Page 7 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

Dinner wasn’t nearly as painful as I thought it would be.

As I watch Beckham scrawl his name on the receipt, I can’t help but think this was actually … fun.

After he confided what led him to this place in his career, I stayed away from deep topics. I knew it took a lot for him to reveal that much to me, and I didn’t want to aggravate him by pushing further. Instead, I asked him more fun questions, and to my surprise, he wasn’t grumpy or irritated by having to answer them.

Truth be told? I think he actually enjoyed it.

Like I’ve learned that Beckham is a cat person and has a tuxedo cat named Minnie. It didn’t take much prompting to get him to show me pictures of her in his phone, and my heart melted when I heard the affection in his voice when he talked about her. When he asked if I had a pet, I told him about Winston. Then I pulled up my latest pic with him wearing a mistletoe collar, and Beckham groaned in disgust, asking why I would torture a dog like that.

But I’m pretty sure I saw a glimmer of amusement in those eyes of his.

While our conversation was light, it was wide-ranging. I learned pizza is his favorite food, and I shared that chocolate mousse is mine. We both like coffee and drink it several times a day. He likes to binge-watch TV series, whereas I like to savor them one episode at a time. He confessed to spending a lot of money when he first landed in the league and having a weakness for designer clothing. He said his game day “fit” is super important, and he loves the opportunity to wear his designer suits to the rink. I shared how I spend a lot of my days in old jeans and T-shirts when I’m working, just because of the messiness of what I do—sanding and painting.

Our conversation flowed and never lagged or got awkward—which I fully anticipated it doing. In fact, I had to keep reminding myself this was a fact-finding mission and not just dinner with Beckham.

“All right, we’re good to go,” he says, shutting the black leather bill holder.

“Beckham?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for this evening. I know it was a business meeting, but it didn’t feel that way. And that was thanks to you.”

Beckham almost looks taken aback by what I’ve said. Gah, I hope I didn’t make things awkward with that compliment. He probably doesn’t want this to be comfortable, he just wants me to help him get his reputation rewritten in the eyes of the team and on social media.

I’m about to try and clarify when he suddenly turns and looks over his shoulder. The door he had opened at the beginning of the evening—when I was in desperate need of fresh air—is still open. He turns back to me and clears his throat.

“Wanna go take a walk along the beach?”

WHAT?

I blink. The stupid flutter thing returns in my chest.

“Walk?” I manage to say.

Suddenly a smirk appears on his full lips. “Yeah, you know, you put one foot in front of the other. But I’m suggesting we do it on the sand.”

“I can see why you get napkins lobbed at your head.”

“Believe me, I’ve had much worse than napkins lobbed at me.”

“Pucks,” I say, thinking of his career.

“Well, yeah, but the last thing—before the deadly linen napkin that Sofia threw at me—was a stiletto.”

“Why is it I can see that?” I reply wryly.

“I’m not going to lie. I completely deserved it. But I ducked and the stiletto landed in the wall behind me. As in the heel smashed into the drywall and stuck there. It was kind of funny, actually.”

“I’m not going to ask what you did to deserve that.”

Beckham makes a face. “Yes. Don’t,” he agrees.

We both chuckle at that.

“Come on, Cupcake. Walk with me,” he says.

I glance outside. The Hotel Fredrico has a pristine private beach, with the golden sands looking almost white under the moonlight tonight.

“Okay,” I agree.

We both rise from the table and exit out to the patio, where palm trees tower over us, lit in white lights for the holiday season. Beckham pauses, sitting down on the edge of it and removing his dress shoes and socks. I carefully unbuckle my stilettos and then hold one up to him.

“Do I need to carry this in case I need to fling it at your head?” I tease.

“Oh, there’s that bite again.”

“I told you, I’m not the Sugar Plum Fairy. Or a complete confection.”

Beckham grins. “You’re the only person I know who uses words like confection in conversation.”

“It’s a lovely word. More people should use it,” I declare, taking off my other shoe.

“I’ll make a point to use it in a sentence this week,” he quips as he rolls up the legs of his dress pants.

Soon we are ready for a walk down to the beach. Beckham opens the patio gate and ushers me through it. We walk across the sand, the ocean breeze gently dancing across us. It’s a beautiful night in Miami, and the moon is large and beautiful in the sky overhead, illuminating the sand and the rolling surf.

“This is crazy to me,” Beckham says, breaking the silence between us. “I grew up in Wisconsin. I went to college in Vermont and began my professional career playing in Idaho before being called up to Denver. I’ve never walked on a beach in November. It’s surreal, in a way, to be here, you know?”

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” I say. “I grew up in Fort Lauderdale, went to the University of Miami, and now I live in the Brickell district.” I glance at him and see the confusion on his face. “That’s an area of Miami.”

“Gotcha,” he says. “So you’re a real adventurer, aren’t you?”

“I love Florida. I don’t see the need to leave.”

We reach the shoreline, and the water crashes over our feet.

“It’s even warm,” Beckham says, delighted.

“See? Why would I want to leave?”

“No, this is amazing,” he says, pausing and looking out over the dark horizon. “I remember the first time I saw the ocean. I couldn’t believe some people get to wake up and fall asleep to the sound of the surf. Or walk outside with a cup of coffee and get to have this view.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, breathing in the salty air. “I love walking along the beach at sunrise. It’s so peaceful before seven o’clock.”

“Nope. Too early.”

I look up at his profile. The corners of his mouth are lifted up in a teasing smile, and the ocean breeze ruffles his dark locks. The moonlight seems to dance across his features, and I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t notice how incredibly handsome he looks right now.

Suddenly I hear his phone buzzing. Beckham reaches into his pants pocket and draws it out. “Sorry, please excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course.”

He glances down at the screen. “Sofia asked if I ran you off and if I’m afraid to message her.”

I smile at him. “At least you’re going to be able to give her a favorable report tonight.”

“Right? I bet when she didn’t hear from me within an hour, she assumed I had blown it and was afraid to tell her.” He shoves his phone back into his pocket and casts his gaze out over the water again.

“You get along well with her. I can tell.”

He nods. “I do. She can be a bossy pain in the ass, but I love her.” Beckham shifts his gaze from the ocean and down to me instead. “Too bad we don’t have a blanket. This would be a great place to sit and watch the waves.”

“Oh, we can sit if you like,” I say, smiling. “This dress will go to the dry cleaner anyway. Unless you don’t want to have to drive home in sand.”

“Drive home? I’m staying here until I buy a place. I think I can handle an elevator ride with sand on my ass.”

We move back a bit and drop down onto the golden sand. I tuck my legs up underneath me, and Beckham stretches his legs out and leans back on his elbows.

“This is freaking fantastic,” he says. “Although it doesn’t feel like the holiday season, being on a beach when it’s seventy-five degrees out.”

“Oh, it doesn’t feel like the holiday season because you aren’t embracing it,” I tease.

He cocks his head toward me. “Please. I don’t feel the holiday spirit because I’m not embracing mass commercialism?”

“I’m so going to change your mind about this,” I declare.

“Oh, is that so? Well, good luck with that. I’ve never been a Christmas guy.”

“Never? Oh come on, didn’t you believe in Santa when you were a kid?”

“No. And he’s creepy looking. I always screamed when Mom tried to make me sit on his lap. I wanted no part of sitting on a weird-dressed creepy dude’s lap and telling him my Christmas wishes. That’s messed up.”

“You kill me.”

“I’m stating facts.”

“Let’s take Santa out of this.”

“Thank God, but I still stand by the fact that he’s creepy.”

“I’m ignoring you. Didn’t you like any Christmas movies? Like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ?”

“What reindeer has a light-up nose? No, I thought that was stupid.”

Now I’m the one groaning. Even as a child, he was very pragmatic. “You had to like the Grinch. That’s right in your grumpy wheelhouse.”

“Careful on grumpy, Cupcake. The Grinch was cool until he capitulated at the end.”

“You did not just say that!”

“I did.”

We both laugh. God, it’s easy to do that with him. I haven’t remembered laughing this much in a long time.

“I’m going to convert you.”

“To your weird Pinkmas cult? No thank you.”

“You have to like at least one thing about Christmas,” I declare. “Give me one good thing.”

“I like when the teams go to the children’s hospitals,” he says quietly. “You see how sick they are and what they’re going through, and all I have to do is walk in a room and I get a smile. It seems like so little to do, so easy to do, but it makes them forget what they’re going through for a few minutes. I do like that.”

Oh my. I wasn’t expecting that answer.

And it reveals a lot about that heart of his that he has buried away from the world.

“That,” I say softly, “is a very good answer.”

Nothing further is said between us for a few minutes. I find myself thinking about Beckham, and how he’s surprised me tonight. First, with his raw honesty about how he got lost—and still feels lost—on his hockey journey. Now this answer, which shows his compassion for others.

“Double-chocolate peppermint cookies,” he says suddenly.

“What?” I ask, confused.

He turns his head to look at me. “My mom only makes those cookies at Christmas. I love them. Wherever I am, she’ll send me some. I love those cookies.”

“There is just a flicker of Christmas spirit beating in that chest of yours,” I declare happily.

“Shut up.”

“I will not. Do you want to know my favorite Christmas cookies?”

“I’ve been over here dying for you to tell me.”

“I’m sure you have been. Okay. First of all, I love mug mates.”

“What?”

I grin. I know he’s going to hate this, so I can’t wait to explain it. “Little gingerbread houses or men that you make to hang on the side of your mug of hot chocolate or coffee.”

“Your mug needs to be hugged,” Beckham says disdainfully.

“Yes, because it’s cute.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh, you are not. I always bake mug mates. And sugar cookies. You have to have sugar cookies at Christmas. This year I’m doing pink Christmas trees.”

“Of course you are. What else?”

“I do cornflake wreaths,” I continue, “and snowball cookies and chocolate toffee.”

“I don’t think I can be mad at chocolate toffee,” Beckham concedes.

“But you can be mad at cornflake wreaths and snowballs?”

He grins. “You make it sound stupid.”

His phone vibrates again. “So sorry. Excuse me,” he says, retrieving it. He swipes it open and reads his screen. “Hmm. This might have potential.”

I wait for him to say more.

“Sofia sent me a house to look at on Monday after practice.” To my surprise, he extends his phone to me. “Here, take a look.”

I take it and see a glass mansion on the screen. It’s a beautiful contemporary home, all white, with huge palms surrounding it. I glance at the info—it’s in Miami Beach, on the waterfront, complete with a pool worthy of resort status and a dock for a boat.

I also notice it’s twelve million dollars.

Yes, this man definitely runs in a different circle than I do, I think wryly.

“It’s beautiful,” I say as I swipe through the pictures in the gallery. “So much open space.”

“The pool is what I like,” Beckham says as he takes the phone back from me. “Sofia says it’s a private community. And get this. Apparently, Antoni Nowak owns the house next door.”

“ Antoni Nowak ?” I cry, referring to the NBA player. “He’s a massive star!”

Beckham gives me a smirk. “He must be if you know him.”

“He’s talked about all over town, so I’d have to be clueless not to know who he is. But you’d be his neighbor?”

“Yeah, if I like this house,” Beckham says, sitting more upright. He takes a moment to rake his hand through his hair. “This would be the first house I’ve ever bought. I just rented a condo when I was in Denver.”

“Oh, then this is exciting,” I say eagerly. “Your first home is a milestone achievement, Beckham. You should celebrate that.”

“It’s different for me. I’m paid a stupid amount of money to play a sport, so I can easily buy a house. And a ridiculously priced one at that.”

I frown. I don’t like that he’s talking about himself like this.

“Why the frown?” he asks.

I decide to answer him honestly. “You are very good at what you do, Beckham. So few people can ever become a professional athlete, no matter how hard they dream or try. You are paid well because you have an incredible gift for the game. That should be celebrated, too. Along with buying your first house.”

“You believe that, don’t you?” he asks quietly.

“Of course I do. And you should, too.”

A silence falls between us, and all I can hear is the waves crashing ashore.

“Georgie?” Beckham finally says.

“Yeah?”

“Want to come with me to look at that house on Monday?”