Page 24 of Miami Ice

“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? LikeRudolph 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.”

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