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They shared a contemplative smile, and for the first time in Oliver’s life, sat in Will’s office with a crumb-speckled plate and a heart full of gratitude, he felt the unconditional care and affection of a father’s love.
Will returned to his paperwork. “I’m glad you felt like you could come here today. It’s a nice feeling.”
“It is”—Oliver smiled and meant it—“Dad.”
FORTY-ONE
GEORGIE
Two days later, Saturday, April 24, 1993
Round One of the Stanley Cup Playoffs against Detroit
Leafs record: 1 win, 2 losses (best-of-seven series resumes tomorrow)
The Golden Griddle breakfast rush over, Georgie caught her breath with a tea and the classified section from The Saturday Star, her fifteen-minute break dedicated to scanning job listings. She wasn’t fooling herself. It could take months to be recalled for a teaching position and the pittance she earned waitressing certainly wouldn’t cover her rent. Georgie needed a back-up plan in case she was forced to look beyond the classroom for permanent work.
Locking down a reliable paycheque wasn’t the only problem, though. The longer she waited for a call from Laporte, the more she debated whether the school system was where she was meant to be. Slashed budgets, apathetic students, relentless parental criticism, long hours, lack of board support…the list of negatives grew by the day, and she could no longer deny the beating her mental, emotional, and physical health were taking. Mum was right, thought Georgie, skimming a page. Most days her love for teaching at Midtown Collegiate was as absent as the students playing hooky at the Funland Arcade.
I want to do something meaningful and fulfilling. She pored over the want ads. But something that doesn’t take over my life…
Several kids near the hostess stand screeched with delight, their high pitch squeal could only mean one thing. As she glanced up, Georgie spotted the Leafs captain picking up his post-practice breakfast order. The young fans crowded him for autographs like seagulls swarming a chip truck. He signed their serviettes and jerseys, and asked questions, clearly enjoying being a hockey hero. Lucky guy, finding his true calling.
She sipped her tea, her gaze following him outside as he jogged across Carlton Street and past a lone male walking in front of the Gardens headed in the opposite direction. A royal blue backpack hung from his right shoulder, its sturdy fabric emblazoned with the unmistakeable red and white arctic fox of the Fjällräven logo.
Oliver.
Her heart, her arms—everything weighed heavy as the urge to run after him pushed aside all thoughts of autographs and job openings. The past month had been tortuous. Turns out, putting their relationship on ice was not the best way to focus on salvaging her career. Instead, her self-imposed separation had the opposite effect. Distracted and lonely, she was caught in a whirlwind of insecurity and joylessness, doubting her choices, doubting everything, and the ache of missing him had settled deep into her bones.
What the hell am I doing, pressing pause on us? And for what, a job that chewed me up and spat me out?
Her future was Oliver—or at least, he was. How could she have gotten it so wrong?
He slowed and glanced across the street in the direction of the restaurant. Georgie gasped into a grin, her hopes lifted along with her pulse pummelling beneath her uniform’s blouse.
But her smile was short-lived. His expression pensive, Oliver looked away and kept on walking.
FORTY-TWO
GEORGIE
The next day, Sunday, April 25, 1993
Round One, Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Playoffs against Detroit
Leafs record: 1 win, 2 losses (best-of-seven series)
The game scoreless heading into the first intermission, Georgie whisked perspiration off her forehead and sank back in her seat. “If I’m not grey by the end of this series, it’ll be a miracle.”
“We gotta win this,” said Michael, picking up his beer. “We can’t head back to Detroit down three games to one. We’ll be done like dinner.” He tossed back the remaining amber liquid in his plastic cup and stood.
Abandoning her barely touched popcorn, Georgie rose to stretch and unstick her running shoes from the slick floor. She turned to Leesa and Randall. “We miss Borschevsky. Badly.”
“I don’t care what the papers say”—Leesa smoothed the blue and white ribbons attached to her plastic Leafs rattle—“I still think they broke his cheek on purpose in Game 1.”
Randall flapped the front of his jersey, attempting to cool down. “I need beer—now.” He left the free Toronto Sun/680 CFTR cheering sign given to all fans upon entry on his seat, its ‘The Wings Are Plucked’ slogan missing the mark. “You guys want anything?”
“I’m good,” said Michael.
