Page 32 of Miami Ice

“We’ll obviously be on the side where the Manatees will warm up,” Sofia explains.

“Mommy?” says the little girl in her arms, whom I now know is Stella. “I want fries.”

“After we watch Uncle Beckham warm up, we’ll get some dinner, and you can have fries as a treat.” Sofia turns toward me. “We’ll eat in the Luxury Lounge tonight. It’s for anyone who has a ticket on the glass, and the families and partners/wives/girlfriends of players can eat there, too. The food isphenomenal.”

“Sounds good,” I say.

I’m glad to hear about dinner, because I’m already getting hungry. I worked all morning and afternoon, only stopping to eat an energy bar before heading home from my mom’s house. An early meal would suit me perfectly.

Before long, we’re headed down toward the ice, and the second I begin walking down the arena steps, I’m struck by how cold it is. Yes, I have on long sleeves, but this is trulycold. I guessI never thought I’d feel it in the arena, which shows how little I know about hockey. The players have not come out to the ice yet, but fans are already getting places on the glass so they can see their favorite players up close.

We find a spot and stand next to the glass. Now my body is almost humming in anticipation. What will Beckham look like in his hockey gear? Yes, I’ve seen pictures of him on Google, but how will he look in real time, in front of me?

I go further in my thoughts.

Will he smile when he sees me? Will he scowl at my nutcracker shirt? Laugh at the not-a-gift-tag necklace?

“Could you hold Stella for a moment?” Sofia asks. “I need to get their headphones out of my bag.”

“Of course,” I say. I take Stella from her arms, and she carefully appraises me.

“Elsa hair,” she says, patting my braids.

I grin. “Yes.”

“I want Elsa hair.”

“I can give you Elsa hair tonight if you like.”

“Yes!” she says excitedly.

“I want Elsa hair, too!” Lucy cries.

“I promise I will give both of you Elsa hair. I always carry a lot of hairpins in my bag.”

“Well look at you, sliding right into the ring and making friends with the main acts,” Aaron teases.

“I’m more than happy to braid hair. That makes more sense to me than hockey does,” I admit.

“Time for headphones,” Sofia says, carefully putting them on each of her daughters’ ears. “Now we’re ready!”

Shortly after the headphones are placed on the girls—and Stella is back on her mom’s hip—the PA announcer bellows into the airspace. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he booms. “Welcome to Premier Airlines Arena for tonight’smatchup of the Chicago Buffaloes versus your MIAMI MANATEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.”

The crowd cheers, and loud music pumps through the arena sound system. I keep my eyes glued to the tunnel, and sure enough, the Miami players are walking up to the ice, dressed in their neon pink and black jerseys. I watch as one by one, they pop onto the ice, skating around the goal as they begin to warm up.

“There he is! Do you see Uncle Beckham?” Aaron says, pointing at the tunnel.

I follow his finger. Then my heart suddenly beats in triple time.

There’s Beckham.

He doesn’t have his helmet on, so his dark, wavy locks are visible, as is his handsome face. He hits the ice and begins skating, and I take in everything about him—from how good he looks in his jersey to how a hint of his tattoo sleeves is visible, peeking out from underneath his jersey. The girls squeal happily as they see their uncle, and I can’t stop watching him as he moves closer toward us.

I know this feeling is stupid.

So, so, so stupid.

But I’m enjoying myself too much to do a deep dive on the why or to try and stop it.

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