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The dream final. Finally. And Toronto was buzzing.

Georgie hadn’t slept much since the clincher Thursday night. Nervous anticipation, a migraine attack, sex with Oliver, a message Will left on her machine about a possible job—all to blame, and by the time Saturday’s fan mail session rolled around, she was running on caffeine and disco naps.

It was also her thirty-first birthday, but cake and presents were the last thing on her mind.

“The only downside of last Thursday,” she said, answering a fan’s request for photos of Zezel and Clark, “was that the game was in LA. Imagine if we knocked them out here? The roof would’ve blown off!”

Oliver grinned and ate a forkful of icing from the birthday cake Leesa had made.

“So true.” Michael cut himself a second slice. “Our conga line down Church would’ve been ten times the size.”

“Memories fade, but photos are forever!” Kaitlin laughed, holding up one of the pictures Georgie had picked up that morning from the one-hour photo place. Michael was carrying a black traffic barrel with reflective orange stripes above his head like the Stanley Cup. A swarm of fellow fans, strangers mostly, partied in line behind him.

“Isn’t it the other way ’round?” asked Michael. “Photos fade and⁠—”

“Mikey!” Leesa interrupted. “If you jinxed us holding that thing like the Cup…”

Writing a fan’s address on an envelope, Oliver gave Georgie a look.

“I think it’s time.” She bent over and pulled three photo albums from her bag, albums she hadn’t shown anyone but Michael. “Share ’em around, okay?”

Oliver handed one to Leesa. Kaitlin flipped an album open for her and Michael.

“You know I’m as superstitious as they come,” said Georgie, “but I refuse to let my weird beliefs ruin my enjoyment or appreciation of all the little moments happening right now, like the ‘Go Leafs Go’ messages on the front of the buses, the Leafs memorabilia in the windows of Eaton’s⁠—”

“The blue donuts at Tim’s!” Kaitlin interjected.

Georgie nodded. “Now, I know we desperately want to win and we’ll do pretty much anything to help make that happen, but it shouldn’t be to the detriment of having fun and soaking up every second of this journey”—she grinned—“and it really has been a journey, guys, ’cause we’ve finally made it—to the Stanley Cup final!”

Sharing smiles, they all whooped. Michael punched the air. Leesa beamed and shimmied in her seat.

Georgie opened the third album for Oliver. “The pictures in these albums show how far we’ve come and how long we’ve waited.”

Shaking her head, Kaitlin said, “Too long.”

“How old are you here?” asked Oliver, pointing to a photo of young Georgie with bangs and a hand-drawn sign watching warmup with her mum.

“Eleven, I think.”

“There’s me two years ago!” Leesa held up a photo of herself with colourful beaded micro-braids.

“We’re all here,” said Georgie. “Randall, Stef, Andrea, Davis. Ezio and Terry⁠—”

“And friends we don’t see anymore.” Kaitlin flipped a page. “Life is flashing before my eyes. All the fun…”

“All the heartbreak,” sighed Leesa.

“For years, we’ve watched everyone else win.” Georgie frowned. “We’ve wished, we’ve hoped, but got left behind every time.”

Looking up from the pictures, Kaitlin shared a smile with Michael.

“So let’s remember this moment and savour it.” Georgie cleared her throat. “Because who knows when it’ll happen again.”

“If ever,” said Michael. “I’ve heard stories about fans skipping the ’67 Cup parade. They all thought, ‘We’ve won four in six years. I’ll go to the next one’. And we all know how that played out.”

Oliver leaned in close. “I’m excited to witness history with you,” he whispered.

Smiling, she nodded. “Hopefully, the right kind!”