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Georgie opened hers. Four! She laughed to herself and shared a happy glance with Eden.
Duncan scored the coveted first pick while Brian nonchalantly held up his slip of paper, the number sixteen scrawled in thick blue marker. If he was disappointed having the last pick, he didn’t show it.
The first round whizzed by as the previous season’s top scorers—Pittsburgh’s Mario Lemieux and Kevin Stevens, Wayne Gretzky of Los Angeles, and St. Louis’ Brett Hull (Georgie’s first selection)—were snapped up in quick succession. Laporte, as per usual with his opening pick, chose a Montréal forward, Kirk Muller. A few players were taken earlier than Georgie had expected, including Doug Gilmour of the Leafs who, despite being ranked twentieth in 1991-92 league scoring, was the sixteenth pick overall, claimed by Brian.
He tsked. “Someone won’t be happy with me.” Running a hand along his centre part, his crooked smile wilted into a theatrical pout as his gaze intertwined with Georgie’s. “Sorry, Law.”
“Don’t be,” she volleyed back, ignoring the insincerity in his mea culpa. “All’s fair in love and hockey pools.”
And Georgie meant it. As much as she adored Gilmour and proudly wore his #93 jersey to games, she strictly abided by an important rule—team bias had no place in the hockey pool draft. Sure, it was fun to select your favourite players and cheer them on all season long, but allowing a personal allegiance to cloud the proceedings was neither smart nor productive, and it could ultimately cost you the win.
The minutes ticked by and Georgie’s turn swung around again…and again. She stuck to her plan, choosing proven point getters like Mats Sundin of Québec, a 6’5” Swedish forward with a deadly backhand, and the New York Islanders’ clever playmaker Pierre Turgeon. These dependable selections made her feel confident enough to take a gamble with her final pick. No rookie entering the league that season had a more promising scouting report than Winnipeg’s Teemu Selänne, a speedy winger from Finland who had a nose for the net. Georgie claimed him with unrestrained glee.
Looking over her list of players while everyone else selected their final picks, she doodled stars and celebratory balloons in the margins of her notes. The team she’d built was solid and consistent, and barring any major injuries, it gave her a strong chance of winning the pool again.
The last pick belonged to Brian. After hemming and hawing, he finally chose Eric Lindros, Philadelphia’s hard-nosed rookie, as the first bell of the afternoon rang out, officially ending the lunch hour.
“Okay, that’s a wrap,” said Principal Laporte, lobbing his sports section into the trash bin. “And remember, it’s up to YOU to keep track of your points.”
Pool discussions naturally sprung up as chairs screeched across the linoleum. The geography department, confiscating the last of the chocolate, argued over who was better—Wayne ‘The Great One’ Gretzky or Mario ‘The Magnificent One’ Lemieux—while two custodians made a case for Québec winning the Cup to Laporte.
Looping her purse over her shoulder, Georgie collected her belongings and stashed them all inside her tote bag. With a full bladder and a class of Grade 10 Canadian history students waiting, she couldn’t loiter.
“Great choices, Law,” Brian hollered from the far side of the room. “Especially Teemu. That kid can jet.”
“Thanks.” Snapping the lid on her lunch bowl, Georgie slid it inside her tote and picked up her water glass, joining Eden, who was waiting beside the fingerprint-dappled fridge. “You didn’t do too badly either, grabbing Lindros.”
Brian shrugged as he poured the dregs of the lounge coffee pot into the Harvey’s Hamburgers mug that originally belonged to Eden. “It was destiny, what can I say?”
“Hockey gods move in mysterious ways.” Georgie smiled politely and continued on.
“So whadya think?” asked Eden, her hands busy with her magazine and lunch bag.
“I’m pretty damn confident,” said Georgie.
“No, not about the pool,” Eden corrected. “About Oliver. Asking him out.”
Georgie grimaced as the clamor of students rushing to class greeted them beyond the doorjamb. “Oh, Eden, if you weren’t so small and cute…”
“Well?” she replied, her large green eyes pleading for a serious answer.
“Sorry, guys,” Laporte bellowed above the mass exodus. “If the history and social science department could hang back, please.”
“He’s so disorganized,” Eden muttered to Georgie as they stepped back into the room. Brian, the humanities teacher, and the three economics instructors lingered as well, their furtive glances darting to the lounge’s wall clock.
“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you.” Laporte picked up his lid-free shoebox. “I want to share some news. For the first time in our eighty-year history, a class from Midtown Collegiate Institute will be traveling to Europe—to Vimy Ridge.”
Oh god! Excitement fizzed inside Georgie as several “wows” and Eden’s sardonic “About time” sailed around the lounge. All her hard work, all her lobbying for five long years was finally paying off. Georgie’s students! Headed to France!
Laporte nodded. “I know. It’s huge.”
And maybe a precursor to landing the promotion? Georgie glanced sidelong at Eden, who gave her upper arm a quick bump. “You queen,” she mouthed.
“The board needed some convincing as usual, but we got there in the end. We won’t be telling the students yet, so please don’t share with anyone until I say otherwise,” instructed Laporte. “Now without further ado, please join me in congratulating Brian Sawyer.”
Brian? The buoyant joy in Georgie’s stomach capsized as a loud gasp arose behind her.
Eden’s jaw dropped, and hers wasn’t the only one. The other teachers fidgeted in awkward silence, their wide-eyed stares loaded with disbelief.
