Page 20 of Miami Ice

“I was an asshole.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “You’re going to need to give me a bit more than that.”

He rakes a hand through his thick brown locks.

His hair is rather hot, too.

Just noting another factual thing about him, of course.

“When I was at college in Vermont,” Beckham begins, picking at the cocktail napkin underneath his glass, “I wasalways the best on the team. I’m not saying that because I’m a self-absorbed ass—it’s the truth. I could have gone into the minor leagues as soon as I was drafted my sophomore year, but my parents and I had a long talk about the pros and cons of that, and I opted to have a college experience. Get a degree. Which I did. Finance, thank you very much.”

I begin to see Beckham a bit differently as he reveals his story to me. It sounds like he has a good relationship with his parents—or at least values and listens to their opinions. And he didn’t have to earn a degree with the NHL drafting him, so I have to say, I’m impressed by that.

“Anyway, I was all about hockey growing up, from the time I was like three. Hockey, hockey, hockey. If I wasn’t at the rink, I was practicing goal shooting in the basement with a net my dad had set up,” he says, his gaze still cast downward on the napkin he’s pulling at. “I was playing at a club level early on. Jumped up to the varsity team as a freshman. I didn’t do anything but play the game and keep up my grades so I could, well, play hockey.”

I remain silent, letting him tell his story without interruptions.

“So I get to Waleston University—one of the best collegiate hockey programs in the country—and there was all kinds of pressure from the other players on the team to conform. Meaning party hard off the ice.”

“Social pressure,” I say, validating what he’s saying.

“Yeah. Well, I felt like I had to fit in, so I did what they did. I partied. It turns out I was good at it. Well, that and hooking up with girls. I turned out to be pretty good at that, too,” he says.

This time, the smile isn’t flirty. Or knowing, or teasing, like the other ones I’ve seen tonight.

It’s almost … shy? My heart flutters.

Wait. Is that what happened? I had this weird, flutter-like movement inside my chest. I’ve never had that before. How odd. Maybe I’m dehydrated.

I take a sip of my Diet Coke and refocus on what Beckham is saying instead.

“I was able to party with my teammates and fit in. I was able to have sex when I wanted, and my game continued to evolve on the ice,” Beckham continues. “It was like a light bulb went off. I didn’t have to be about hockey all the time. In fact, my arrogance grew, and I thought I could manage it all. And I did. Until I hit the NHL.”

I wait to see if this is where Beckham decides he’s told me enough. Because it’s a lot to confess to a complete stranger, and I get the feeling he never does this. But to my surprise, he keeps talking.

“My arrogance carried over to Denver,” he says, his voice going very quiet. “I was going to live what I thought was the life of a professional hockey player. Basically, do what I did before, without the worry of keeping up grades. Throw in a lot of money—money like I’ve never seen in my life—and yeah, it’s been a disaster. I won’t lie—I had fun. I thought if I performed on the ice, nobody would give a shit if I was five minutes late. Or if I was snapped at a club the night before showing up late.”

“But you were wrong,” I finish for him.

He rubs his hand over his jawline. I notice he does this when he’s frustrated or uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” he says. “See, the thing is, Georgie? This is who I’ve been for six years. I don’t know who I am outside of this persona I began to fill out in college. Is this who I was always meant to be? Am I doing this because I don’t know any better? Or am I this because I lost who I am?”

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and place my hand over his, which is resting on the linen-draped table. I hear Beckhamsuck in a breath of surprise, and I speak quickly in case he decides to shut down on me.

“Do you realize what an opportunity you have now?” I ask quietly. “You have a clean slate to discover who you really are. You can explore and figure out the man you want to be, Beckham. What a gift you have been given.”

He stares at me as if I’ve gone mad. “A gift? You think being traded for being a screwup is agift?”

I nod. “First of all, you’re not a screwup. You made mistakes. That’s called being human. But yes, this is a gift. In this case, yes. You went to another professional team, not the lower-level team. What is that called? When you go to the one below? I forget.”

A soft smile lights up his face. “The affiliate.”

“Okay, the affiliate. You weren’t sent down. You landed here, in Miami. You know you pushed limits, and you know what those are. You have a chance to do it right this time. You’re young. You don’t have to know who you are as a man today. Tomorrow. Or even six months from now. You can figure that out. You do know, however, that you have to rededicate yourself to being theplayeryou want to be on the ice. And I believe you can do it.”

“Why?” Beckham asks, his hand still underneath mine. “Why do you think that, Georgie?”

“You care. You wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t. You would have blown off Sofia’s idea. You wouldn’t have gone to her for help. And you wouldn’t be sitting across the table from some strange girl prying into your private life with no endgame for it.”

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