Page 31 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I’ve decided I hate road games.

I’ve learned this as December has gone by. Beckham had some home games, but they went by too fast. He left yesterday and I already miss him. And this is a long West Coast road trip. He’s going to be gone for an entire week, not coming home until the early hours of Saturday morning.

Only to have another game to play on Sunday.

I package up another jar for shipping. Luckily, I have a lot to do this week to keep me occupied. The Holly Jolly Christmas Bazaar was a huge success—my best show EVER. So I have a lot of stock to replenish. But first, I have to finish shipping all the Etsy orders from last week, and that’s going to take all day today.

I smile. I’m not mad at it.

I add some paper shreds to a box and then put a handwritten thank-you note on the top. I have shows next weekend, and some nighttime events, too. I’m going to be busy.

I’ve also made some personal plans this week, too. I’m taking some of my jars over to Scarlett’s apartment tomorrow so she can take some pictures, and I’m excited to get to know her better. Then I’m having dinner with Becca on Wednesday night, as Antoni is on the road with the Copperheads, and I can’t wait to spend more time with her.

I take my roll of printed packing tape—I had some made with the Georgie’s Jars logo all over it—and seal the box shut. I have to set up for another show on Friday night—this time it’s at a posh private high school in Miami Beach—and then I’m going out with Ella, Chloe, and Emilee. We’re going to dinner and then getting coffee and dessert at an independent bookstore. I’m excited about this—I haven’t been to a bookstore in forever.

So I have a fun week of activities and lots of work to do.

I frown as I peel off the label I’ve printed. So why do I still miss Beckham like crazy?

“Winston. I’ve become a complete sap. Don’t tell anyone,” I say to him.

Winston looks up from the Kong toy he’s working on. His tail swishes, and I swear he’s grinning at me.

“You’ll keep my secret, won’t you, Winnie?” I ask, going over to ruffle his head.

“Woof!”

I grin. “You’re such a good boy. I love you.” I lean down and press a kiss on the top of his head.

I get back up and consult my laptop for the next order I need to ship, this time a complete set of my Pinkmas jars. Those have been the biggest seller of the season so far, and I can’t wait to tell Beckham that fact. I gather the jars up on my shipping table. After I finish this package, I’ll take Winston for his afternoon walk and then I’ll break for lunch.

Buzz!

I retrieve my phone, and I grin when I see it’s Beckham.

We’ve exchanged a ton of texts since he left for Los Angeles last night. The Manatees are playing in Los Angeles tonight, San Francisco on Wednesday, and finishing up with Las Vegas on Friday. I eagerly tap it open and read:

Got a question for you, Cupcake.

I smile and text him back:

Hopefully I will have an answer.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Smart ass.

I chuckle at that and wait for his question to come in. Finally, his reply comes through:

Next Tuesday night is family skate night at the Premier Airlines Arena for the players and their families, significant others, etc. Sofia might have mentioned this to you as part of her fake dating plan for us. But now it’s not fake, and I want to take you as my girlfriend. Want to go? Should be in your wheelhouse even if you can’t skate because they had to ruin the event by playing cheesy Christmas music.

The hummingbirds are back in my stomach, flying around like mad. Beckham has just asked me to a team event.

As his girlfriend.

I’m so excited I could burst. I text him back:

Grumpy, I will happily go skating with you, even though I’m not very good at it. Please tell them to play “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” I’ll serenade you as we skate.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

If you serenade me with ANY Christmas song, I’ll puke.

Bah-ha-ha!

I text him back:

Would “Santa Baby” be a better choice? Or “My Only Wish” by Britney Spears?

Beckham Bailey is typing …

I DO NOT KNOW WHAT LANGUAGE YOU ARE SPEAKING.

I burst into a fit of laughter.

And fall a little bit more for him as I do.

* * *

The pictures Scarlett has taken are all incredible.

I’m standing in the living room of her apartment on Biscayne Boulevard, which has floor-to-ceiling windows that provide magnificent views of glittering high rises and the Intercoastal Waterway. The windows also provide tons of natural light, and it’s the reason why Scarlett set up a makeshift studio in here to shoot my jars.

We used the premade background kit I had. She moved around at all angles, capturing all kinds of shots, and all I had to do was style the jars and stand back and let her do her magic.

I stare at the ones she is showing me in her camera, and they look so much better than anything I have ever taken for Georgie’s Jars.

“I’ll edit them, of course,” she says after I look at the last one. “Then I’ll give you a link to a Google Drive where I’ll store them for you.”

“Scarlett, I want to pay you for this,” I insist. “I know we agreed on a jar, but I can’t keep to that. Not after seeing all of this.”

“No, Georgie. I volunteered to do this. I’m not accepting any form of payment. If you send one to me, I won’t claim it, so don’t bother,” she says firmly.

“Can I take you to lunch today?” I ask, still feeling she needs so much more than a jar for what she has done today.

Scarlett’s piercing blue eyes dance mischievously at me. “No, but I’ll go to lunch with you.”

I groan. “I can see my plan is going nowhere. Except that you will take a white jar.”

“Yes, and I’m excited about that. I’m going to put my makeup brushes in it,” Scarlett says. “And I’d love to grab lunch if you’re still interested.”

I smile. “I’d like that.”

“Great. Do you like ceviche? I know a great place that specializes in it. We can walk to it, and they have a great outdoor patio.”

“Perfect,” I say, happy we’re going to have the opportunity to talk about something other than photography or Georgie’s Jars. “Just give me a few minutes to pack up my things. I can put them in my van before we leave.”

“Okay. I’m going to run to the restroom while you do that. And check on Mochi and Matcha before I leave.”

I pick up a jar and stare at her. “Mochi and Matcha?”

Scarlett nods. “They’re my chinchillas.”

Ooh! I’ve never met anyone who owns those! “You have chinchillas?”

“Yes,” Scarlett says, her whole face lighting up. “They’re the best. Do you want to see them? I know some people don’t like rodents, but I think they are the cutest things and they’re great pets.”

“I’d love to,” I say, putting down the jar.

“This is the time when they sleep, but you can still see them,” Scarlett says, leading me down the hall and into her bedroom. There I find a big multilevel cage—like a deluxe chinchilla condo, complete with hammocks, hiding holes, a running wheel, toys. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

“Hopefully you don’t think I’m the crazy chinchilla lady, but I kinda am,” Scarlett says, looking almost sheepishly at me.

I give her a reassuring smile. “Scarlett. I have a dog I talk to more than I talk to people. And Beckham calls his cat Minnie Pinny.”

“Becks does that?” she asks, her eyes wide. “I didn’t see him as a cat person.”

I decide this is a good time to plant some seeds about Beckham, ones that might get back to her father if I’m lucky.

“Becks loves animals, but he’s a complete softy for cats,” I say, peering into the cage for any sign of Mochi and Matcha. “That cat lets him carry her around. And he has her leash-trained and takes her with him to pet stores and on little walks. I’m actually going to go over and visit her after we have lunch. Minnie has a cat sitter, but Beckham was upset about moving her again and then going on the road, so I told him I’d go over there every day and spend some time with her. I also send Beckham ‘proof of life’ photos, so it eases his anxiety about it.”

Scarlett looks absolutely mystified by my revelations.

“The Beckham you know—if you’re thinking of the man he was in Denver—is not the same man who’s wearing a Miami Manatees jersey now,” I say softly. “The Beckham I know is kind and generous and has a huge heart. He’s not partying. You won’t see him at a club. Beckham does stuff like go out for pizza and milkshakes with me.”

I decide to leave it up to her if she wants to ask any questions.

Scarlett clears her throat. “Can I be completely honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“I was afraid when Miami traded for Beckham that we were inheriting a new headache,” she confesses. “I told my dad that. But so far, I’ve been proven wrong. Dad says he’s been nothing but an exemplary player. Early for practice. Last one to leave. Working hard on the ice and in the weight room. He’s done everything the media relations team has asked of him, and trust me, as someone who works in that world, that’s not easy to find. I’ve seen it on the ice, too. He’s not a selfish player. I think the trade is the best thing that could have happened to him. And us.”

My heart swells with pride as I take in Scarlett’s words. The Beckham the coach sees—and Scarlett is now seeing—is the Beckham I know.

And the Beckham I’m falling in love with.

“He’s the best boyfriend,” I say, smiling at her. “After practice on a Saturday, he came straight over to the convention center to help me with my show. He stayed until closing because he knew his presence would help attract attention to Georgie’s Jars. He signed autographs and took selfies for hours. All to support me. But it’s not just that. It’s the way he believes in me. Stands by me. I’m discovering a whole new side of myself since I met him.”

Scarlett’s eyes remain locked on my face, and I swear I see a wistfulness pass over her beautiful features. “I think you have something special,” she says softly. “When the person you’re with helps you grow and become a better version of yourself. That’s something I feel like I’ll never find.”

“I didn’t think I’d find it until I met Beckham.”

“Sometimes the right person isn’t right for other reasons,” she says. “Things beyond your control.”

AIDEN.

She’s talking about Aiden without talking about Aiden. I know she is. I’m going to have to ask Beckham about this after the game tonight.

“Oh! Look! Mochi!” she says, pointing to the little house on the second floor.

And then I see it. A cute little chinchilla face appears in the hole. Mochi is a tan color, with super-fluffy hair, and I’m surprised by it.

“He’s a puffball!” I exclaim as Mochi slowly climbs out of his house and comes near Scarlett.

“Oh yes,” she says, smiling at me. “Mochi is an angora. So is Matcha. And in case you’re wondering, I love Japanese food.”

I smile at that. Scarlett opens the cage door, and Mochi comes right up to her. She scratches his chin, and he’s absolutely the cutest thing I have ever seen.

“You can pet him. He’s friendly. Matcha takes more time to warm up to strangers.”

I carefully reach over and stroke Mochi’s fur, which is incredibly soft.

“You should see them when they eat their rosehip treats,” Scarlett continues. “It’s the cutest thing ever. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

“Yes, I’d love to see that,” I say. “Can I take a picture of him? To show Beckham?”

“Of course.”

I go retrieve my phone and take a few pictures, and when I’m done, Scarlett closes the cage door. She goes to the bathroom, and I go back to the living room to pack up my jars. She comes out and helps me put them back in the carrying case, and we lug everything downstairs to my minivan.

After it’s loaded up, we begin our walk down Biscayne Avenue, greeted with another glorious day in Miami, filled with sunshine, blue skies, and a nice ocean breeze.

“How long have you been in Miami?” I ask.

“Not long. I graduated from college in the spring and moved in with my parents,” Scarlett says as we walk beside towering apartment buildings. “I got the job with Real Miami in September, so I had a few months with them before the season ended.”

“Do you like it here?”

“I do. I love the weather. And palm trees,” she says, grinning.

“I love them, too.”

“It is harder to make friends though,” Scarlett says thoughtfully, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear as the breeze blows it back. “Not because of Miami. But just being an adult in general. When you’re in college, everyone is in the same boat—looking to make friends. It’s not like that as an adult.”

“It is hard,” I acknowledge. “I’m so lucky because I grew up here. I have a twin—Ella—and we live together. My bestie is from my preschool days, and Ella’s best friend from Florida State lives here, too.”

“You’re so lucky,” Scarlett says. “I can’t really make friends at work. I mean, I could, but it’s kind of against my policy. I’m friendly with people, but I never want things to be messy in the office, which can happen with friendships. Not that it would, but I don’t want to take that chance.” She pauses. “Now I’m the rambling chinchilla lady.”

“No, not at all. Have you made friends with any of the wives and girlfriends of the Manatees?”

“I’m going to confess something to you. I have purposefully stayed away from friending any of the wives and girlfriends. I’m the coach’s daughter. I don’t want to encroach on their territory or make them feel weird, because they might have feelings about things my dad is doing, and they would have to monitor what they say in front of me. That’s not fair to them.”

Wow. Scarlett shows what kind of person she is with that observation.

Thoughtful of others.

“But—and this might not be fair—I broke my own rule when we started talking. This is going to sound crazy, but I had a good gut feeling about you. Like we could be friends. And instead of doing the proper thing and putting that boundary in place, I thought about how cool it would be to hang out with you and get a coffee or have lunch. There was just something genuine and kind about you that I liked. And if this makes you uncomfortable, and if you don’t want to be friends, I completely understand. But if we do become friends, sometimes I might know things and I can’t tell you them. It’s something we’d have to navigate, and I hope you wouldn’t hold any decisions my dad makes against me.”

She stops speaking right as we reach the ceviche restaurant. I can’t see her eyes behind her large sunglasses, but she’s chewing on her matte-red bottom lip as if she’s anxious.

“I had the same gut feeling about you,” I say. “And I don’t think we even need to talk about hockey if we’re friends. I’ll talk about Beckham, of course, and if he has a good game or scores a goal, but if he has any issue with coaching, I don’t see any reason why that’s a conversation that you and I need to have. I mean, your dad is coaching the Manatees. Not you.”

Scarlett appears to take in my words. “That’s true. Okay, then we have nothing to be concerned about,” she says brightly.

I smile at her. “No, we don’t.”

As we enter the restaurant, I have a feeling I’m about to have a new person enter my friendship circle.

And I can’t wait to tell Beckham all about it tonight.