Page 19 of Miami Ice

“Jesus Christ,” Beckham groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “What is happening right now?”

I laugh. Loudly. His response is so dramatic, it’s the only thing I can do when I see it.

“I’m going to spend more time on this than freaking playing hockey,” he grumbles.

“No, you are not. Hockey is the whole reason we’re doing this. If it weren’t important to you, there’s no way you’d be sitting here with me.”

He drops his hands from his face. “I wouldn’t?”

Now I’m confused. “No. I’m not exactly your type.”

His dark eyes flick over me, and I can’t help but feel a little shiver race through my body.

Ooh, this man is freaking hot.

Speaking in completely factual terms, of course.

“Fair enough. Most of my hookups don’t wear gift tags around their necks,” Beckham says.

My hands instinctively fly to the pearl-and-bow necklace I have on. “Gift tag?” I sputter. “This is not a gift tag! This is a very nice necklace!”

Beckham tilts his head to the side, as if he’s reconsidering. Then he brings his head back straight and grins. “Nah. That looks like a gift tag.”

DOES IT?

Oh my God. If Ella has been letting me walk around with a necklace that looks like a gift tag and didn’t tell me, I’m going to kill her.

“Necklaces that donotlook like gift tags aside,” I say, which causes Beckham’s face to light up in an amused smile, “why did you not take hockey seriously in Denver?”

The smile and light disappear from his eyes in an instant, as if I’ve taken a switch and turned everything off.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

I’ve hit a nerve. I have two choices here. I can either back off and start lobbing some simple getting-to-know-you questions at him, or I can challenge him to be honest.

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” I say gently. “But it will help me understand you better and help us do the best possible job of cleaning up your image. If you don’t, I’ll google when I get home. I might not find the true answers I need, but at least it will give me something to work with.”

“The media is full of shit,” he says, his voice taking on a defensive edge.

“Tell me how.”

He blinks.

“I want to hear your side of the story. And I know you think I look like a cupcake liner and am wearing a gift tag around my neck, so you might not take me seriously, but I am being serious, Beckham. You didn’t get traded for showing up late once and normal dude partying. Tell me the real story.”

“How do I know if I can trust you?” he flings back at me.

He’s been burned before.

I know I have no way of truly knowing that—I’ve just met the man, after all—but when I look into those deep brown eyes I see one thing right now.

Hurt.

“You don’t,” I say softly. “But I’m here because I’m desperate to save my business. I would not sabotage this opportunity to spread some gossip. I’ve been honest about who I’ve told about this meeting. Besides, think of what you know about me. I love Pinkmas and holiday cheer. Do I sound like someone who is going to take something you said, make a Connectivity Story Share out of it, and throw it up for the masses? No. Besides, that would totally ruin the algorithm for Georgie’s Jars, and I would never jeopardize that!”

He studies me for a moment, contemplating my words. Then he unfolds his arms and leans forward in his chair. “Fine. I’ll talk. But only if I get to ask you a deep question in return.”

“Of course. Now tell me what happened in Denver.”

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