Page 17 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

On Wednesday night, I settle in on the sofa with a salmon salad, iced tea with lemon, and Winston. Ella and Jordan went out to meet some friends for dinner and drinks, so I have my twinkling Christmassy wonderland of an apartment all to myself to enjoy this evening.

Except I’m not in the mood to enjoy Christmas.

I’m in the mood to watch hockey.

Well, that’s a half truth. I’m in the mood to watch hockey, but only if Beckham is playing.

I reach for the remote and put it on the channel for Total Access Total Sports. As the Miami Manatees pregame show appears on my screen, I feel a bunch of butterflies take off in my stomach. The announcers are talking while they show players warm up on the ice, and I quickly look for Beckham’s number 92.

They don’t show him—damn it—but I can’t stop thinking about his “hey now” comment on my Connectivity Story Share. Beckham didn’t explain it—and I was too chicken to ask, because I was afraid he’d tell me he was joking or something.

I should want to know the truth.

I know that.

But my heart doesn’t want to know.

I posted more pics from the evening as we went dancing and I had a blast with my sister and friends, and Beckham liked each one.

Then there was the text he sent this morning:

Looks like you had a lot of fun last night.

Immediately followed by this one:

You looked beautiful, Georgie.

I get goose bumps as I see that text in my head again, as I have on and off all day.

He called me beautiful.

Yet, just like the “hey now” comment, I know it could mean absolutely nothing.

Or it could be everything.

I simply texted him back a thank you, terrified of misreading his message and making a fool of myself. Or worse, making our working relationship awkward with a wrong assumption.

We sent texts back and forth about our days, and I learned a bit more about Beckham’s routine on the road. Team breakfast in a hotel ballroom. Grab coffee from the hotel coffee shop. Then jump on the team bus to go to the arena, where they have an on-ice training session. Then back to the hotel for lunch and a pregame nap.

I think about this as I keep my eyes peeled for a Beckham shot. They go to the announcers in the booth instead, and I frown in annoyance.

Obviously, the TV gods are going to deny me any glimpse of Beckham before the game starts.

I go back to my thoughts about his life on the road. It’s not nearly as glamorous as I pictured it to be. Sure, he’s staying in posh hotels and flies in chartered jets, but it’s a monotonous routine. As Beckham explained, it’s all the same, city after city. The only time it changes is when you have a night off, then you can go to a restaurant or a movie. Like last night, he went to the steakhouse with some teammates. But other than that? He barely sees the city he’s in.

Beckham did post a pic from dinner—he was with two other teammates. Of course, what did I do this morning before I started painting? I looked them up, obviously.

To my surprise, they were two brothers—Wyatt and Aiden Wentworth. When I brought this up to Ella, she jumped on her version of Google—Connectivity Story Share—and discovered they’re the darlings of women everywhere. Her search found loads of videos made by adoring fans. I mean, I get it. Wyatt and Aiden are cute.

As is Beckham, who also has what seems like thousands of videos devoted to him on Connectivity Story Share.

Not that I watched thousands of videos of Beckham.

I glance over at Winston, who is staring at me from the floor, and I swear his expression is judgmental.

I flush. “Winnie, maybe I watched an hour’s worth of videos,” I say to him. “For research. I’m his fake girlfriend, I should know what women are saying about him on Connectivity.”

Which turns out to be quite a lot.

And they do things like call him Daddy.

I sigh and refocus my attention on the TV. They’re getting ready to start the game, and I know Beckham isn’t on what’s called the first line. He plays on the second, so I’ll see him when the first group goes off the ice.

I find myself feeling anxious, which is so weird. I didn’t feel this way when I saw him play in person. How is this happening?

As the players head to the circle in the middle of the ice, I pick up a throw cushion and hug it to my chest. I know what’s different.

When I saw him play in person, we hadn’t gone out for milkshakes. Had that great conversation. Nor had I had dinner with his family and seen how he played with his nieces.

I hadn’t started to crush on him like I am now, I think as the puck is dropped.

I decide for my own sanity I need to ignore this very uncomfortable self-analysis and try to focus on the game.

Oh! The first group of Manatees are starting to skate over to the bench, and players begin to jump over the wall. I feel my heartbeat quicken in anticipation.

Sure enough, number 92 flashes before my eyes on the screen.

I follow Beckham on the ice. Or more like when the TV coverage allows me to. Suddenly, one of the Manatee players gets the puck away from the Orlando player.

“Here comes a two on zero rush by the Manatees,” one of the announcers says excitedly.

I see Beckham coming down one side, and Wyatt Wentworth down the other. There’s not an Orlando player in sight. I hold my breath as they head toward the net.

“Wentworth to Bailey,” the announcer continues as Wyatt passes the puck to him.

Beckham takes his shot. BAM! It whizzes between the goalie’s legs and hits the back of the net.

“HE SCORES!” the announcer yells.

“Yes!” I cry, leaping off the couch.

Beckham raises his stick in triumph, and soon he’s swarmed by his teammates on the ice, including both Wentworth brothers. My heart is pumping wildly inside my chest, and I can’t keep the smile off my face as I watch Beckham’s teammates celebrate his goal.

Winston gets up and begins barking, and I watch as they show Beckham skating over to the bench, fist bumping every teammate as he skates down the line, followed by Wyatt doing the same thing. They cut away from Beckham to show a replay of the goal again, with the announcers commentating on how the goal happened.

“As you can see here, there’s a complete breakdown by Orlando,” one of them says. “Then you have two-on-zero perfect execution by Wyatt Wentworth and Beckham Bailey. Beckham just rips that through.”

They cut back to the bench, and I see Beckham breathing hard as he sits on it. Then he takes off his helmet, squirts some water from his water bottle over the top of his head, down the back of his neck, and shakes it out. He grabs a towel and rubs it across his face, and I practically feel my jaw go slack.

I stare at him, mesmerized by how hot he looks when he does that. My God, it’s like watching porn.

Hockey porn.

I think I could get into this kind of porn.

Then I laugh, a maniacal laughter that sounds like it would come from one of the nutcrackers on my pink sweater that Beckham loves to tease me about.

If the nutcrackers on my sweater could laugh, that is.

GAH! I’m losing my mind over my fake boyfriend , whose use of “hey now” might mean he’s flirting and finds me attractive, or it might mean he’s just sharing a phrase I used and I’m overthinking everything.

What if Beckham does find me attractive? That doesn’t mean he’d want to date me. For real, I mean. Yes, he’s made it clear he wants a lifestyle change, but that doesn’t mean he’d want a relationship. Yes, he thinks it’s weird I’m still available, but that doesn’t mean he’d be raising his hand and saying, “Pick me, Georgie!”

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Life was simpler before my life sounded like something off of hockey BookTok.

I glance at my phone. I’ve obviously lost my mind. I have a huge crush on my fake boyfriend, and I’m overthinking everything he says and does.

So why not throw all caution to the winds and text him about his goal?

As I pick up my phone, I glance over at Winston, who is watching me from his dog bed near the Christmas tree. I swear he’s smirking at me.

“Winston. Mommy is merely being nice to Beckham,” I say. “It’s a nice thing to congratulate my fake boyfriend on his goal tonight.”

Winston doesn’t look convinced.

“Yeah, I’m not convinced either. You’re supposed to back me up here.”

I unlock my phone and bring up Beckham. I tap open our message thread and type:

I just watched you score a goal.

I pause.

That’s stupid.

I delete and try again:

Hi, watching your game and saw your goal. Well done!

Well done? What is he, a steak?

Okay, not a steak I would order—I like mine medium-rare—but still, I sound like I’m ordering one and not talking to a hot hockey player.

NO. Delete.

I try again:

That was a sick goal you just scored.

What did I even just type? Jordan talks like this when he sees a highlight on SportsCenter . I don’t talk like this!

Delete.

The game goes on, and I’m stuck in my internal battle of trying to figure out what to say to Beckham about his goal, and making this ten thousand times harder than it ever should be. I’m about to try again when suddenly an idea comes to me.

Do I dare flirt with him?

I glance over at Winston. He’s got his head down and his eyes are closed. He’s obviously lost all patience with me this evening. I bite my lip.

That goal was a thing of beauty. Looking good, Becks. #HeyNow

That’s flirting. It’s up to him to infer whether I think he looks good hockey-wise or hot-wise, but the #HeyNow should give him the direction of where to go with that comment.

I draw a breath of air, exhale, and hit send.

There. I’ve acknowledged the goal. He knows I’m watching. And the rest is left up to his interpretation.

Now I just need to wait and see how he responds to it.

* * *

The Manatees win the game, 3-0, and I stay on Total Access Total Sports, waiting for the postgame interviews. Surely they’ll talk to Beckham because he scored a goal, right?

I’ve taken Winston out for the final time before bed, changed into my pajamas, washed my face, and I have my hair pulled up into a messy top knot. I’m drinking a glass of water—one thing Mom instilled into both me and Ella was the importance of HYDRATION—and after this is over, I’ll drag myself off to bed early, where I will no doubt not sleep, but stare at the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree in my room and let my mind race with thoughts over this whole confusing situation with Beckham.

I wait impatiently as the postgame show host and analysts break down the game. Well, I’m not so impatient when they show Beckham’s first goal and replay that “hey now” moment he had on the bench, but the analysis is dragging. I yawn because this is like listening to people speak a foreign language. But then I hear the magical words I’ve been waiting for.

“Leigh Barnes is standing by with Beckham Bailey,” the female host says. “Let’s hear Beckham walk us through that goal.”

Goose bumps sweep over my skin. I sit up straighter, eager to see him.

Suddenly my screen is filled with the image of a beautiful sideline reporter with long, cascading mermaid-style hair and Beckham, standing next to her in a gray Manatees T-shirt, drenched in sweat, and a black Manatees baseball hat that he’s wearing backward. Dark brown stubble shades his jawline, and he has his hands on his hips as he awaits the interview questions.

More. Porn.

“Thanks, Heidi,” Leigh says, turning to Beckham. “Beckham, congratulations on your first goal for the Miami Manatees. Can you walk us through that two on zero?”

Beckham pushes down on his baseball hat and nods. “Thank you. I saw that Wyatt had worked the puck away from Klopp, so I just took off down the left-hand side. Wyatt easily could have taken that shot himself, but he passed it to me, so I made sure I didn’t miss,” he says, grinning.

My heart flutters. I love the way he’s smiling right now.

“It must feel good to get that first goal for the team under your belt,” Heidi says.

“Definitely. I came here to contribute and help the team, and it felt good to open up the scoring for the game.”

She asks him a few more questions, and I can’t help but admire how well Beckham answers everything thrown at him. There are no pauses, no incomplete answers, but thoughtful ones, even though he’s probably been asked these questions a million times before while he was playing in Denver.

When the interview ends, I shut off the TV and decide I’ll do the thing the experts never tell you to do before bed: aimlessly scroll through Connectivity Story Share. I grin. Chloe cringes at my routine. She’s very strict about sleep hygiene. She will not have any screen time one hour before bed.

I know, however, I’m already going to have my brain racing with thoughts of Beckham, of him scoring a goal, his “hey now” comment on my post last night, and what he will think of my “hey now” comment on the text I sent him. I refuse to sit in my room and simply let these all play on like a poorly written movie script in my head over and over.

I have to try to be distracted. Reading is hopeless. I know myself enough to know I’d try to read two sentences and thoughts of Beckham would replace whatever is happening on the page.

Video is much easier.

I turn back the covers on my bed, and Winston climbs up his ramp to take his place down near my feet. I prop my pillows up, slide underneath the duvet, and reach for my phone on the nightstand. I open up Connectivity Story Share, and first I’m served not Beckham, but a soccer player. I pause. There are clips of a gorgeous soccer star with dark brown hair. A series of video clips flash before me. Him doing interviews. Sweaty. On the pitch in the rain. A close-up of him raking a hand through his thick hair. A shot from behind focusing on his jersey, which says “DARBY” and has the number seven on it.

He’s hot, I think.

And the whole thing is set to Taylor Swift’s “Style.”

I snicker as I read the caption:

Daddy Saucy Shorts IS this song.

Daddy Saucy Shorts!

Now I’m rolling. I’m laughing so hard, Winston barks at me.

“Sorry,” I say to him. “But Winnie, this is so funny. ”

He drops his head back down, unimpressed by what I find amusing.

I go back to the video and look at the hashtags. This soccer player is Noah Darby, and apparently a Premier League superstar.

Who is also known as SAUCY SHORTS.

So much so that it’s a Connectivity Story Share hashtag.

I go down this rabbit hole in fascination. I never thought about athletes before, other than seeing them on SportsCenter highlights whenever Jordan is over.

I spend a bit of time on Noah Darby, but before long, I’m back to looking at videos of Beckham.

The other Daddy.

I furrow my brow. I’m supposed to be trying to distract myself from Beckham, but here I am, looking at videos of him.

I’m an idiot.

I set my phone on my nightstand, put my pillows down, give them a good fluffing—I’m not sure why, it’s a habit I have—and decide I need to sleep. I turn over onto my side, and just as I close my eyes, my phone buzzes.

Since I’m awake, I reach for it.

Then my heart leaps. I have a message from Beckham.

I quickly tap it open, and find myself holding my breath as I read:

Do you think I’m looking good, Cupcake? Or are you referring to my goal?

GAH, HOW DO I ANSWER THIS?

I instantly regret trying to be cool and flirty. I’m so out of my depth here.

HOW DO I ANSWER THIS????

I wish I could text Ella and ask her what I should say. She would know.

But she’s busy with Jordan right now and is not available for a consult.

Crap, crap, crap.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Oh no! What’s he going to say next? GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

For the record, the answer can be both.

Ooh!

I decide to take a chance on my flirting skills and text him back:

Definitely both.

I hit send and eagerly wait to see what Beckham says next. I don’t have to wait long for his reply:

That’s the answer I was hoping for.

Butterflies. Thousands of them appear in my stomach the second I read his words.

I feel myself relax and I text him back:

It’s the truth.

I exhale. It feels so good to say what I mean, and know the answers are being received by Beckham in a positive way.

Not that the whole situation is clarified, of course, but at least we can flirt and be on the same page as far as that goes.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

What else did you do tonight?

I decide to give him an edited version of my scrolling this evening:

I discovered that athletes are very popular on Connectivity Story Share, as the algorithm decided I needed to be aware of a Premier League footballer named Noah Darby. Also known as Saucy Shorts or Daddy. Perhaps I need to get one of his shirts with his name and number on the back. Women seem to like this as part of their wardrobe.

Beckham replies:

There’s only one shirt with one name on the back you should be wearing.

Beckham Bailey is typing…

MINE.