Page 25 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

Beckham eases his car behind Jordan’s. We’ve made the journey from Coral Gables back to Fort Lauderdale, to my mom’s house, for round two of family meals. He turns off the engine and looks at me.

“Let’s see how good I am at this. Your mom is Carrie, your stepdad is Rick.”

“You are correct. I have aunts, cousins, and grandparents on my mom’s side. They’re all having Thanksgiving together in Orlando.”

“Do you ever have Thanksgiving in Orlando?”

Winston barks.

“Winston is telling you that would be a no,” I say. “They always spend Thanksgiving at Walt Disney World and Mom thinks that’s a complete waste of money. We did it once—when Ella and I were like ten—and she complained the whole time about how much it was costing with two kids and what a waste it was.”

“I think it would be a blast,” Beckham says. “I can never do anything like that due to hockey, but if I didn’t have games, that would be fun.”

“It would be. They go all out with matching shirts and everything. Oh, but you might not like it. Disney World is decked out for Christmas now.”

Beckham pretends to look horrified, which makes me smile, but then I grow serious.

“Before we go inside, I want to remind you that my mom is a challenging person. She will bring up money the entire time you’re here. She will act like she has made a tremendous sacrifice to provide this meal, and she gets everything on the cheap. I don’t have a problem with being frugal or not wanting to spend money. Especially after seeing how my dad doesn’t take care of his. But it’s very hard when someone you love holds the money over you to guilt you or use it as a position of power.”

I did not mean for all of that to come out right now.

But I find whenever I’m with Beckham, I feel safe to speak what’s in my heart. Things I have not shared with anyone for fear of what they would think of my family.

Or what they would think of me because of it.

Beckham glances out his windshield, and I see Jordan and Ella are waiting for us on the sidewalk.

“Georgie, I know we need to go in, and I want to come back to this later, when we can talk about this longer. But I want to acknowledge something before we leave this car. It had to be hard to grow up the way you did. With two parents who not only had opposing views on money, but used it as a weapon against each other, and against you, too. It’s not okay. It’s not. And the fact that you’ve turned out the way you have in spite of it all says a lot about who you are.”

Tears spring to my eyes. The acknowledgement of this is huge. “Thank you for saying that,” I whisper.

Beckham’s face instantly softens when he hears the emotion in my voice. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it in reassurance. “You never have to thank me for seeing you.”

My heart leaps inside my chest.

Beckham does see me, even in a way my own twin can’t. And he’s giving me no choice but to fall head over heels in love with him.

We get out of the car, with Beckham once again picking up Winston and setting him on the ground. I take his leash, and he grabs his second set of flowers and a bottle of wine. Ella and Jordan wait for us on the sidewalk, and when we walk up to them, Ella flashes Beckham a mischievous grin.

“I’m very impressed you’re still here after that first introduction to our family,” she teases.

Beckham smiles. “I figured nobody else would be sleeping on the floor in round two.”

I groan and he grins at me. “Come on, it can’t get worse than the cat fighting in the kitchen or your uncle snoring on the floor.”

Ella and I exchange a look, knowing this dinner will most likely be disastrous in a completely different way.

“You hold on to that thought,” Jordan teases, clapping him on the back.

We head up the sidewalk, with Winston eagerly leading the way. Ella rings the doorbell. Soon it’s pulled open by Rick, who smiles brightly at us. “Happy Thanksgiving!” he says cheerfully.

Ella and I each hug Rick after we step inside, and he shakes hands with Jordan as I’m unhooking Winston from his leash. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he knows my mom will give him table scraps—even though I’ve asked her not to.

“I know who you are!” Rick says excitedly, extending his hand to Beckham. “Beckham Bailey. I can’t believe you’re our guest for Thanksgiving. I’m Rick. Rick Wright.”

I watch as he pumps Beckham’s hand eagerly.

“Thank you for allowing me to join your family today,” Beckham says. He presents Rick with the bottle of chardonnay. “This is for you.”

Rick looks down at the label and then back at Beckham. “I have to admit, we just get whatever is on sale for wine, but I bet you spent big bucks on this. We’ll have to make sure we save it for a special occasion!”

“I hope when that occasion arises, you’ll enjoy it,” Beckham says, nodding.

We step into the house, and just like at Dad’s, there’s an NFL game on the TV. This time, it’s the Dallas Cowboys playing somebody. Mom is in the kitchen, and she smiles when she sees us.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” she calls out. “Come see the turkey! It’s looking gorgeous!”

We all head into the kitchen, and Ella and Jordan greet her first. Then I give her a hug.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mom,” I say as I embrace her.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Georgie.”

I step back from her. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Beckham Bailey.”

Beckham smiles at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wright. Thank you for having me today.” He extends the wildflower bouquet to her.

I study Mom’s eyes. I’m sure dollar signs are about to populate in her pupils any moment now.

“Call me Carrie. And Beckham, you shouldn’t have wasted the money on flowers, they just die.”

OH MY GOD.

She hasn’t even offered him a drink and Chex mix and she’s made her first money comment.

Beckham grins at her. “Fair enough.”

Mom hands the vase of flowers to Ella. “Would you set those on the dining room table?”

Ella nods. “Sure.”

“Georgie, you have to see the turkey. I used fresh lemon under the skin to flavor it this year,” Mom says. “I’m just about to take it out to rest.”

She goes over to the oven and opens the door. Then she retrieves her potholders and lifts out the roasting pan, setting it on the countertop.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mom declares. “Look at how golden it turned out.”

I stare down at the bird in the pan.

Yes, Mom’s right, it’s a beautiful golden brown. But she didn’t stuff lemon slices under the skin, as I pictured she would. She cut the lemon in half and shoved it under the skin.

I’m staring at a turkey with BOOBS.

Beckham moves beside me and stares down at the turkey, too. I feel his hand on my back, but I don’t dare look at him right now or I’ll lose it.

Ella comes back into the kitchen and walks up to us. As soon as she sees the turkey, she shrieks with laughter. “Mom! The turkey has boobs!” she cries.

“What? ” Mom cries, oblivious.

“You’re supposed to use slices,” Ella insists. “That looks like a turkey with boobs!”

I feel Beckham shake beside me, trying to hold it in. GAH, I have to get us out of here before everyone is in hysterics and Mom is embarrassed.

“How long until dinner?” I manage to get out.

“Well, the turkey needs to rest for a bit,” she says.

“I’m going to take a moment to show Beckham my workroom.”

“You know, hon, now that I’ve seen the boobs, I can’t unsee it,” Rick says.

Jordan begins to choke, and I quickly usher Beckham toward the stairs. As soon as we’re out of earshot, he loses it. He’s laughing so hard he’s shaking, and I begin to laugh, too.

“That turkey not only had boobs, but hard nipples,” Beckham declares.

I’m laughing so hard I have to stop walking. Beckham stops alongside me, and we’re both just hysterical for a few minutes.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and clear my throat. “Okay. I’m composed.”

“Until you go back into the kitchen,” Beckham challenges.

“True. Come on, let me show you where I work.” I lead Beckham up the stairs and to the second floor. I take his hand in mine and bring him down the hall to my old bedroom, flipping on the light.

“This is where I create all of my jars,” I say, stepping to the center of the room.

Beckham looks around, his eyes wide as he takes everything in: the shelves filled with jars in different stages of production, my work table, the desk area I use with all of my shipping supplies in bins overhead. He walks over the shelves and runs his finger along a bright red jar before turning around to look at me.

“You hand-painted all of these?” he asks, surprise in his voice.

I nod. “I did. I work full-time hours and treat this like a business, so these are my stages of production, from plain jars, to getting the jars prepped for painting, then painting in progress, and the final product.”

“I can’t believe all the stock you have,” Beckham says, going back to studying my shelves. “And all the different colors.”

“The colored ones are my favorites,” I admit. “Neutrals always sell well, so I keep a good selection of those, and I always look to the Pantone Color of the Year and incorporate that, too.”

“What’s that?” Beckham asks.

“Pantone is a color-matching system,” I explain. “Every color is given a PMS—Pantone Matching System—number. PMS colors are used for printing, so you can ensure whatever you print is going to come out that same shade. You can also get paint color matched to a PMS number.” I move down the row of jars and pick up a deep-red one. “This is an old Color of the Year, Marsala. I had this color matched in paint because this shade works well with a lot of the pinks I use in my collection. You’ll see them grouped together for the show this weekend because it also fits the Christmas vibe.

“Colors are a big business, and knowing the trends and predicting them is a huge part of having the right stock to sell,” I continue. “That’s why I always try to use their Color of the Year, because they forecast that based on lifestyle and cultural trends.”

“I had no idea,” Beckham says.

“Your Miami Manatees logo on your jersey would have a PMS number for both the black and the pink,” I explain. “And if I wanted to paint a jar Miami Manatee pink, I could get that PMS number and try to get close to it with an acrylic paint.”

“So how long does it take for you to paint a jar?”

“I start by getting a plain Mason jar,” I say, moving over to the other end of my shelving and picking one up. “And this will go through a lot of steps before we get to the completed product.”

Then I walk him through the whole process, and I can tell he’s surprised that it’s much more complicated than simply painting it. There’s sanding. Painting it a specific way to get the rustic look I want. Multiple coats. Then varnishing it and attaching the signature cord and painted key around the lip.

“I had no idea you went through this much work just to paint a single jar,” he says. “Nine coats of paint on one jar?”

“Nine.”

“Jesus. I mean, when Sofia came home with the jars she bought, I just thought you slapped a coat of paint on it.”

“No, it’s much more than a simple coat of paint. I also came up with this technique on my own. There’s lots of painted Mason jars on the market, but I crafted these to look unique, so I had something different to offer the marketplace. I just need for people to find me, that’s all.”

“It’s amazing what you’ve done, Georgie. You realize you’re young to own your own business, right?”

I smile at him. “I know. And thanks to you, I have longer to get my business off the ground.”

I show Beckham around some more, and just as we’re looking at jars I’ve done in colors of regional universities, there’s a rap on the door frame. We both turn and see my mom standing there.

“I wanted to thank both of you for not being so immature about the turkey,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Everyone else is acting like a teenage boy in the kitchen and swearing the turkey has breasts.”

Do not laugh. Do not laugh. Do not laugh.

“Anyway, Beckham, I see you’ve been introduced to Georgie’s hobby room,” Mom says, smiling sweetly at him.

My stomach sinks. Please don’t go any further, I will her. Please. Not to Beckham. To anyone but him.

A crease appears on his forehead. “But it’s not a hobby. It’s her career. ”

My heart leaps inside my chest. Beckham is defending me. Not even one comment by Mom is going to go unchecked by him.

I’m so grateful for him having my back, I could cry.

Mom blinks. I can tell she didn’t expect him to answer the way he did.

“Well, it’s not a career until she’s fully independent doing it,” she says pointedly. “I think it should be a hobby. There’s a reason starving artist is a thing. And really, Georgie, you know the truth. If you didn’t have this space to work, or Ella picking up more of the bills, you wouldn’t be in a very good position to play at this, would you?”

Heat pools in my cheeks as humiliation floods me. How dare she talk about this in front of Beckham, on his first visit to her house? How can she embarrass me like this?

Mom turns back to him. “But who knows, if Georgie ends up with you, she can stay home and paint jars all day and never worry again, if you know what I mean,” she says, winking knowingly at him.

“That’s enough!” I snap, surprising not only my mom, but myself.

Both she and Beckham look at me. The blood is roaring through my ears, and I’m shaking. I hate confrontation. I hate it and I’m growing sick at the fight that has fallen at my feet, but I also know this has to stop. She’s not going to drag Beckham into this.

I know Beckham has my back. But it’s time I had my own.

And if he is willing to push back on his first meeting with her, it’s time for me to push back after a lifetime of running from it.

“Mom. I love you. I love you and it hurts me to have to say what I’m going to say,” I begin. “But I am exhausted and worn out by your endless criticism of my career. You demean it. Belittle it. And if you want to feel that way about what I do, fine. But you need to keep those thoughts to yourself because your words are damaging, and I refuse to be hurt by them anymore.”

Mom turns red in embarrassment. Beckham puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll head downstairs.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Stay. Please.”

I need him to stay because I feel braver with him by my side. His presence reminds me of things I never dreamed possible, like dating him.

And having the courage to stand up for myself.

Mom folds her arms across her chest in a defiant manner, and apparently, she’s going to push right back at me. “Georgie. I’m worried about you. You aren’t being logical about this career choice. This is not a way to make money.”

I begin shaking as soon as I see her defensive posture, but I’m determined to stand up for myself. I continue on, not backing down from how I feel.

“Mom, this isn’t your decision to make,” I say firmly. “You have a very different relationship with money than I do.”

She snorts. “Now you sound like your father.”

“Please leave him out of this. We’re talking about me . My relationship with you. And every time you criticize me, you’re hurting me.”

“ Criticize? Georgie. You’re being too sensitive. I don’t want you to end up with a mountain of debt simply to chase a dream that is never going to happen.”

Her words sting like a slap across the face. My own mother doesn’t believe in me.

While that hurts, it’s not the most important thing.

“Well, I believe in me,” I say, my voice wobbling a bit. “And that’s what matters most. Mom, these are my choices—and mistakes—to make. I won’t tolerate this anymore. What I do with my jars is my business. What I pay Ella for bills is my business. What I owe in student debt is my business. Not yours. And I want you to know I’m going to rent space in an artist studio and move all my stuff there. So this space will be yours to do what you want with it.”

“So you’re going to throw more money away on renting a space when you can have this for free?”

“Yes. Because I think that’s the decision that is best for me.”

Mom lets her arms fall and a sigh of pure exasperation escapes her lips. “This is not the conversation to have in front of a guest or on Thanksgiving,” she snaps, irritation in her voice.

“No, it’s not ideal, but it needed to be said. When we go downstairs, I respectfully ask that you do not criticize the way I’m running my business. If you choose to do that, I choose to leave.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, this is asinine,” Mom declares. “You are blowing everything out of proportion.”

“Respectfully, I am not. And I mean it. I love you, Mom, but I won’t tolerate you disparaging me anymore. I’m setting my boundary right now. If this comes up, I leave.”

“Happy freaking Thanksgiving,” she snaps, turning and storming from the room.

As soon she leaves, I exhale. The blood is still whooshing in my ears, and my throat is suddenly dry.

I did it. I confronted my mom.

And I’m still standing.

Beckham moves in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. I gaze up at him and see nothing but admiration in his eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” he says softly. “You checked her straight into the boards, Georgie.”

“I … I still can’t believe I did it.”

“You’re shaking,” he says with concern.

“I think it’s adrenaline. But I did it. And I’m okay.”

“Better than okay. You stood up for yourself. I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

“You helped me get here.”

“No, this was all you.”

“No. Hearing you stand up for me gave me the courage to stand up for myself,” I say. “Thank you for that.”

He lifts a hand to my hair, running it through the long locks I’m wearing down today. “Confession. It was hard for me to stay silent when she said those shitty things to you.”

“But I handled it.”

Beckham smiles softly at me. “You did.”

“She’s always belittled my art. Ella was the twin who did the right thing, the practical thing, and Mom would tell me I was a dreamer who would end up like my dad.”

“That pisses me off. My parents—my family—have done nothing but encourage me and push me to follow my dreams. I hate that you didn’t get that support from someone you love so much.”

I swallow. “It’s disappointing, but as you can see,” I say, inclining my head to my shelves of jars, “it didn’t stop me.”

“No. That’s a testament to how strong you are.”

“And if Sofia hadn’t come along with her proposition, I was going to get a full-time job and shift to doing this on the side until it was profitable. I’m not delusional.”

“This is what you are meant to do, and I know you’re going to get the break you’re looking for. I can feel it.”

“That’s the goal. But for now, I guess we should go downstairs and prepare for a very tense dinner,” I say ruefully.

“Forget about it. I’m looking forward to fighting Jordan for the slice of turkey with an erect nipple on it.”

We laugh. Just as he’s about to kiss me, I hear Ella clear her throat.

We both turn to see her standing in the doorway, with my phone in her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but Georgie, I thought you’d want to know. Your phone has been going off like crazy with the Etsy cash register sound.”

“What?” I ask, taking it from her. “What do you mean?”

“It just started going nonstop. Are you having a sale on jars in your shop?” she asks.

I shake my head. I swipe open my phone, and OH MY GOD.

I have a slew of jar sales that have rolled in.

CHA-CHING!

Another one!

CHA-CHING!

“What is happening?” I cry. Then I see Georgie’s Jars been tagged in a Connectivity post. I tap it open, and my heart begins to beat furiously as I see Becca Montgomery has put up a picture of her and Antoni hugging next to a side table with an autumn-colored bouquet, candles, and my jars. I quickly read the caption:

So much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving! I LOVE YOU, @antoninowak, you are my favorite BALLER ever, haaaaaaaaaa. ETA: So many of you have asked—the jars are by @GeorgiesJars.

“Oh my God, Becca tagged me in a post!” I say, stunned. I show Beckham and Ella. “People must be buying after seeing the jars in her picture. I had no idea she had that kind of a following.”

“Fans will often follow an athlete’s girlfriend,” Beckham says. “You’d better buckle up after we launch on social media, Cupcake.”

“But Becca is famous in her own right. She’s the ‘Falling into the Weekend Like’ girl. Add that plus Antoni? That’s a lot of followers,” Ella says.

I glance down at her follower count on Connectivity—52.7k followers.

CHA-CHING!

And apparently some of them want Georgie Jars.

Beckham moves behind me and draws my back flush with his chest. “I think your business is about to change,” he says, brushing his lips against my temple.

“I think you’re right,” I say, still awestruck that I have orders rolling in for my jars.

Suddenly I hear the sound of someone running up the stairs, and Jordan appears in the doorway. “I’m warning you now, do not eat the gravy!” he says urgently.

“Now that’s a warning I have never heard in my life,” Beckham quips.

“What? Why?” Ella asks.

“They’re getting stuff set up for dinner on the island and your mom dropped the gravy boat. Shattered all over the floor. Rick was like okay, no gravy, and your mom said absolutely not, I’ll just retrieve the turkey carcass out of the trash can and make one. The turkey was in the TRASH CAN.”

“ Ew! No!” Ella shrieks.

“I mean, the turkey was on top of some paper towels, so it wasn’t touching the trash directly, but she is down there making trash can gravy !” Jordan cries.

Beckham bursts out laughing.

I turn and look up at him, and my heart is so full seeing how he’s handled everything today. He wasn’t bothered by the nuttiness at my dad’s house. He stood up for me in front of my mom, and then watched a very uncomfortable argument between us. Beckham hasn’t thought it was all too much. He hasn’t looked like he wanted to escape. He doesn’t look like he’s regretted going from never committing to anyone to jumping in with a girlfriend and her unhinged family.

In fact, he looks as if this is exactly where he wants to be.

“I’m putting a stop to this,” Ella says. “Come on, Jordan.”

I turn and look at her. “I’ll be down to back you up in a minute.”

She nods, and then she and Jordan leave my room. I park my phone on a shelf, then turn around and put my hands on Beckham’s face, drawing it toward mine and brushing a sweet kiss on his lips.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” I say simply.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have been subjected to all kinds of crazy today,” I say. “Yet you don’t look uncomfortable. Or like you wish you were somewhere else. I know this isn’t a normal family introduction. You could date a woman who wouldn’t subject you to any of this.”

“Cupcake. If I wanted normal, I never would have wanted to date a girl who wore a gift tag around her neck on our first meeting.”

“It was a necklace!” I cry.

He grins mischievously at me. “Gift tag.”

I roll my eyes, and he snickers. But then his expression grows serious. Beckham puts his hands on my waist and stares down at me.

“What you have to understand,” he says slowly, “is that I am freaking crazy about you, Georgie. You saw through my past and all my bullshit to find me. It’s no different than me seeing past your family to see you. That’s all that matters.”

I’m freaking crazy about you, Georgie.

As his lips find mine, only one thought echoes through my head.

I’m freaking crazy about you, too, Beckham.

And I can’t wait to hard launch at Sofia’s tonight.