Page 163 of Miami Ice

Now I hear sirens in the distance.

“That’s the ambulance,” Beckham says. “We’re going to get you to the ER, and everything is going to be okay.”

Through the fear and fog, another thought hits me.

“Call Ella,” I say. “My phone is somewhere behind me. Call her and have her meet me at the hospital, Beckham. You need to go to the game.”

“What?”he asks, sounding incredulous.

“You can’t miss a game. Not with what happened in Denver.”

“I’mnotgoing to the game,” Beckham says, his eyes flashing at me defiantly.

Fear surges through me. “Y-you have to. The coach wi—”

“I don’t CARE what anyone thinks, including the coach,” Beckham snaps as he continues to apply pressure to my wound. “Iloveyou, Georgie. They can rip up my contract and I could never play for them again as far as I’m concerned. I don’t give a fu—I don’tcare. I’m not leaving your side, do you understand me? You are all that matters.”

My throat swells as I hear his declaration. Beckham not only loves me, but he’s willing to risk everything to be by my side right now.

“I l-love you, too,” I cry. “But y-you have to go. Youhaveto. I’ll be okay if Ella can be there.”

The sirens are now outside the house.

“No,” Beckham says emphatically. “I amnotleaving you.”

I begin to cry harder. What if all his hard work to repair his image is damaged now? What if the team doesn’t understand? What will they say on social media? He’ll be a scratch, and right now, nobody knows why. The rumors will swirl and—

Winston is barking at the door again, and Beckham looks down at me. “Don’t think about it. I’m going to the hospital, and I’m not leaving your side, Georgie. And that’s final.”

The door opens, and soon firefighters and paramedics are in the entryway. I begin answering their questions, and they carefully brace my neck and back for transport to the emergency room. They lift me onto the gurney, and Beckham is right there next to me, holding my hand.

“Call the coach,” I beg him. “Please call him. You can still make the game.”

“I’m following you to the hospital,” Beckham says, his eyes flashing protectively. “That is where I’m going to be tonight. I’m going to be there with you.”

Then he releases my hand.

Now I’m sobbing for a whole different reason.

I know players can have family emergencies, but how often do you hear of them not being with the team outside of a birth or death in the family? I’m moving, so I don’t think I have any spinal or neck injuries. I have family here. I’m not going to be alone.

But Beckham refuses to leave me.

And it might just cost him everything with the Miami Manatees.

* * *

Within minutes of my arrival in the ER, a team of doctors are working on me. I’m going to have to have a CT scan done to check my head and my ribs. The wound on the side of my face has to be stitched. My ankle is starting to throb, and they’re going to check that with the scan, too. My back has pieces of the glass ornaments embedded in it, so those are going to have to be picked out. When I hear that, I begin to cry, and just as the tears are falling down my face, the curtain is pulled back to reveal Beckham.

I lock eyes with him. I watch as he looks at me in my hospital gown, hooked up to a vitals machine, crying. Beckham is still ghostly white, and his eyes look haunted. Then I see the cuff of his white dress shirt is soaked with my blood, and I hate that I’ve put him through all of this.

“Georgie,” he says, his voice rough.

I reach out my hand to him. Beckham moves to the chair next to the bed and immediately takes it in both of his.

One of the nurses—a kind man named Logan—begins filling Beckham in on the details of my case. I watch as he swallows hard a few times, squeezing my hand tighter when he reviews the potential injuries.

“We’re going to do a CT scan first,” Logan explains. “Then the doctor will come in and tell you what we are dealing with. We’ll also get the glass out of your back.”

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