Page 104
“Just a bit, yeah—oh…!” He trailed off with a laugh. “They’re inflating Bart Simpson now! Whoa, mama!”
Oliver’s glee widened Georgie’s grin. “I’m so glad you called. I needed some cheering up.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” he asked. “Did that Brian asshole do something?”
“No, it’s the Leafs. We’re on a losing streak and on the cusp of falling below .500. I’m having nightmares about missing the playoffs again—and it’s only November!”
Her concern was met with silence through the phone, and a chill crept up her spine. Please don’t say ‘It’s just a game.’ Of course, Georgie knew it was, but the idea of Oliver—kind, obliging Oliver, of all people—responding with such a trivializing remark hacked away at her heart. She massaged her temple, hoping, waiting.
“Below .500 means what?”
Georgie glanced to the heavens, mouthing ‘Thank you’ as her shoulders relaxed. “Losing more games than you’ve won.”
“But losing a few now won’t ruin the entire season. Or will it?”
“It won’t if it’s an isolated blip, but with our track record, it feels like déjà vu, like we’re about to plunge into another disastrous stretch of shitty results. I try not to catastrophize, but disappointment tends to build up season after season, decade after decade.”
“Yeah, I can hear it in your voice,” Oliver answered softly.
“If we lose too many, we won’t make the playoffs, which is the worst feeling. It hurts and sucks and morphs into ‘maybe next year’ all over again. Rinse and fucking repeat.”
“When was the last time Toronto missed the playoffs?”
“Last season and the season before that.”
“Oh! They haven’t had much luck lately,” said Oliver.
That was putting it mildly. “And I hate when they lose.” She frowned. “It feels like I’ve lost and bums me out.”
“For how long?”
“Depends. If we lose a round in the playoffs, maybe a week, maybe more. Regular season losses, I usually bounce back before the next game, but with everything at work”—Georgie’s gaze flicked to Tracey Ullman’s “They Don’t Know” video playing at a low volume on her TV—“it’s been harder to shrug off.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe you should skip a few games? Go back in a week or two?”
Her expression pinching, Georgie sat back against the front of the couch. “I can’t. LA’s here on Saturday.”
“Okay…?”
He doesn’t get it. She rubbed her forehead. “Wayne Gretzky plays for LA, one of the greatest players of all time…?”
“Oh! Can Toronto beat hi—them?” asked Oliver.
“Yeah, provided we find the net and have great goaltending, both of which have been in short supply lately.” Georgie yawned through her words. “We’ll have to be loud, make sure the boys know we’re behind them.” She blinked away the watery remnants of the yawn. “Maybe I should make an inspiring sign. Tape it up in the south golds.” Her gaze drifted toward the window and a familiar scratching on her balcony. Ringo’s arrived. “Yeah, I’ll do that next.”
“You sound exhausted, though,” said Oliver. “Is it the best idea to pour so much blood, sweat, and tears into something that doesn’t love you back? It all feels rather one-sided.”
He wasn’t wrong, but…her nostrils flared. “Sometimes. Not always.”
“Then…why do it?”
Because we’re masochists? While partially true, such a response wouldn’t get Oliver on board. “Because…a lot of emotions and memories are involved, and it’s not something I can easily turn on and off. It’s almost like they’re part of me. I feel most at home, most myself when I’m cheering them on.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” he replied gently. “Listen, I might not understand all the nuances of hockey fandom, but if you need to vent or do something fun to distract yourself, if you need to wallow, I’m your man.”
His kindness made Georgie regret her brisk retort. “You’re a sweetheart. And I’m…” Embarrassing. She rolled her eyes. “Sorry.”
“For what?” he asked.
