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“We did!” Grinning ear to ear, Ezio hugged his game night program and sat down again. “And we finally sold our house.”
“That’s fantastic! Congratulations!”
“Thanks. We were starting to think we’d never sell,” said Terry, taking his seat. “Eleven months and no offers.” He shrugged.
“Should’ve called me, bud.” A whiff of indignance sharpened Michael’s response. “I would’ve sold your place damn quick.”
“Sorry, Michael, I wish we had.” Ezio smoothed his XXL-size jersey over his impressive Molson muscle. “We just thought Super Realtor-onto might be busy!”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Wait! You saw my ads? Which subway line?”
“Scarborough RT,” replied Ezio.
“I saw two on the Bloor-Danforth line,” said Randall.
Leesa nodded. “Love the cute raccoon sidekick!”
Michael popped open his chips and offered them around. “Ya know, the only time I’ve seen ’em, someone’s drawn a massive cock on my face.”
“Oh, that was me,” deadpanned Randall, dissolving Georgie and Leesa into laughter.
Michael squinted. “I can never tell if you’re lying.”
They prattled on about Toronto’s struggling real estate market and Michael’s recent breakup, Elton John’s summer concert at the Canadian National Exhibition, and who would be the first player to run afoul of the league’s new diving rule. Georgie couldn’t help but grin. There was something special about the first home game of the season that radiated first day of school vibes: the joys of being reunited with friends, the catching up, the hopefulness that comes with a fresh start. Even the Gardens was dressed up with blue and white bunting, ready to impress.
Georgie loved all of it. Every. Single. Second.
But calling these fellow fans friends was an unintentional slight. To Georgie, these people were more than that. They were family—her hockey family.
“So how ’bout you, Georgie?” asked Terry, reaching into Michael’s chip bag, which rested beside her popcorn. “Any news on that promotion?”
The less said about that hornet’s nest, the better. “Nothing yet. Probably won’t hear till spring.” She pinched a piece of popcorn and chewed it slowly, enjoying the buttery saltiness of her favourite snack.
“Your dad’s gonna be so proud when you get it, kid.” Terry munched through a handful of chips.
Ezio nodded. “Gordon was always boasting: ‘Georgie got an A in this, an A+ in that.’”
“All while you carried the best goals against average in your league,” said Terry, eyes twinkling behind his wire-framed glasses. “Yeah, Gordo sure loved to brag about you. ‘Just you watch,’ he’d say, ‘my Georgina will either be the first female goalie in the NHL, or she’ll be running her school’s history department.’”
And here I am doing neither. Georgie smiled tightly and adjusted the strap on her camera. Yeah, Dad would be SO proud.
Terry and Ezio meant well, but their comments in the wake of the Vimy snub were slicing a little too close to the bone. She glanced at Michael, hoping for a conversational life raft, but he was in the weeds with Randall, debating the merits of Ottawa and Tampa Bay joining the league.
Luckily, Leesa stepped in. “Georgie, I’ve been dying to know, how was Spain?” Tossing a cavalcade of soft dark curls from her eyes, she plunged a cheese-soaked nacho into a puddle of salsa.
“I didn’t go.”
The chip dripped halfway between Leesa’s slack jaw and the cardboard tray. “But you planned for ages.”
“Couldn’t swing it in the end.” Crouching, Georgie picked up her pop. “I still had fun, though. Michael and I hung out at Ontario Place. Saw some concerts at the Forum, went on the pedal boats—”
“There’s Kaitlin!” Randall’s outburst prompted Georgie to turn around.
She shouted a smiley “Hey!” and waved. Besides owning season tickets in the third row of their section, Kaitlin also ran the team’s new and officially sanctioned fan club. She proudly wore the club’s t-shirt under her denim jacket.
Georgie spun back to Leesa, continuing where they’d left off. “Kait, Mikey, and I saw U2 at the Grandstand.”
“How were they?” asked Leesa.
