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Georgie marvelled at Ringo’s dexterity and his cuteness. “Enjoy, sweetie. Stay safe tonight, okay?”
Back inside her apartment, a welcome sight awaited on her blue couch—a snug Leafs car blanket, a gift from Michael last Christmas, and her stuffed moose Marley, her constant companion since her paternal grandpa bought it on the day she was born. She slumped into the blanket’s warm coziness and cuddled the threadbare toy, giving the playback button on the answering machine a terse jab.
A whirring sound hummed from the grey box and then BEEP! “Hey! Pick up, pick up! How’d it go with the sexy Swede? You know, professionally?”
Oh, Eden. Georgie half-laughed at her friend’s tacked-on inclusion of professionally. She yanked off her Leafs toque, releasing a rising dance of static-charged blonde hair.
“Are you there? C’mon Georgie, pick up, I’m dyin’ here…” Eden’s voice drifted on the recording. “Hmm, ’kay. Guess you’re not home yet. Call when you are, BUT only if you don’t have male company. And by male company, I don’t mean Michael!” She laughed naughtily. BEEP!
The electronic tone and the noisy cassette tape rewinding signalled no further messages. Georgie relaxed into a relieved exhale and eyed her two frogs, Casey and Finnegan, munching freeze-dried crickets under the warm glow of their terrarium lamp. She’d have to carefully word her museum recap for Eden in a way that didn’t allow for any sort of misguided romantic interpretation, because if there were any wiggle room or ambiguous allusions to a crush developing, Eden would sniff them out.
Georgie hugged her moose against her chest. It was probably just a fleeting swoon, anyway, brought on by low blood sugar, her favourite muffins, and Oliver’s kind compliments about her style of teaching.
She picked up the phone’s receiver and began pressing the buttons for Eden’s number as a puzzled “Hello?” surged through the earpiece.
Georgie pursed her lips and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?” she answered back.
“Georgie?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
“Hi, it’s Oliver. I’m sorry to call you this late at home.”
Shit. Georgie’s stomach hardened with dread as she flopped deeper into the couch. “It’s okay…” She stared at the ceiling and blinked into a forced grin, hoping her true emotions wouldn’t temper her reply. “What’s up?”
“I know we agreed to meet on Wednesday, but my boss has thrown a wrench into our plans.”
“Oh. Right.”
Oliver paused on the other end like he wasn’t sure how to deliver his news. “She just rang me and requested a revised presentation plan first thing Monday.”
He’s not cancelling? Georgie’s pulse took flight as his news unleashed a real smile and a jumble of butterflies in her stomach. She pushed herself up and shrugged off all thoughts of her unrequited attraction, ready to tackle the task at hand and bring her long-deserved promotion home.
“She’s flying Stateside next week for meetings and wants to review what I’ve been working on. I hate to ask, but”—his voice quickened with desperation—“is there any possible way we could reconvene this weekend?”
“Absolutely!” she blurted as she tucked her feet beneath her bum. “I’m in. All in.”
Oliver let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, thank god! Thank you! Okay, so name the time, name the place.”
Georgie mentally scrolled through her schedule for a chunk of free time. With waitressing shifts both days and the Leafs playing at home Saturday and Sunday night, only one option was available.
“How ’bout ten a.m. tomorrow? Outside the Gardens?”
NINE
OLIVER
The next day, Saturday, October 17, 1992
Leafs record: 1 win, 2 losses, 1 tie (in overtime)
Sat to Georgie’s right as she wrote a mailing address—somewhere in Newfoundland—on a small manila envelope, Oliver scanned the southeast corner of the Gardens’ second-floor concourse, its concession and souvenir stands quiet and hidden behind heavy red curtains. Sure, he’d said “name the time, name the place” eleven hours earlier, but brainstorming over hockey photos and marvellous mmmuffins on a blue-skirted table while Georgie’s fan club friends answered fan mail an elbow away was not how he’d imagined spending his Saturday morning.
To be fair, he’d thought he could handle it—Will never played for Toronto—but sat there with his steaming coffee, hanging out in one of Canada’s most celebrated arenas, a place that symbolized a world he’d long despised and resented, left him awkward and off-kilter.
The abrupt thunk of pucks hitting the rink’s boards dragged his attention away from the lively discussion around the rectangular table toward one of several narrow passageways leading to the Gardens’ seats. The team had begun its game-day morning skate.
Oliver set down his cup and caught sight of a large dried blotch of strawberry jam just above the cuff of his favourite sweater, adorned with a parade of Nordic reindeer prancing across his chest. Shit! He dipped his hands out of view beneath the edge of the skirted table.
