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Will dipped his chin. “Linnéa always put you first. I should’ve, too.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I know an apology can’t make up for what I’ve done and missed out on, but please know I never forgot you, Oliver. You were always in my thoughts and”—he tapped his chest—“here.” His voice broke.

Leaning back, he pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and removed a crinkled photo of a blond toddler sat on a bench. The child’s tiny frame was swamped by an adult-sized hockey jersey emblazoned with a winged wheel on the front.

No way. Oliver sucked back a gasp as his eyes stung with impending tears. The sweater’s red hue, the white logo. He knew exactly who the team was, thanks to Georgie. “Is that⁠—?”

“You in my Detroit jersey? Yeah. I brought it over in 1960 when you were two. This photo got me through a lotta tough times. In fact, I still have all the photos your mother sent me—every single one.” Will wiped his eyes. “And I know this is too premature to ask, but hopefully one day you’ll find a way to forgive me.”

Choked by his own swell of emotion, Oliver didn’t have it in him to be nasty or bitter. Not anymore. “It’s okay, Will.” He nodded. “I already have.”

* * *

Georgie handed Oliver a beer and snuggled beside him under a cozy throw. “I’m thrilled it went well.”

“Me too.” He stared ahead, replaying what had transpired. “Feels bizarre, though. I’m glad we made amends, but I’m not sure we can jump straight into a father-son relationship. We’re still strangers basically.”

Georgie nodded. “Maybe become friends first? Get to know each other slowly? You both have a LOT of catching up to do.”

“Will’s definitely trying to make up for lost time. He invited me over for dinner Wednesday.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder. “He’s cooking?”

“Yeah! A roast with potatoes and Yorkshire pudding,” said Oliver. “Help me pick out a wine?”

“Absolutely.” Georgie buried her nose in his hair and inhaled, then said, “You know, you had every right to charge in there, bitter and unforgiving, but you didn’t. You led with compassion.” She shifted, planting a prolonged kiss on his cheek, provoking his smile. “I couldn’t be more proud of you, Ollie Jönsson.” Her finger trailed along his lip.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. You believed me, supported my decision. For the first time in a long time, I haven’t felt alone.” I love you swelled in his heart, but once said, there was no going back. It would add extra pressure and expectation, and Oliver wasn’t sure Georgie was ready for that. He, however, was ready for another kiss.

Georgie lingered against his lips. “We make a pretty good team, don’tcha think?”

“I don’t think—I know.” Oliver shifted a strand of hair from her eyes. “And you were right all along. Will is a good guy.”

She grinned back. “Like father, like son.”

THIRTY-FOUR

GEORGIE

A month later, Sunday, February 14, 1993

Leafs record: 26 wins, 22 losses, 8 ties (in overtime)

Waiting on an order of steak and eggs, Knox huffed and caught Georgie’s eye. “The only good thing about today is chocolate goes on sale tomorrow. I’m thinking Zellers. You?”

“No, Honest Ed’s. Two for one.” Georgie picked up her French toast and crepes and hurried into the dining room. While loved-up couples shared breakfast in bed or downed mimosas at fancy brunches elsewhere, the Golden Griddle served up comfort food—waffles, eggs, coffee—to families, singles, and the romantically rebellious.

Rushed off her feet since six a.m., Georgie’s shift was flying by, bringing her closer to a night of wings, friends, and Leafs hockey at McNally’s with nary a cupid in sight.

But try as she might, Georgie couldn’t deny that this Valentine’s Day felt different. She was different, and with each plate of chocolate chip pancakes served, she found herself second-guessing her date night decision a little more. Not the Leafs part, obviously, but the choice to keep her evening with Oliver a friends-filled, Valentine-free zone.

His gentle thoughtfulness, his prowess between the sheets—she’d never met anyone like him, and pretending he was some random guy she was casually dating was insulting to Oliver and the bond they shared, especially on the day commemorating love and connection.

Growing up, Valentine’s Day was one of Georgie’s favourite occasions. Her parents would give her candy, a card, occasionally a stuffed toy. She, in turn, learned how fun it was to reciprocate with drawings and a small present purchased with her allowance. As a teen, her girlfriends, Michael, and her pets were lavished with tokens of affection every February 14th because it wasn’t just romantic love Georgie was brought up to celebrate, but all love. That’s who Georgie was…until Kyle.

Fucking Kyle. She swerved a stampeding toddler in the nick of time, the breakfasts she held aloft destined for two regulars, an adorable elderly couple who always held hands across the table. Setting down their plates with a smile, Georgie explained she was going off shift but another server would check in. In the meantime, did they need anything else?

“We’re good, love,” said the wife, her crinkly brown eyes reuniting with her husband’s, the affection in their gaze capable of melting the iciest of Valentine-hating hearts. “You know, we’ve been together fifty years and couldn’t be happier. I think we have all we need.”

“Always have,” echoed her husband.