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Now his strange behaviour made sense, and Georgie might’ve figured out why. She let out a laugh. “Oh, it’s fine. I know.” She whispered, “Spy boy.”

The corners of his lips curled upward. “Where’d you get that from?”

“Kait. She mentioned how you speak multiple languages and are always flying somewhere. And after seeing your disappointed face when Patriot Games wasn’t available to rent, it all kinda makes sense.”

Oliver half-laughed. “Well, I do have several work trips coming up, but they’re to share antiquities, not dossiers. I’m no Jack Ryan, unfortunately.” His throat bobbed. “But I am a son…hoping to confront his father.”

Georgie froze, her jaw dropping. “Nooo! HE’S HERE?! In Toronto?” Swallowing her surprise, she flashed a vengeful grin. “Oh Ollie, this is perfect! You can finally tell him to go to h⁠—”

“It’s Will McNally.”

Popcorn and pizza churned in Georgie’s stomach. “W-Will?” She dissolved into the couch, her thoughts reeling. Is this a joke? How’d he come to that conclusion? Is he—? But she caught herself. The Oliver she’d come to know so well wouldn’t kid around or lie about something so personal. Still, doubt thrashed in her gut, forcing her to ask, “Are you sure?” She blinked rapidly, searching for a resemblance. ’Cause Will said he doesn’t have kids!

Bending forward, Oliver pulled a manila envelope from beneath several postcards and magazines on the coffee table.

Her eyes widened. “Is that your birth certificate?”

“We don’t have those in Sweden. Instead, we have letters from the hospital, extracts from the population register, proof of paternity…”

A shiver shot up her spine as Oliver reached inside the envelope. “I-I can’t get my head around this. It’s SO out of character. Will LOVES kids. He’s great with them. He’s the last person I’d expect to abandon his… ”

Oliver removed several documents, each bearing deep creases like they’d been read and refolded several times. Georgie leaned in, but none of the writing was in English.

“This is the proof of paternity.” He handed her an A4-sized sheet of paper. “It’s in Swedish, but the names will be familiar.”

Georgie swallowed hard and began reading. “William Anders Jönsson, 9 juni 1958.” The prickle of impending tears thickened her throat. “Oh my god. You were named after Will?”

He nodded. “I switched to Oliver when Will broke off contact. It’s my maternal grandfather’s name.”

“It suits you.” Georgie’s gaze darted back. The next entry listed his mother, Linnéa Sofia Engberg Jönsson, along with her Stockholm address, followed by William Edward McNally in the box marked Fader below. “That means father?”

“Yes.”

Beside his name, Will’s hometown was recorded as Port Perry, Ontario, Canada, and his signature was scrawled below—a familiar signature Georgie had on his hockey card.

A groan escaped her throat. “It is him.” As tears gathered, she covered her mouth with her hand.

Oliver’s expression grew pained. “I know he means a lot to you.”

“So do you,” she gasped and bowed her head, taking a moment to navigate her shock while struggling to make sense of what she’d seen. Oliver didn’t rush or pressure her; he just tenderly stroked her back while her heart ached at the thought of choosing between the kindhearted former pro who’d taken her under his wing ten years earlier and the contemplative Swede she was falling for. But staying neutral wasn’t really an option when the stakes, for Oliver especially, were so high. How the fuck does someone walk away from their kid? And then pretend they don’t exist? Angry and disappointed, she cleared her throat. “Will’s been a dear friend, but you deserve answers. I’ll be by your side whatever you decide to do, okay?”

He kissed her temple, whispering, “Thank you.”

“I always thought Will was one of the good guys.” She scowled into her lap. “God, you think you know someone.”

Ducking into her eyeline, Oliver searched her face. “What do you know, Bug? Is he married? Do I have siblings?” His gaze grew hopeful, eager. “Has he ever mentioned me?”

Knowing she didn’t have the answer he sought most, Georgie’s ribs tightened, constricting her breaths. She shook her head as she wiped her eyes. “No. I’m sorry.”

Oliver deflated with a mournful exhale.

“But I know he’s been divorced twice, has no other kids,” she blurted, her watery focus leaping to the manila envelope as Oliver removed additional items. “What are those?”

“Papers I found in my mother’s desk.” Oliver handed Georgie a newspaper clipping. “This told me where Will was living after he retired from hockey.”

The article was written in Swedish, but its black and white photo of two hockey players from the 1950s captured Georgie’s attention, especially the one smiling. “That’s Will.”

Oliver nodded. “It namechecks McNally’s in Toronto and was written in 1990. I figured there’d be a good chance I’d still find him there. They don’t mention it’s a sports bar. I found that out when you guys invited me out.”