s freaking embarrassing is what it is. I put them through a lot of shit during my time in college and my stint in Denver. They saw the social media posts. They made it clear they expected more from their son and were worried about the crap that was going down. But I had gotten so arrogant by that point, I thought I was invincible. All that mattered was my performance on the ice. Until it didn’t,” he adds quietly.

It’s another vulnerable confession from him, and it’s so brave of him to say these things at all, let alone to someone he doesn’t know very well.

“But you understand it now,” I remind him, my voice firm. “And you’re determined to change. You wouldn’t be here with me, driving to get a milkshake, if you didn’t care.”

He draws a breath of air and exhales slowly. “That doesn’t make up for the fact that I willingly chose to make them worry because having fun was my priority. I … I hate myself for that.”

The confession hangs in the air between us. It’s a powerful admission from Beckham, and it’s obvious his mistakes are still weighing heavily on him.

“Have you told them this?” I ask quietly.

He scowls as the light turns green. “Of course I have. I’m not a complete ass.”

“Then you need to let this guilt go and be gentle with yourself. You acknowledged how your mistakes impacted them. You apologized. Now here you are, desperate to do better. You’re even going along with having a fake girlfriend, and that speaks volumes about how much you want to try and make all of this right. Please give yourself credit for that.”

The scowl is replaced by a look of surprise. “You think that,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

“I do. And I’ve decided that you’re going to believe it, too.”

He grins. “Oh, is that a fact?”

“Yes. I’ll have you believing in that along with the magic of Christmas by December twenty-fifth.”

Beckham groans. “You were doing so well until you threw Christmas in there.”

“I know, I couldn’t resist. Your buttons are fun to push.”

Oops! I didn’t mean to say that! His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I feel my neck flame with embarrassment. Thank God it’s dark out and he can’t see that my pale skin is turning a deep red with that slip of the tongue.

I clear my throat before he has a chance to comment on that statement. “That’s interesting that your parents own an inn.”

“Yeah, they have a place up on the Chain O’ Lakes. I bought it for them after I signed with Denver.”

“Wow. That’s an incredible gift.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. The whole family sacrificed so I could follow this hockey dream. Time. Money. Everything. Hockey came ahead of everything else. None of them ever complained, but I knew it. So I promised myself I would make dreams come true for all of them once I was paid. So I retired my parents and got them the inn they always dreamed of running. I paid off Sofia’s student loan debt, so she and Aaron don’t have that responsibility anymore. They were easy things to do.”

I’m touched by the way he speaks of this. To Beckham, it’s so logical and obvious—taking care of the people who sacrificed so much and took care of him to help him live his dream. He recognizes and acknowledges what his family has done for him, and he wants to pay them back for their sacrifices. This is part of the core of who he is—and I’m drawn to it more than I care to admit.

“So Thanksgiving will be Sofia, Aaron, and the girls?” I ask.

“And Aaron’s parents. They’re coming over from Atlanta. They’re good people,” Beckham says. Then a wicked grin passes over his face. “They also have no clue about this fake relationship. So we get to share our fake relationship three times on Thanksgiving.”

“Then we have to get serious about this origin story!” I say, alarmed. “I have to be ready by next Thursday!”

“Relax, it will be fine,” Beckham says breezily, as if a million things might not go wrong with this scenario. “It’s our first Thanksgiving together, they won’t expect you to know that I hate green bean casserole.”

“You do?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m neutral on it.”

“It’s disgusting and I hate it. There you go, you can impress them by knowing that.”

I groan. He grins.

A few minutes later, Beckham is pulling up in front of the milkshake bar. “Now this is a kind of bar I never thought I’d go to,” he quips as he turns off the car.

“It’s amazing,” I say excitedly.

“You need to get out more, Cupcake.”

I pretend to glare at him, and he laughs again.

I like the sound of his laugh .

We get out of the SUV and walk along the street in South Beach. People are still milling around on this Sunday night, sitting on restaurant terraces and coming out of bars. I glance up at Beckham, whose profile is lit up the with the glow of the streetlights and all the neon coming off the bars and restaurants we pass.

“Stay strong, Beckham. Ignore the siren song,” I tease as we walk past a club that has a line out the door.

“No, I’m committed to the shake,” he says dryly.

An ocean breeze drifts across us, which I really need as I’m still in my maniacal nutcracker sweater. It ruffles through Beckham’s thick, dark locks, and a piece of hair falls down across his forehead, which he reaches up and pushes back into place.

“Here we are,” I say as we approach the milkshake bar.

“I hope I meet the dress code for entrance,” Beckham teases. “I’d hate to be turned away by the shake bouncer.”

I crack up at that, and he grins at me. Just as we reach the door, he turns and stands in front of it, as if blocking my entry. “I have one condition if you want me to go inside with you,” he says.

“Um, I think it’s too late. We’re at the door.”

“I don’t have to go inside,” Beckham challenges, his eyes sparkling mischievously at me.

Mischievous never looked so hot.

“Go on.”

“I told you some stuff in the car that I haven’t told anyone else,” he says, suddenly turning serious. “Not even Sofia.”

My chest flutters.

“I will go in and, God forbid, spend my night after a win drinking a shake, but only if you agree to share some of yourself with me, too. Not just this Pinkmas obsession. I want to know more. So what’s it going to be, Georgie?”