Page 73 of Miami Ice

Winston doesn’t look convinced.

“Yeah, I’m not convinced either. You’re supposed to back me up here.”

I unlock my phone and bring up Beckham. I tap open our message thread and type:

I just watched you score a goal.

I pause.

That’s stupid.

I delete and try again:

Hi, watching your game and saw your goal. Well done!

Well done? What is he, asteak?

Okay, not a steak I would order—I like mine medium-rare—but still, I sound like I’m ordering one and not talking to a hot hockey player.

NO. Delete.

I try again:

That was a sick goal you just scored.

What did I even just type? Jordan talks like this when he sees a highlight onSportsCenter. I don’t talk like this!

Delete.

The game goes on, and I’m stuck in my internal battle of trying to figure out what to say to Beckham about his goal, and making this ten thousand times harder than it ever should be. I’m about to try again when suddenly an idea comes to me.

Do I dareflirtwith him?

I glance over at Winston. He’s got his head down and his eyes are closed. He’s obviously lost all patience with me this evening. I bite my lip.

That goal was a thing of beauty. Looking good, Becks. #HeyNow

That’s flirting. It’s up to him to infer whether I think he looks good hockey-wise or hot-wise, but the #HeyNow should give him the direction of where to go with that comment.

I draw a breath of air, exhale, and hit send.

There. I’ve acknowledged the goal. He knows I’m watching. And the rest is left up to his interpretation.

Now I just need to wait and see how he responds to it.

* * *

The Manatees win the game, 3-0, and I stay on Total Access Total Sports, waiting for the postgame interviews. Surely they’ll talk to Beckham because he scored a goal, right?

I’ve taken Winston out for the final time before bed, changed into my pajamas, washed my face, and I have my hair pulled up into a messy top knot. I’m drinking a glass of water—one thing Mom instilled into both me and Ella was the importance of HYDRATION—and after this is over, I’ll drag myself off to bed early, where I will no doubt not sleep, but stare at the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree in my room and let my mind race with thoughts over this whole confusing situation with Beckham.

I wait impatiently as the postgame show host and analysts break down the game. Well, I’m not so impatient when they show Beckham’s first goal and replay that “hey now” moment he had on the bench, but the analysis is dragging. I yawn because this is like listening to people speak a foreign language. But then I hear the magical words I’ve been waiting for.

“Leigh Barnes is standing by with Beckham Bailey,” the female host says. “Let’s hear Beckham walk us through that goal.”

Goose bumps sweep over my skin. I sit up straighter, eager to see him.

Suddenly my screen is filled with the image of a beautiful sideline reporter with long, cascading mermaid-style hair and Beckham, standing next to her in a gray Manatees T-shirt, drenched in sweat, and a black Manatees baseball hat that he’s wearing backward. Dark brown stubble shades his jawline, and he has his hands on his hips as he awaits the interview questions.

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