Page 27 of Miami Ice

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 unwisecareer 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’mterribleat 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.

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