Page 66 of Miami Ice

EllaBella:Do you never go on TikTok? They show players in suits ALL THE TIME. They have to wear them to go to games.

Chloe with a C not a K: I need to spend more time on TikTok. Georgie, he’s GORGEOUS. How do you keep your hands off him? I’d have to remind myself all the time that he’s fake.

Emilee: He’s not fake, the relationship is. I’d have a hard time with that. Because look at him. I’d want to devour him every second he was around! Does he smell good, Georgie? I bet he does.

EllaBella: He does. Nice cologne.

Emilee: I KNEW IT. Damn. Looks good, tattoos, and smells divine. GEORGIE, I WANT YOUR LIFE.

I go back to working on my jars, biting my lower lip as the conversation rolls around in my head. What they don’t understand is how much more there is to Beckham than how beautiful he looks in a suit. He’s grumpy, but sweet. He sees me and validates my thoughts. He’s opened up to me and shared things nobody else knows. Beckham might have a bad reputation, but he’s vulnerable. He makes me laugh like nobody else can and … he merely sees me as his likeablefakegirlfriend.

God, what have I gotten myself into? I’m going to end up heartbroken by the end of this. I know I am.

I look down at the jar in my hand. This is the whole reason I agreed to this. To save Georgie’s Jars. This Christmas show next Saturday is at the convention center, and I spent a lot of money to reserve the table space. With this being the biggest show I’ve ever booked, and Beckham showing up and blasting it on social media, I have to hope I’ll not only come out of this in the black, but it will start me on a trajectory to grow my career.

But now it’s starting to become a bit more complicated than that.

There’s a rap on the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Come in,” I say.

Mom pops open the door and steps into the room. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” I say, smiling at her. “I should be finished in an hour or so.”

She nods. “Do you think you’ll sell a lot next weekend?”

GAH, I know where this conversation is going.

“Hopefully, yes,” I say calmly. “I have all the trendy Christmas colors ready to go, festive add-ons like ornaments and painted wooden spoons, and I just have to keep my fingers crossed people are in the festive spirit and ready to buy decor and gifts.”

Mom’s lips twist in thought. “It’s been rough, though, with the economy lately. Like I’d never spend that much on a painted jar.”

And here it comes.

“But that’s you,” I say calmly. “Other people might have the money to spend on a hand-painted Mason jar.”

“I don’t get it.”

My heart sinks. Our conversations always come back to this point, and it not only makes me sad, but puts infinitely more pressure on me to do better.

“I’m trusting my gut,” I say, which is an answer I use a lot with Mom.

“I sincerely hope you have a back-up plan for this because, darling girl, this seems like a fantasy job.” Then she brightens. “But if you can nail down Beckham Bailey, who cares? You can paint all the jars you want and never sell a single one.”

OMG.

This is going to be her new path for my success. I’ve got to “nail down” Beckham to save myself.

“Mom, we just started dating,” I manage to say. “Who knows where we’ll be next week, let alone in the future?”

“Well, if I were you? I’d put serious thought into that future bit.”

I grind my teeth. No wonder why I have to wear a night guard when I sleep—my mother is single-handedly giving me TMJ.

“Well, I’ve got to run,” Mom says. “I just wanted to say goodbye because you’ll probably be gone by the time I come back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Mom.”

She turns and leaves the room, and a heaviness settles over me. Hopefully I can get rid of it before girls’ night out, because I don’t want to be a black cloud on everyone else.

---