Page 8 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

“I didn’t think this through when I said yes,” I declare to Ella as I sit on the sofa, anxiously braiding my hair. It’s Sunday morning, and I’m headed over to my mom and stepdad’s house to work on more jars for my next show. “I’m going to have to tell Mom and Rick I’m dating Beckham Bailey.” I groan. “This is going to be awful. ”

Ella is sitting next to me, dipping her spoon into a big bowl of cereal. And by big, I mean she uses a small mixing bowl for her breakfast. Today she’s mixed chocolate Chex and Rice Krispies. That’s an Ella thing. She can never dump one cereal in a bowl and be content with it. She’s like a cereal mixologist in that way.

She takes a bite and appears to chew thoughtfully as she mulls over my comment.

“Yeah, it’s going to suck,” she says. “Mom will be all over this idea of you dating a pro athlete. I can hear the conversation now. ‘Oh, Georgie! Well done! How much money does he make?’”

I scowl as I continue to braid my hair around the top of my head. “And she’s going to be pissed when I’m suddenly not seeing him a month later.”

“Yep.”

I twist my lips in thought. Mom has always pushed Ella and me to try and date men with money. The more, the better. She told us to learn from her mistake in marrying Dad, who wasn’t the best at saving money. But Mom is extreme in the other way—never wanting to spend anything, either.

“But on the positive side,” Ella continues, “if you throw her off with Beckham, she won’t harass you about how much you’ve sold this weekend.”

“Hmm. That’s a fair point. She’ll be distracted by the potential savings account I could have if I get Beckham to marry me.”

“Well, tell her you’re picking out a house with him tomorrow. That will put her in a cheerful mood for the rest of the month.”

“Oh my God, I will not,” I say, horrified by that prospect. “And I’m going to give my opinion, by the way. That’s all I’m doing.”

“Sure.”

I stop braiding my hair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s weird that he wants your opinion,” Ella says matter-of-factly, taking another bite of her cereal.

“It means he wants someone’s opinion besides Sofia’s,” I say. “He doesn’t have any friends on the team yet, and I think he likes having me to talk to.”

I think back to last night, and how we talked long after he asked me to look at the house with him. Finally, we got off the beach, and Beckham said there was no need for me to call an Uber, he’d be happy to drive me home, but I didn’t want to put him out. He kept arguing with me that it wouldn’t, but I had already ordered the car, and I told him it would be rude to cancel.

Which, of course, made him grumpy. I smile at the memory.

Before I left, we exchanged numbers, and to my surprise, after I was home and washing my face, I got a text from him asking if I got home okay.

There is definitely a gentleman underneath that grumpy, Christmas-hating exterior.

He’s actually kind of swoony, with those dark eyes and inked arms and sweet side that he shows flashes of.

Objectively speaking, of course.

“I still think it’s weird,” Ella declares. “Unless he has an ulterior motive.”

I snort and resume my braiding. “Yes, his ulterior motive is twofold. To look like he has a girlfriend and get someone to provide an objective point of view.”

At least that’s what he told me. He said Sofia is ready for him to buy a house so she and her family can go back home to Atlanta, and she probably wouldn’t be objective about any flaws.

Winston comes trotting into the room, a tennis ball in his mouth.

“Come here, Winston,” I say. He complies and drops the slobbery ball at my feet. I pick it up and throw it against the door, where it bounces and sends him happily trotting after it.

“Anyway, I’m going to see the house with him and give him my thoughts. Sofia is also supposed to lay out a hard-launch plan and send that over today.”

Ella snickers. “I never thought I’d be seeing my twin in a hard launch.”

“You and me both!”

But with the hard launch coming, I have to bring up Beckham to my mom today.

UGH.

I finish my hair, pinning it in place, and rise from the sofa. Winston trots over to me with the ball, wagging his tail. I bend down and ruffle his fur. “Be good for Ella today.”

“We’re going to take a stroll on South Beach and people watch,” she says.

I grin. Ella loves people watching.

“Well, that sounds like a perfect day.”

“Yes, definitely better than watching dollar signs appear in Mom’s pupils when she hears about Beckham.”

I stick my tongue out at her, and she grins back at me.

If only she were exaggerating, I think as I get up and grab my things and head out the door. Sadly, the only thing Ella is exaggerating about is the ability of dollar signs to appear in Mom’s pupils.

Because if there were a way for that to happen?

They totally would.

* * *

“What? Georgie! How did this happen? Beckham Bailey? I don’t know anything about hockey, but if he plays for the Manatees, he has to make a lot of money!”

I grind my teeth together as I grab a coffee cup and go over to Mom’s old drip coffee maker. I brace myself for more questions as I pour myself a cup. I’ve made it over to Mom and Rick’s house in Fort Lauderdale, ready to work in my old room, otherwise now known as my makeshift studio.

“I’m sure he does, Mom, but I don’t care about that,” I say simply.

She snorts. “I know you don’t. Not that I haven’t tried my best to get you to have a realistic perspective on money or your career, but if you ended up with a professional athlete, you would at least be secure.”

I draw my lower lip between my teeth as I open the container of half-and-half and dump some into my mug. If I don’t get into my studio soon, I’ll have gnawed off the inside of my cheek and my lower lip trying to stay calm and not let Mom get to me.

It’s always like this. Always. Even if I try to redirect the conversation, it always comes back to how I made an unwise career decision, how much money am I making, when am I actually going to turn a profit.

She has no idea how much this hurts me. Yes, I know I need to make more money, but I worked so hard and saved for years to have the money I had for this past year to get Georgie’s Jars off the ground. It’s like I have no value unless I’m making a lot of money.

And I’m not clueless. If I needed to get a job to support my business, of course I would. I just thought it would be easier to hit the ground full-time if I could.

My stomach twists into a knot. This is where I wish I were like Ella. Ella? She would have nipped this in the bud last year by telling Mom to respectfully back off. My twin always stands up for herself, no problem. In school, she stood up for me, too. Why? Because I’m terrible at confrontation. I’d just rather … completely ignore it? Shove it in a drawer and lock it up? I practically get hives when I even think about confronting another person.

Especially my mother.

“Carrie. Beckham Bailey makes ten million dollars a year,” Rick points out to my mom.

I look up. He’s reading his phone, so obviously he googled Beckham to find his salary.

I never thought of it before, but I hate that for him. Why do we all have a right to know how much he’s paid a year? It’s none of our business, yet here it is for all of us to know.

At least my salary is private. Thank God for that, or my mom would be on my case 24/7 to give up Georgie’s Jars.

“And he gets bonuses,” Rick continues as he reads.

Mom takes a sip from her coffee mug. “What kind of bonuses?”

None of your business, I bite back in my head.

“He had a three-million-dollar signing bonus last year,” Rick reports. “His contract is eight years, eighty-million dollars.”

I blink. I didn’t know it was on those terms.

“Oh, Georgie! Do you know what potential there is here for you?” Mom cries excitedly.

I glance at her, and suddenly I picture the dollar signs Ella mentioned this morning over her pupils. I begin to crack up.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Mom. We’re dating. We like each other. Let’s just see where it goes,” I lie.

And then I feel guilty about that. Lying. Making up a romance that would never happen in real life.

Ugh. I think I’m going to be sick.

“How did you meet him?” Mom asks excitedly. “How many dates have you been on?”

I begin to panic. I haven’t worked out these details with Beckham yet. What am I going to say?

“If you were smart, you’d see it all the way to the altar and a great prenup,” Rick advises.

I stare at him, biting the inside of my cheek again. Rick is just like Mom. They love money. Not spending it but accumulating it. Counting it. Gathering as much as they can and never ever spending it unless they have to.

Yes, I understand it’s important to have savings, an emergency account, and retirement fund. I do. But they hate spending on anything . I’ve grown up respecting Mom’s ability to stretch a dollar, but I’ve resented it, too. Anytime Ella or I got something new, we were made to feel bad about it. Like look what this cost, look what I had to buy for you.

It always made me feel bad. Guilty. Like I was an inconvenient drain on my mom’s finances.

And Beckham thinks he has issues, I think wryly.

“I met his sister, and she introduced us,” I say, thinking that will have to be our story. “And it’s very new, we just had our first date last night.”

There. Both statements will be easy to remember because they are true.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Mom says.

“Yes, it is, but I need to get to work now,” I say, hoping to get her off the topic.

“I’m so proud of you, Georgie.” Mom smiles brightly at me.

I pause.

Proud of me.

Not for saving money and investing in my own business. Not for my creative talents. Not for being a good human.

But for dating a man who makes millions.

I swallow hard, shoving the icky feeling sweeping over me down and away.

“I’ll be upstairs,” I say quietly, forcing the words out and not acknowledging what Mom said. I leave the room, heading up the familiar staircase as I have since childhood. This was the house Ella and I grew up in, a spacious two-story home in a nice community in Fort Lauderdale. Mom made sure she got it in the divorce, and I don’t think Dad cared as long as he was free of her. He now lives in a condo in Coral Gables with his girlfriend, Tasha.

Two more people I need to tell about my insta-love with Beckham.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I open the door to my room and flip on the light. Sunlight streams in from the large windows, and I take in my workspace. IKEA shelving lines one wall, filled with all my jars. I have a large worktable on the other wall that holds my supplies. I put my bags down on the floor and have a seat at the table, thinking about things I could do with the one hundred thousand dollars I will receive in January once this arrangement is completed.

I could rent space for an artist’s studio, I think.

That would be fantastic. A space that would be free of Mom and Rick, where I could work every day and not worry about being criticized for what I’m doing. That would be so liberating and so good for my mental health. I pull out my phone and do a quick search, and I immediately find a collaborative art space in Miami. It’s got month-to-month rent, open twenty-four hours a day, and is not even far from my apartment. Excitement begins to stir in me. This is exactly what I need.

And in January, I could have it.

I pull out my laptop and open it, looking over my notes from where I left off on Wednesday, the last day I was here in the studio. I have a big Christmas show the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I’m going over what inventory to bring when my phone buzzes beside me.

I glance down just to see who it is, but when I do, I freeze.

The text is from Beckham.

My heart does that jumpy thing again, and I pick up the phone to read his message:

Hey, Cupcake. Sofia thinks you should come to my game tonight as part of getting ready to launch. Are you available? No big deal if you can’t, I know this is last minute. Puck drops at 6:30, but if you want to watch warm-ups, you’ll need to be there earlier. You can meet Sofia and her husband Aaron there, and she’ll show you around and give you your credential. If you go, that is. I’m on my way to the rink for morning skate, but just drop me a message whenever you get this.

—Becks.

P.S. No need to wear a gift tag around your neck for this one.

Multiple things are happening in me at once. Go to his hockey game? As his guest? Fake girlfriend?

His nickname is Becks?

I grin. Oh no, he’s not going to be called that by me.

Also, he’s not getting away with that gift tag comment.

And why do I feel butterflies in my stomach about going to his game tonight?

I put the butterflies away with my mom’s comments because they are just as stupid as the stuff she says to me whenever I walk through the front door. I text him back:

Hey, Grumpy! I can report for duty as your girlfriend tonight. Just tell me where to go and what to do. I’ll text Sofia as well and ask her what I should wear for the occasion. My ribbon-and-pearl necklace will not be worn this evening, and that’s almost a shame because it’s a gorgeous STATEMENT NECKLACE.

I bite my lip as I wait for his response. Why do I feel so excited?

Because you’ve never been to a hockey game, I assure myself.

Finally, Beckham’s reply drops in:

That gift tag made a statement all right. As in BIG ASS GIFT TAG. Thanks for making the game tonight. I’ll see you on the glass before the game.

—BECKS (No matter WHAT you call me, it’s BECKS.)

I smile as I read his text. I have no idea what “on the glass” means, but I assume it’s in the arena.

And I might just have to wear my gift tag tonight just for him , I think with a mischievous grin.