Page 134 of Miami Ice

She tucks a lock of her long hair behind one ear and smiles at me. “Hi, Georgie!”

What is her name, what is her name, what is her name?

Nicki! Nicki Lawrence! That’s it!

“Hi, Nicki,” I say, thankful my brain pulled this one out for me.

“How are you doing? Are you finding everything okay?” she asks.

“Now that I’ve located cookies, I’m absolutely fine,” I tease, picking up the tongs and placing two of the red-and-green-sprinkled cookies on my napkin.

“I think these would go with Champagne, don’t you?” Nicki asks, her eyes sparkling.

I grin. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

We go over to the bar and get Champagne in plastic cups, and then we make our way back to the elevator. Nicki is extremely warm and friendly, and we fall into an easy conversation. We reach our seats just as the puck is dropped, and I set my cup of Champagne into the holder in front of me. I break off a piece of the cookie and pop it into my mouth—okay, this looked better than it is, I’d rank it a solid “meh” five on a one-to-ten scale—and watch as players move up and down the ice.

I’d love to see another goal just to have a bit of cushion in this game. I look over at the bench, where Beckham has just come over the boards and is on the ice. Even as Nicki and I talk, I have my eyes glued on him the entire time. Nashville takes a shot on goal, but it’s easily deflected by our goalie. Beckham skates up the ice in the other direction, and Brayden Morrow passes the puck to him.

He flies down the right-hand side of the ice, swooping down low near the net. I wait for him to pass the puck, but instead he takes a shot on goal from the sharp angle he’s at. I watch as the puck sails over the head of the goalie, hits the top left hand of the post and ends up in the back of the net.

I leap to my feet as the goal horn goes off, and the entire arena erupts into cheers. Beckham pumps his fist in triumph. “Ice Ice Baby” fills the arena, and I watch as he is hugged by his teammates on the ice. Nicki gives me a high five, and the other WAGS celebrate with me. I’m so happy I could burst.

Beckham skates down the bench, giving fist bumps to all of his teammates. I tear my gaze away from him and look at theoverhead video screen, showing a replay of the goal. I watch in awe of his speed. Of the angle where he took the shot, thinking that was an impossible one to make. Then it hit the post in the exact right spot that led it to ricochet into the net.

I look back at where he’s now sitting on the bench next to Wyatt, talking and pointing to the ice.

“Miami Manatees goal by number ninety-two, BECKHAMMMMMMMMMMMM BAILEY,” the PA announcer roars as the crowd goes insane again. “Assisted by number twenty-two, BRAYDENNNNNNNNNN MORROWWWWWWWWWWWWW.”

I reach for my Champagne and take a celebratory sip for Beckham, who has done nothing but score goals in every game I’ve watched him play since I’ve met him.

And I can’t wait to celebrate with him.

* * *

I wait for Beckham outside of the WAGS lounge after the game. The Manatees went on to win 3-0 over Nashville, with Brayden scoring the final goal. I watched Beckham do a postgame interview on TV, and once again he gave credit to Brayden for the amazing pass that gave him the opportunity to score.

It’s interesting. I’ve never looked at Beckham’s postgame interviews from his time in Denver, but something tells me if I were to do so, they wouldn’t be like this. Not as humble as they are now, and he wouldn’t be deflecting the credit he deserved like he does in interviews for the Manatees.

I know the trade was a huge wake-up call for him. Beckham learned in the blink of an eye that it didn’t matter how much he was paid or how good he was on the ice—because Denver knew he could be better, but he showed no signs of caring to applyhimself. That, added in with the missed practices and showing up late and the constant evidence of partying, showed his skills didn’t matter. That version of Beckham wasn’t wanted on their team.

But this version of Beckham—the man he’s becoming, the man who always existed underneath the facade—is wanted by Miami. The announcers were even saying what a dynamic he’s added to the team since joining it, and that his play on the ice has gone to a different level.

And I couldn’t be prouder of him.

I keep my eyes peeled for Beckham to come down the corridor, and finally, he does. My pulse quickens the second I spot him. He’s dressed in a gray suit with a white dress shirt that is open at the neck. Black leather bracelets adorn his left wrist, and while wearing sneakers is more common these days with suits, Beckham is wearing a pair of perfectly polished black dress shoes.

Hmm. Is there anything hotter than a hockey player in a suit?

I don’t think so.

Beckham’s face lights up in a smile when he sees me, and a shiver of excitement shoots through me. I walk toward him, and when we meet, the first thing Beckham does is slide his hands around my waist, sending goose bumps rippling across my skin. I put my hands on his face—my palms are deliciously prickled by the five o’clock shadow on his jaw—and smile up at him.

“I am so proud of you!” I say excitedly. “That goal was amazing! How did you do that?”

“Do you want to know the truth?” he murmurs, his voice low.

I nod.

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