Page 143 of Miami Ice

“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.

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