Page 16 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

EllaBella : IT’S FRIENDSGIVING NIGHT! WHO IS EXCITED????

Chloe With a C Not K : OMG. I am so ready for a night out. This week has been brutal, and Lord knows, they won’t let us leave work early next Wednesday for the holiday. Or if they do, it will be a generous five-thirty dismissal. Because I work for TYRANTS.

Emilee: I’m already studying the menu and picking out what I’m going to order. I think it’s time for STEAKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

I glance at the messages as they roll across my phone on Tuesday afternoon. I’ve spent all morning working on my jars—painting, prepping new ones to paint next, and assessing my inventory for the big Christmas show next Saturday. Meanwhile, my twin and our friends are at work, but obviously not working.

The conversation continues on. Every year the week before Thanksgiving, we all meet up for a girls’ night out dinner. We dress up, save our funds, and splurge on a nice meal, then usually go dancing afterward.

Emilee : INCOMING straight off the MIAMI MANATEES STORY SHARE. I bring you BECKS IN A SUIT.

My heart leaps inside my chest the second I see what Emilee has typed. Then a link drops in, and I click it, seeing Beckham walking across the tarmac, dressed in a lush suit and carrying a Louis Vuitton duffel bag.

Holy mother of God, that’s hot .

Chloe with a C not a K: They have to wear suits to travel? That’s annoying.

Emilee: No, that’s HOT.

EllaBella: Do you never go on TikTok? They show players in suits ALL THE TIME. They have to wear them to go to games.

Chloe with a C not a K: I need to spend more time on TikTok. Georgie, he’s GORGEOUS. How do you keep your hands off him? I’d have to remind myself all the time that he’s fake.

Emilee: He’s not fake, the relationship is. I’d have a hard time with that. Because look at him. I’d want to devour him every second he was around! Does he smell good, Georgie? I bet he does.

EllaBella: He does. Nice cologne.

Emilee: I KNEW IT. Damn. Looks good, tattoos, and smells divine. GEORGIE, I WANT YOUR LIFE.

I go back to working on my jars, biting my lower lip as the conversation rolls around in my head. What they don’t understand is how much more there is to Beckham than how beautiful he looks in a suit. He’s grumpy, but sweet. He sees me and validates my thoughts. He’s opened up to me and shared things nobody else knows. Beckham might have a bad reputation, but he’s vulnerable. He makes me laugh like nobody else can and … he merely sees me as his likeable fake girlfriend.

God, what have I gotten myself into? I’m going to end up heartbroken by the end of this. I know I am.

I look down at the jar in my hand. This is the whole reason I agreed to this. To save Georgie’s Jars. This Christmas show next Saturday is at the convention center, and I spent a lot of money to reserve the table space. With this being the biggest show I’ve ever booked, and Beckham showing up and blasting it on social media, I have to hope I’ll not only come out of this in the black, but it will start me on a trajectory to grow my career.

But now it’s starting to become a bit more complicated than that.

There’s a rap on the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Come in,” I say.

Mom pops open the door and steps into the room. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” I say, smiling at her. “I should be finished in an hour or so.”

She nods. “Do you think you’ll sell a lot next weekend?”

GAH, I know where this conversation is going.

“Hopefully, yes,” I say calmly. “I have all the trendy Christmas colors ready to go, festive add-ons like ornaments and painted wooden spoons, and I just have to keep my fingers crossed people are in the festive spirit and ready to buy decor and gifts.”

Mom’s lips twist in thought. “It’s been rough, though, with the economy lately. Like I’d never spend that much on a painted jar.”

And here it comes.

“But that’s you,” I say calmly. “Other people might have the money to spend on a hand-painted Mason jar.”

“I don’t get it.”

My heart sinks. Our conversations always come back to this point, and it not only makes me sad, but puts infinitely more pressure on me to do better.

“I’m trusting my gut,” I say, which is an answer I use a lot with Mom.

“I sincerely hope you have a back-up plan for this because, darling girl, this seems like a fantasy job.” Then she brightens. “But if you can nail down Beckham Bailey, who cares? You can paint all the jars you want and never sell a single one.”

OMG.

This is going to be her new path for my success. I’ve got to “nail down” Beckham to save myself.

“Mom, we just started dating,” I manage to say. “Who knows where we’ll be next week, let alone in the future?”

“Well, if I were you? I’d put serious thought into that future bit.”

I grind my teeth. No wonder why I have to wear a night guard when I sleep—my mother is single-handedly giving me TMJ.

“Well, I’ve got to run,” Mom says. “I just wanted to say goodbye because you’ll probably be gone by the time I come back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Mom.”

She turns and leaves the room, and a heaviness settles over me. Hopefully I can get rid of it before girls’ night out, because I don’t want to be a black cloud on everyone else.

I bring up “Shake It Off” on my playlist and let the music fill the air, using it almost as a sage cleansing to get negative vibes away from me.

I smile to myself. I’ll have to tell Beckham that one, he’ll think it’s funny.

Buzz!

I glance down at my phone, expecting to see more conversation in the group thread.

But it’s not.

It’s a message from Beckham.

A thrill sweeps over me when I see it. I quickly tap on it, my brain ignoring how excited I am that he has texted me.

Just stepped on the plane. How is the painting going?

I snap a picture of my work area and send it to him, accompanied by a message:

It’s been a productive morning. I’ve also done my inventory for the show, and I’ll have that grouped up and ready to go for setup.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

I can help you with that.

What? I know his agreement is to show up and tag me on social media, but not once was it ever said I would be dragging him to the convention center to do manual labor. I reply:

Beckham, you are NOT going to help me schlep jars to the convention center.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Cupcake. I assure you my work in the weight room has made it possible for me to lift a box of JARS.

I can’t help but smile at that. I respond:

Grumpy, I have no doubt of your muscular ability to carry Mason jars or even—gasp!—push a dolly. But can you set up a folding table? Get the tablecloth on just right? Arrange jars in a way that appeals to the consumer’s eye? Understand how colors and items need to be grouped in a specific way to entice a consumer to purchase? I have to have these questions answered before I consider adding you to the team at Georgie’s Jars.

I chuckle and wait for him to reply. Which he does:

Since when did you start speaking in tongues?

I snicker at that.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

I’ve got to turn my phone off. About to take off. I’ll check in when I get to Orlando. I’ve got to keep an eye on you and make sure you aren’t running around Miami spray painting every tree you see some glitter sparkle pink.

I type back a quick reply:

The world would be better with more sparkling Pinkmas trees.

I grin, picturing the eye-rolling this message will get when he reads it.

And despite myself, my heart flutters a bit when I think of the reply I’ll receive from Beckham.

* * *

I retrieve my brush and dip it into my bronzer, carefully applying it across the tops of my cheekbones, singing along with “Delicate” as it plays from my Bluetooth speaker.

And you know, thinking about Beckham because he’s been texting me since he landed in Orlando. He’s getting ready to get dinner with some teammates, while I’m getting ready for Friendsgiving with my sister and friends.

Buzz!

I glance down and see I have a new message from him:

I’ve been told I’m going to a place called Sam’s Steak. I’ll let you take a stab at what I’ll be eating tonight.

I put down my bronzer brush and reply:

We’re eating Italian. I plan to eat a copious amount of pasta tonight.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

You’re the only person I know who uses words like copious in real life.

I grin. I’m sure that makes me odd to him, but hopefully interesting, too. I text him back:

As opposed to the fake people you know who use words like copious in an alternate reality?

“Georgie, I need to raid your lipstick stash,” Ella announces as she comes into my bathroom. “I don’t think any of my reds have the right tone for my shirt.”

I glance at her. She’s wearing a cherry-red top with cutouts at the sleeves and a hem that hits right above her waistline, giving just a flash of her toned stomach. It’s very sexy and looks perfect on her.

“Sure,” I say. “Help yourself.”

Ella slides out my drawer and begins looking through my collection. “This is where it’s handy having an artist for a twin,” she says as she peruses my makeup. “You have everything in various shades.”

Buzz!

I glance down at my phone, and Beckham has replied:

I see we’ve gone from maniacal nutcracker mode to smart ass.

“You’re talking to Beckham, aren’t you?”

I blink. Ella’s blue eyes—a mirror of my own—are astutely locked on my face.

“Yes.”

A look of worry passes over her features, and I decide I need to be more engrossed in applying my makeup.

“I’m going to say something,” she announces.

Oh, please don’t , I think as I open up my blush.

“And I know you’re thinking don’t, but I’m going ahead anyway,” she continues.

I steel myself. That’s the downside of being a twin. Ella can read things about me nobody else can.

Well, that’s not exactly true anymore. Beckham has picked up on some things nobody else has, too.

“You’re developing a crush on Becks,” Ella says slowly. “And Georgie, I don’t blame you. He’s gorgeous. A hockey superstar. You haven’t even begun this fake dating process in earnest yet, and I’m worried you’re going to end up with a broken heart by the time New Year’s rolls around.”

I swallow hard. Ella isn’t saying anything I haven’t thought myself.

“I know,” I confess, my voice barely audible.

“Oh, Georgie, I don’t want to bring you down, I really don’t, but I just want you to try and protect your heart. Just be aware of what the situation is.”

Oh, Ella, I’m all too aware of what the situation is, I think miserably . I’m about to be Beckham’s fake girlfriend. We launch on Thanksgiving, we roll through Christmas, and tie things up with a bow and declare it over by New Year’s Eve.

Beckham has made it clear I’m a person he’s fond of, not someone he would ever want to date.

Fond of in the same way he would be of someone named Aunt Edna, for example. I wince at that comparison, wishing it weren’t true.

But it is.

Beckham has made it clear that is the only way he’ll ever look at me. I’d be wise to remember it.

No matter how much it hurts.

* * *

“We have to get a picture here!” Emilee cries, moving over to a spot in the restaurant that is one hundred percent Connectivity Story Share worthy. “And Georgie, you need to turn a bit so you can show off that fabulous open back on your top!”

Emilee is all about recording the moment—it plays into her career as a social media strategist—and I expect nothing less than for her to find a visually perfect spot for a photo.

This restaurant is in South Beach, and we’re lucky enough to have been seated outside, underneath a wooden trellis with stunning pendant lights suspended from it. Also adding to the charm are bare trees lit up with twinkling clear Christmas lights. There are sofas and tables, and blue and white fabrics are used throughout the space for a coastal vibe.

Emilee approaches the hostess to ask if she can snap a picture before we are seated at the table.

“Of course,” she says cheerfully.

We all stand in front of one of the lighted trees, and I make sure to turn so I’m looking over my shoulder. I went with a sparkly pink blouse that dips low in the back and paired it with black wide-legged trousers. My hair is done up in braids around the top of my head, and I feel festive and beautiful this evening.

“Okay, on the count of three,” the hostess says. “One, two, three.”

The picture is taken, and then we are seated at our table. Emilee texts it to our group chat, and I take a moment to study it. I’m next to my twin, whose face is lit up with happiness. Next to her is Emilee, her best friend since they met during sorority rush at FSU. On my other side is Chloe, who has been my best friend since preschool. Emilee works as a social media assistant for a large furniture chain here in Miami, while Chloe works as a financial data analyst for a taco restaurant group.

Fun fact? She hates tacos.

I go ahead and upload the picture to Connectivity Story Share, as all of us look so good in it. I tag everyone, write a quick caption about it being our annual Friendsgiving dinner, and then set my phone aside.

“It’s time for a cocktail,” Ella declares, flipping her leather-bound menu open to the drinks page. I flip to the same page, studying my options. Sadly, there are no Christmas-inspired cocktails on the menu yet, so I decide to go with a glass of red wine.

The second our drink orders are in, Chloe turns to me, her hazel eyes dancing expectantly. “Okay, we’ve waited long enough. Spill everything about you know who,” she blurts out.

“Well, that’s a subtle way to introduce the topic,” I tease.

Chloe arches a perfectly penciled eyebrow up at me. “Since when have I ever been subtle?”

Hmm. That’s an incredibly fair point.

“I want to know how a girl gets this gig,” Emilee says, tucking a lock of her long chestnut-brown hair behind one ear and causing it to cascade over her spaghetti-strapped shoulder. “Like why am I posting about the joys of stain-resistant sofas on Connectivity Story Share when you’re being paid to do something very different?”

I love how my friends smartly know not to bring up Beckham without using code in a public space.

“Right?” Chloe chimes in. “I have to run numbers on tacos—not the glam job I envisioned when I was getting my degree at UM—but Georgie gets to live out a fantasy .”

“It’s right out of BookTok,” Ella adds sagely, nodding for emphasis.

And she says it so reverently and seriously, I burst into a fit of giggles.

“You all are acting like this is my real job,” I say, staring back at them in amusement. “It’s not. This is all for Georgie’s Jars and to clean up his image. Then poof! Just like Cinderella at midnight, it’s all going to be over.”

“So what? Even if it’s a temporary assignment, I’d take it,” Emilee declares.

Another server appears, setting down a basket of assorted breads and pots of butter with sea salt flakes over the top. We all reach for some, and conversation continues as I slather my bread with butter.

“What is Mr. You Know Who really like, Georgie? Do you get the impression he’ll go back to his ways once he’s settled here in Miami?” Chloe asks, taking a bite of her bread.

I set down my knife, thinking of the conversations I’ve had with Beckham since I met him. “No, I don’t think he will. He’s determined to learn from his mistakes. He’s going through all of this to prove a point, you know? That he can be mature, settled, and serious.”

“But he could prove that without a girlfriend,” she points out.

“The girlfriend angle helps,” Emilee counters, stepping in with her social media expertise. “It’s something he can show, and it’s something that resonates with people. Happy Mr. You Know Who with sweet girlfriend, doing mundane couple things and sharing on Story Share? Huge points.”

“That’s fair,” Chloe concedes. “You launch next week, right?”

Drinks are now brought to the table, and I take a sip of wine before answering. “Yes. Thanksgiving Day.”

“This is crazy,” Ella says, shaking her head.

“Do you get to fake kiss him?” Emilee asks, grinning.

My cheeks and neck flame with heat. “No,” I say, “I will not.”

“You need a better contract. I totally would have worked that in for you,” Ella teases.

I bet you would have worked in some whipped cream and sprinkles, too , I think mischievously.

Then I get a flash of me being covered in whipped cream and having sex with Beckham, and I suddenly want to shout with absurd laughter, fan myself, and blush some more all at the same time.

I’m a mess. The textbook definition of a hot freaking mess.

“You know, fake dating might be the way to go,” Chloe muses. “You get the perks of dating, like going out, but you know exactly what you are getting. No surprises.”

“I want a Jordan,” Emilee declares. “He’s hot, sweet, smart, loyal … a combination I’ve never had the joy of experiencing first-hand.”

Emilee’s last boyfriend cheated on her, and she’s just recovered enough from the devastation to attempt dating again. Meanwhile, Chloe hasn’t dated since her last relationship imploded over the summer.

The server returns to our table to take our orders, but none of us have even looked at the menu options yet. We all focus on selecting something to eat, and I go to the pastas, trying to decide between the rigatoni with vodka sauce or the spaghetti with crab when my phone pings with a notification.

I absently glance down, as that sound is set for my Connectivity Story Share, but freeze when I see it’s a comment on the photo I just posted. But it isn’t just any comment:

@BecksBailey HEY NOW

My heart slams against my ribs. I stare at it, stunned that I’m seeing Beckham’s name, let alone a comment.

I go straight back to our conversation over shakes, when I told him I wasn’t the kind of girl that a guy said “hey now” over. Now Beckham is telling me he sees me as exactly that kind of girl.

The fact that he’s checking out my Story Share and making that comment in public?

Something has changed.

I try to repress the hope that is rising within me.

It could be nothing, I tell myself.

Or it could be everything.

And I won’t know until I see him again on Thanksgiving exactly what this means.