Page 34 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

I reach the top of the stairs, but before I come down, I stay out of view and call down to Beckham. “Are you ready to be dazzled ?” I yell out cheerfully.

“I don’t think I want you going naked to the Manatees holiday skate,” he shouts back from the bottom of the stairs.

“I can dazzle with clothing on , you know,” I tease.

“Oh, I know. I’ve been dazzled by your gift tag,” he deadpans. “Now come on down, the suspense is killing me.”

I appear at the top of the stairs and flash Beckham a triumphant smile. He stares up at me and groans. “Cupcake,” he says, shaking his head.

I continue walking down the stairs, grinning at him. I’m wearing a white sweater that has ‘FA LA LA LA LA LA’ in bright pink and red sequins on the front … and sequined candy canes all over the sleeves.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and smile as he scowls at me. Because I know that scowl is one hundred percent not real and just to tease me.

“It’s a holiday skate, Grumpy,” I say playfully, sliding my hands up his chest. “What was I supposed to wear? Black?”

Although now that I say it, I’m sure a lot of the wives and girlfriends will be wearing chic black sweaters or puffer vests.

Whatever. I’m my own woman.

Who is wearing a ‘FA LA LA LA LA LA’ sweater with candy canes.

“This will look totally cute when we sit on Santa’s lap for a picture,” I goad.

Beckham’s brows snap into a V. “What?”

“Megan told me they have a Santa set up on the ice,” I inform him gleefully. “And we can have our picture taken with him. It will be fun!”

“Oh no, we’re not. I am NOT sitting on a creepy old dude’s lap.”

“Oh yes, you are. If you want to be dazzled later tonight, that is.”

“Blackmailer.”

I giggle, and I see his mouth begin to tip upward into a smile. “But I’m the blackmailer you’re falling in love with,” I remind him.

“Christ, what does that say about me?”

Now I’m laughing, and he is, too.

“Come on, let’s go get this over with,” Beckham says, reaching for my hand.

“Okay, sir, that is not the attitude we are going into tonight with,” I say firmly. “This is our first holiday skate together. We’re going to have fun.”

“Sure.”

We head out the back door and get into his SUV.

“We are going to have fun,” I say. “I’m excited to meet your friends.”

Beckham gives me a side-eye as he buckles his seat belt. “You mean try to see if Aiden has an interest in Scarlett.”

My cheeks and neck grow hot as he has read my mind.

“Admit it,” Beckham says as he turns on the engine. “You totally have that on your maniacal agenda tonight.”

“Maniacal agenda?” I ask.

He grins. “I’d call it that. Trying to play matchmaker with a player and the coach’s daughter? MANIACAL. One, because it will never happen, and two, if it does, it’s freaking doomed.”

“Somebody has been reading too many hockey romance recaps on BookTok,” I say in a singsong voice.

“But they aren’t realistic because they always end up together,” he sings back as we exit the garage.

Now I’m the one who is scowling.

“You know I’m right,” he says smugly as he clicks the remote to close the garage.

“You’re putting a damper on my mood,” I insist.

He reaches for my hand as he heads out of the drive. “I’m sorry. Do you want to listen to some Taylor Swift to feel better?”

Now I’m the one giving the side-eye. “Don’t toy with my emotions like that.”

“I’m not. I even curated a playlist for you on my last road trip home,” he says, messing with his console. Then I see the title “GEORGIE” come up.

“You made this for me,” I say, touched by the sweet gesture.

“I know it’s not the same as a forehead kiss, but I’m sure you’ll like it all the same,” Beckham says.

“I love it just as much,” I say as the first track begins to play. And it’s “How You Get The Girl.”

How you get the girl indeed, I think happily.

Before long, we reach the Premier Airlines Arena, and Beckham drives around to where players park before each game. We get out of the car, and as we’re walking up, we run into none other than Wyatt and Aidan Wentworth, who are just getting out of their car.

“Behave, Cupcake,” Beckham warns me in a low voice.

“Like I’m going to do anything,” I murmur back.

“You want to.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know enough about either of them to want to do anything. I’m just curious,” I insist.

We walk toward them, and I observe the brothers as we draw closer. Aiden is a bit taller than Wyatt, I’d say by two or three inches. Both have wavy blondish-brown hair, but Aiden’s is a bit longer and more unruly. There’s always a dramatic lock of it sweeping down on his forehead that he always seems to push back in place whenever I see him on TV.

“I see you took family skate literally,” Beckham calls out cheerfully as we walk up next to them.

“Aiden is the only date I can get,” Wyatt says, flashing me a huge smile.

Oh, I find that very hard to believe, I think.

“You must be Georgie,” he says, extending his hand to me. “Wyatt Wentworth. I’ve heard a lot about you. This guy never shuts up about you, actually.”

I glance at Beckham, who is now rubbing his jaw and looking incredibly embarrassed.

I shake Wyatt’s hand. “Georgie Goodwin, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His brother extends his hand next. “Aiden.”

I shake his hand and study his face for a quick moment. He has nice facial features—like cut cheekbones and full lips—and a dramatic scar that runs over his left eyebrow. Both he and Wyatt have the same eye color—gray—and long lashes.

But I can already see the difference between them. Wyatt’s expression is one of openness and a bit of mischievousness, while Aiden’s is more serious.

I bet Aiden is the older brother, I muse.

“Should we get this over with?” Aiden asks.

“He’s still salty he has to be my date,” Wyatt teases as we approach the arena.

“I could have had a date,” Aiden insists. “But taking a date to a family holiday skate? That sends a message.”

“Shit, I should have thought of that beforehand,” Beckham teases, flashing me a huge grin.

“Want me to hit him, Georgie?” Wyatt asks cheerfully.

I smile at him. “No. I’ll just make him listen to Christmas music the whole way home as punishment for being rude.”

Beckham slings an arm about my shoulders and draws me into his chest. “You know I’m kidding, Cupcake.” Then he presses an affectionate kiss on the top of my head.

I go all melty inside. Not merely from the sweet kiss, but also from the fact that he called me Cupcake in front of his friends, too.

We enter the arena, and Beckham leads me to a new place I haven’t seen before—the Manatees dressing room.

“Why are we going in here?” I ask.

“To get my skates. Yours will be waiting for you in the WAGS lounge.”

Beckham opens a heavy wooden door, and the first thing I see is the Miami Manatees logo on a sleek black wall. He leads me down another corridor, where there are inspirational quotes about toughness and winning splashed across both sides, and then he opens another door that has a plaque next to it that says, “Dressing Room.” As soon as I step across the threshold, I stop walking. Ooh, this is exciting! I know I’m in a sacred space, and I take a moment to drink it in.

The room is spacious and circular, with each player having their own stall. The black home jerseys are hung in each player’s spot, pads behind them, and each player’s skates and helmet in the bin overhead. The Miami Manatees logo glows overhead from the center of the ceiling. At one end of the room is a large-screen TV, with two built-in white boards flanking each side of it.

“Do you know why the logo is on the ceiling, Cupcake?” Beckham asks.

I shake my head.

“In older dressing rooms, the logo is always on the center of the mat. And it’s bad luck to step on it.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Yep. You never step on the logo. But if you put it on the ceiling, you can’t step on it. And it’s symbolic. The logo—the team—is above all.”

“Now that’s clever.”

I find myself looking around the room for Beckham’s bench. I find he’s the last one on the right-hand side.

He leads me over to it and I decide to tease him. “Why are you in the far corner of the room?”

“Last one to join the team, you get what spot is left,” he says, flashing me a grin.

“Can I take some pictures in here, or is that forbidden?”

“Take as many as you want,” Beckham says as he reaches for his skates. “The media interview us in here all the time, and you’ll see us in here on TV during games.”

I pull my phone out of my purse. “Smile for me, Grumpy! Show me how happy you are for family skate!” I say, getting him into focus for a picture in front of his bench.

He sticks out his tongue, and I snap a picture. “Now pretend you’re happy about it,” I encourage.

He flashes me a huge grin.

“Thank youuuuuuuuu,” I say.

He pretends to scowl, but I can see the smile in his eyes. I take some more pictures, and we even take a few selfies together. Then we head over to the WAGS lounge, where there is a check-in table and someone from the team handing out skates. I’m given a white pair, and Beckham says we’ll put them on when we are rinkside.

Once again, he takes my hand in his and leads me down to the ice. The air is cold, and I kind of regret not wearing a coat over my sweater. I shiver, and Beckham instantly notices.

“Are you cold?” he quickly asks. “Do you want my sweater? I can throw my jersey over my shirt.”

“No, I’ll be fine once we start skating,” I insist.

“I thought you said you can barely skate,” he points out.

I don’t answer him, because I’m distracted by the view before me. We’re walking along a dark tunnel with glass windows on each side, both giving views of the players walking onto the ice, and before us?

The actual rink.

When we exit the tunnel, we’re right at the bench where the Manatees sit during games. I get goose bumps, and it’s not from the frosty air.

I look at the video screen overhead, which has been turned to an image of a fire burning in a fireplace. Just like Megan told me, there’s a Santa down on one end of the ice, but he’s definitely in Miami, as he is flanked by mini palm trees and fake flamingos. Mikey the Manatee is skating around the ice with little kids, who are giggling in delight. Some little ones are playing hockey with the players. And blaring through the arena?

“Christmas Wrapping” by The Waitresses.

“This is perfect!” I cry in delight. “Just perfect! Thank you for bringing me tonight!”

“Of course I was going to bring you,” Beckham says, sounding surprised. “You’re my girl, Georgie.”

If it weren’t slippery, I’d run out to the ice and do a bunch of cartwheels. I love hearing Beckham call me “his girl.”

“Come on, I’ll help you with your skates,” he says, leading me over to the bench. We take a seat, and Beckham introduces me to some more of his teammates, and I greet some of the wives I’ve already met. As I’m taking off my shoes, I see Wyatt and Aiden take seats on the row behind us so they can put on their skates as well.

“How long of an appearance do we need to make before we can leave?” I hear Aiden ask Wyatt.

Beckham dips his head closer to mine. “I’m interested in that answer myself,” he teases.

“Oh, stop it, Grumpy,” I say, kissing his cheek. “I have to at least try to learn how to skate. And we have to have our picture with Santa.”

Beckham groans, but I ignore him.

“Hey, there’s Scarlett,” Wyatt says.

Ooh! I continue unlacing my sneakers, but I’m totally eavesdropping now.

“Where?” I hear Aiden ask.

“On the ice. Red sweater.”

Do not turn around and stare at Aiden. Do not turn around and stare at Aiden.

Instead, I fix my gaze out to the ice and instantly spot Scarlett. Her glossy brown hair is pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a ruby-red turtleneck sweater with a black puffer vest over the top. Scarlett is standing still near the center of the ice, talking to Coach Rivershon.

Or in her case, Dad.

“You can bet Coach is going to keep her within eyesight,” Wyatt says.

“He doesn’t need to. We all know she’s off-limits,” Aiden says quietly.

Beckham coughs. I glance at him, and he shoots me a triumphant look.

Now I’m the one scowling for a change.

“I’m afraid to even look in her direction,” Wyatt says. “The only girl in a family full of players? And daughter of Coach? No thank you.”

“Like she’d even look at you,” Aiden says.

Wyatt snorts. “Like she’d look at any of us. She knows the reality of hockey players. We’re disgusting and smelly.”

I giggle at that.

“Georgie, sorry, I forgot you were there,” Wyatt says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“No, I’m laughing because it’s true. Your gear does stink,” I say.

Beckham grins. “I wanted to make sure she knew what she was getting into. Let me lace up your skates, Georgie.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Wyatt and Aiden hit the ice, and I keep my gaze on Aiden as Beckham works on my skates. Wyatt goes over to greet Megan and David and their small children, and Aiden takes a solo lap around the ice. Scarlett’s gaze is riveted the second she sees him, and she leaves her dad’s side and skates over to the opposing bench, resting against it.

Ooh! I think that’s a strategic move!

Aiden skates around the rink, and when he comes to where Scarlett is standing, he stops and they begin to talk.

“Ah-ha!” I say triumphantly.

“You’re that impressed with how I tied your skate?”

“No. Aiden just stopped to talk to Scarlett.”

“So? I’ve stopped to talk to Scarlett. We all know her. Just like we know Becky, Coach’s wife.”

“Scarlett placed herself in position so Aiden would talk to her,” I insist.

Beckham snorts as he takes my other foot and gently places it in the skate. “How could you even know that? What if he turned and skated a different direction?”

“She knew he wouldn’t.”

Beckham rolls his eyes. “You’re romanticizing this.”

“As I should. I know what my gut is telling me,” I shift my gaze back toward the ice and watch as Aiden pushes back the lock of hair across his forehead. Scarlett’s eyes are nowhere but on him, and I can say the same about Aiden.

“I think it’s time I redirect your attention to skating,” Beckham says as he finishes tying my skate. “Are you ready?”

I bite my lip. “Remember when I told you I’m not very good?”

“Yeah?” he says as he rises and extends a hand to me.

I put my hand in his and he pulls me up. “I’m bad. Like the whole time I went, I stayed next to the boards and kept one hand on them at all times. I was scared of falling.”

“I promise you, I’m not going to let you fall. Not here,” Beckham says, his eyes locking on mine. “Not ever.”

Suddenly my heart flips inside my chest. I don’t care about Scarlett and Aiden anymore.

Because all I want to do is skate with Beckham.

“I trust you,” I say quietly. “With everything.”

Including my heart.

Beckham leads me out to the ice and takes both my hands in his. I grip his hands tightly. His grasp on me is firm, and I know there’s no way I’m going to take a tumble on the ice tonight.

We begin to skate, with Beckham going backward, me forward, and we slowly move across the ice. I’m not hopeless, as it turns out, and Beckham encourages me the whole time. “Santa Tell Me” by Ariana Grande starts to play, and I sing the words to Beckham, who pretends to be revolted by it.

“I might have to put you in the penalty box for this infraction,” he declares.

“Beckham, you love this. I know you do.”

He leads me over to the boards and brings us to a stop. He lets go of one of my hands, and I gasp, but Beckham’s hand immediately finds the curve in my waist and holds me close. I put my hand on his arm, as I’m still not ready to let go of him yet.

“You’re making me love all kinds of things I didn’t think I ever would,” Beckham says softly.

“This makes me so happy. And I would reach up and touch your face, but I’m afraid I’ll fall.”

“I promise you I’m not going to let you fall. I will always be here for you, Georgie.”

My breath catches in my throat. I know he’s not just talking about the ice.

He’s talking about in life. Beckham is going to support me. Walk with me. Keep me from falling.

“If I did fall, I know you’d be there to help me back up,” I say. “Just like I would do for you.”

His eyes search mine. “I know you would.”

We remain still, simply staring at each other. Then he clears his throat. “Come on, let’s work on your skating. I’m going to have you skating on your own before we leave.”

“I trust you.”

And I do. I trust Beckham completely. This man won’t let me fall.

Not on the ice.

Or off it.