Page 76 of Miami Ice

Chapter Eighteen

I read his last reply over and over. Which doesn’t take long because, you know, it’s one word.

MINE.

But damn it, Beckham doesn’t text anything else, so I don’t know if he’s teasing and about to say “Ha-ha, kidding!” or if this is part of his script or a BookTok thing, as Ella would say.

Or does he mean it? Would he go feral if he saw me wearing another player’s jersey?

FERAL?

My God, I’ve been listening to Ella way too much if that has become a thought for me.

Okay. I can be brave and roll the dice on flirting. If he acts weird, I can claim I was practicing for our hard launch or something.

I text him back:

Well, that’s rather hard to accomplish, being that I don’t have anything with your name on it. I am getting my bedazzled tube top from Megan before the game, but it’s still not a jersey. A Darby jersey could fill that void in my closet. Perhaps that can be part of my Black Friday shopping plan.

I hold my breath as I wait for him to reply. Then it finally comes through:

You’re getting my jersey, Cupcake. I can’t have you wearing anything but my name.

I want to be excited by this response, but I can’t. Because it can go either way.

I’m about to text him back when I see he’s typing again. Then another response pops up:

Georgie, would you legit wear my jersey if I got you one?

I exhale in surprise. I know you can’t read tone from a text, but why do I feel as if I can?

I quickly text him back before I chicken out from telling him the truth:

I’d be honored to, Beckham.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

I’ll make that happen. Warning, the jersey has a manatee on it and not maniacal nutcrackers.

I can’t contain the smile that is spreading across my face. I’m about to text him back when another text comes in:

I would kill for a piece of pizza right now.

I grin at the abrupt change in subject and text him back:

You can make that happen, you know. I know of a great NY-style pizza place that’s open late. They even serve the pizza on PAPER PLATES, and if you don’t think that is amazing, I have to question your pizza code of ethics.

Beckham Bailey is typing …

Pizza has a code of ethics? How does that work?

Crap. That sounded witty when I wrote it, and now I don’t know if I can explain it. I’m thinking on it when another text from Beckham comes through:

Would you be up for a late-night snack, Cupcake?

Ooh!

I can pick you up sometime after midnight if you care to show me where this magical pizza place is and explain to me the pizza code of ethics.

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