Page 40 of Miami Ice

“You never told me about your tattoos at dinner last night,” I point out as he turns on the engine.

“That’s a personal question.”

I know he’s teasing me by the smug smile on his handsome face.

“Well, then make something up, because it’s part of our origin story.”

He snorts. “The origin story again.”

“Beckham. It’s important. I want to get the details right. I mean, what if one of the women in the family lounge would have asked me how we met? I couldn’t say your sister picked me up at a craft show!”

“But my sister did pick you up at a craft show. That’s actually a truthful thing we can say. I think that’s the start of our story.”

“That’s fine, your sister thought I’d be perfect for you after meeting me at a craft show,” I say as he winds his way out of the arena garage. “Now tell me about your ink.”

“I highly doubt anyone is going to ask you about my ink.”

Damn. He’s probably right about that.

“But it will help me get a better picture of who you are. The deeper we can get into character, the better.”

“Wait, am I a character or me?” Beckham asks.

“I’d rather have you, but I’ll work with whatever you give me.”

“Oh, what a little gamer you are,” he teases.

“Come on, Beckham. Tell me about your tattoos.”

We drive out onto the street. “Wait, where am I going? Please tell me it’s not some retro diner with a drive-in.”

“No, smart aleck, it’s not, but I should find one just for you,” I declare. “Anyway, I’ll pull it up on Google Maps for you.”

I enter the address into my phone, and soon Beckham is being given directions to the gourmet shake bar in South Beach.

“This is so weird,” he says as he drives. “Thanksgiving is next week, but I’m somewhere with ocean breezes and palm trees. It screws with my mind.”

“It’s so funny because this is all I’ve ever known,” I reply. “Oh, speaking of Thanksgiving, Sofia said I should stop by for pie. And social media opportunities.”

Beckham snorts. “She’s taking this way too seriously. I mean, she uprooted her family to Miami for a month, that’s insane.”

“I think that says how much she loves you and is worried about you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and a sad expression passes over his face.

“My family is like that,” he says. “The only reason Mom and Dad aren’t here is because they run an inn in Wisconsin. They always host a big Thanksgiving dinner for their guests, and they book out a year in advance. But they wanted to refund all their guests and come down here to make sure I got straightened out. They only backed off when Sofia and Aaron promised to come over from Atlanta and do it for them.”

“Really?” I ask, fascinated by this.

Beckham makes a right turn and stops at the red light. “Yeah.” He pauses and rubs his hand over his mouth. “It’s freaking embarrassing is what it is. I put them through a lot of shit during my time in college and my stint in Denver. They saw the social media posts. They made it clear they expected more from their son and were worried about the crap that was going down. But I had gotten so arrogant by that point, I thought Iwas invincible. All that mattered was my performance on the ice. Until it didn’t,” he adds quietly.

It’s another vulnerable confession from him, and it’s so brave of him to say these things at all, let alone to someone he doesn’t know very well.

“But you understand it now,” I remind him, my voice firm. “And you’re determined to change. You wouldn’t be here with me, driving to get a milkshake, if you didn’t care.”

He draws a breath of air and exhales slowly. “That doesn’t make up for the fact that I willingly chose to make them worry because having fun was my priority. I … I hate myself for that.”

The confession hangs in the air between us. It’s a powerful admission from Beckham, and it’s obvious his mistakes are still weighing heavily on him.

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