Page 79 of Miami Ice

“Beckham, it’s the right way to eat the pizza.”

“Wrong.”

“It’s not wrong.”

“It is. But go on with your crazy way of eating a slice.”

“The cheese has to have nice pull on it,” I continue. “You have to agree with the cheese pull.”

“Pizza with no cheese pull is crap. What else?”

“Minimal flop on the crust.”

“I’ve never thought about the flop ratio.”

I begin to laugh. “Beckham, this has to be the weirdest conversation you’ve ever had.”

“Obviously.”

Now we both crack up.

“But Georgie? I liketheseconversations. I don’t talk to anyone else the way I talk to you.”

I decide to be bold with my next question. “What did you talk about with girls you hung out with?”

“Nothing.”

“Wait, you had to talk about something,” I insist.

“No, Georgie, we didn’t. Remember, I hooked up with women. I didn’t date them. I would say what I knew girls liked to hear—and yes, I fully own that makes me an ass, but I did. I didn’twantto know about them. I didn’t care if they folded their pizza, let alone what they wanted for the future. But in a lot of ways, it was a mutual exchange. A lot of women I previously went out with wanted to go out with a hockey player. I was interchangeable with any other guy on the team. Or some of them were convinced they knew me from social media. How can anyone KNOW someone from looking at their Connectivity Story Share? They wanted Becks Bailey, the guy they watched in fan-compiled videos. If you take a deep dive on Connectivity or TikTok, you’ll see what I’m talking about. Women comment how I look happy in photos or frustrated, and I’m like, how do would you even know? You’re dissecting avideo.”

I take a moment to digest this. Beckham is opening up again.

“What makes me different?” I ask softly.

Beckham is quiet as he nears the pizza restaurant.

“Well, I knew you were brought in to date me, and my sister had to convince you, so you weren’t coming in with an agenda. That was different. Then it’s who you are.”

He loops around the block, his eyes peeled for a parking space.

But my eyes have never left his profile, and my heart is banging against my ribs as I take in his words.

“You’re different because you care. Not about Becks Bailey, the hockey player who needs to clean up his act. You didn’t care at all that I played hockey for a living. You found different parts ofmethat you liked. The me that exists off the ice. You asked about things nobody else ever cared to know. And I didn’t know any of it mattered until I met you.”

Beckham spots a group of people walking to a car and pulls up and puts on his blinker as we wait for them to get in and leave.

But all I can think about is his last sentence.And I didn’t know any of it mattered until I met you.

Beckham is shifting things between us. I can feel it.

“You make me feel seen in a way that is brand new,” I say softly.

Now his eyes land firmly on my face.

“You were so encouraging about my art, which isn’t something I’ve ever received from my parents. You accept that I’m quirky. You listen to what I say. You think I’m funny and smart, and I have fun when I’m with you. Thank you for making me feel this way. Because I never knew I could.”

Suddenly the sound of a horn blaring behind us jolts us out of our conversation. The car Beckham had been waiting for has left, and we were so wrapped up in our conversation, we didn’t notice.

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