Page 74 of Miami Ice

More. Porn.

“Thanks, Heidi,” Leigh says, turning to Beckham. “Beckham, congratulations on your first goal for the Miami Manatees. Can you walk us through that two on zero?”

Beckham pushes down on his baseball hat and nods. “Thank you. I saw that Wyatt had worked the puck away from Klopp, so I just took off down the left-hand side. Wyatt easily could have taken that shot himself, but he passed it to me, so I made sure I didn’t miss,” he says, grinning.

My heart flutters. I love the way he’s smiling right now.

“It must feel good to get that first goal for the team under your belt,” Heidi says.

“Definitely. I came here to contribute and help the team, and it felt good to open up the scoring for the game.”

She asks him a few more questions, and I can’t help but admire how well Beckham answers everything thrown at him.There are no pauses, no incomplete answers, but thoughtful ones, even though he’s probably been asked these questions a million times before while he was playing in Denver.

When the interview ends, I shut off the TV and decide I’ll do the thing the experts never tell you to do before bed: aimlessly scroll through Connectivity Story Share. I grin. Chloe cringes at my routine. She’s very strict about sleep hygiene. She will not have any screen time one hour before bed.

I know, however, I’m already going to have my brain racing with thoughts of Beckham, of him scoring a goal, his “hey now” comment on my post last night, and what he will think of my “hey now” comment on the text I sent him. I refuse to sit in my room and simply let these all play on like a poorly written movie script in my head over and over.

I have to try to be distracted. Reading is hopeless. I know myself enough to know I’d try to read two sentences and thoughts of Beckham would replace whatever is happening on the page.

Video is much easier.

I turn back the covers on my bed, and Winston climbs up his ramp to take his place down near my feet. I prop my pillows up, slide underneath the duvet, and reach for my phone on the nightstand. I open up Connectivity Story Share, and first I’m served not Beckham, but a soccer player. I pause. There are clips of a gorgeous soccer star with dark brown hair. A series of video clips flash before me. Him doing interviews. Sweaty. On the pitch in the rain. A close-up of him raking a hand through his thick hair. A shot from behind focusing on his jersey, which says “DARBY” and has the number seven on it.

He’s hot,I think.

And the whole thing is set to Taylor Swift’s “Style.”

I snicker as I read the caption:

Daddy Saucy Shorts IS this song.

Daddy Saucy Shorts!

Now I’m rolling. I’m laughing so hard, Winston barks at me.

“Sorry,” I say to him. “But Winnie, this is sofunny.”

He drops his head back down, unimpressed by what I find amusing.

I go back to the video and look at the hashtags. This soccer player is Noah Darby, and apparently a Premier League superstar.

Who is also known as SAUCY SHORTS.

So much so that it’s a Connectivity Story Share hashtag.

I go down this rabbit hole in fascination. I never thought about athletes before, other than seeing them onSportsCenterhighlights whenever Jordan is over.

I spend a bit of time on Noah Darby, but before long, I’m back to looking at videos of Beckham.

The other Daddy.

I furrow my brow. I’m supposed to be trying to distract myself from Beckham, but here I am, looking at videos of him.

I’m an idiot.

I set my phone on my nightstand, put my pillows down, give them a good fluffing—I’m not sure why, it’s a habit I have—and decide I need to sleep. I turn over onto my side, and just as I close my eyes, my phone buzzes.

Since I’m awake, I reach for it.

---