Page 10

“That’s why I asked my coach for seventeen.” Walking down the hall, the stocky Grade 10 student showed Georgie the numbers adorning the back and sleeves of his yellow house league hockey jersey. “Now I can lead my team like my favourite Leaf.”

Georgie hugged her marked-up copy of The Hockey News 1993 Yearbook against her blouse. “You can’t go wrong with our captain! Loyal and hardworking with a great wrist shot—he’s an excellent role model.” She grinned, the staff lounge within sight. “When’s your first game?”

“Thursday night.”

She slowed to a stop outside the door. “Good luck! Let me know how it goes.”

The boy beamed through his freckles. “For sure.” His stained lunch bag crinkled in his grip. “See ya, Ms. Law.”

As she pushed the door open, anticipation bubbled in Georgie’s stomach. The staff’s annual hockey pool draft day had finally arrived, bringing with it year-end bragging rights and a welcome cash bounty, and no one—not Brian ‘Houdini’ Sawyer, not Montréal-loving Laporte—desired both prizes more than Georgie.

And for good reason.

Despite owning season seats for the Leafs and possessing the type of well-read, well-lived hockey experiences most male fans would kill for, Georgie still battled ridiculous accusations that a) as a woman, she couldn’t possibly be a real fan; b) she didn’t understand the nuances of the game (despite playing as a kid); and c) she was only into the sport because, as a physical education teacher claimed last year, “I bet you think the players are hot.” These condescending, dismissive, not to mention sexist opinions infuriated Georgie year after frustrating year, and unfortunately, this hockey season was shaping up to be no different. So, to (hopefully) silence the naysayers for good and to prove last season’s pool win wasn’t a fluke (Brian’s word, not hers), she went full-on nerd with her research, making lists and strategizing until the crack of dawn. And with the season kicking off in just over thirty hours, having well-thought-out picks who could lead her to a second consecutive landslide was of the utmost importance.

She broke out into a yawn, her watery gaze seeking last night’s leftover lasagna, a travel brochure for Italy, and her leather-bound Filofax, all briefly abandoned so she could retrieve her forgotten hockey research from her desk. Draft day usually commanded a standing-room-only crowd, but ten minutes into the lunch hour, only two of the school’s custodians, a biology teacher, and half of the English department had arrived.

Georgie sat down and blinked into another squinty yawn. With this turnout, she’d probably win effortlessly come April, but where was the fun in that? Half the joy of triumphing over this bunch was that she could put Brian and Laporte in their well-deserved place. But where were they?

Digging a fork into her lunch, she opened the travel brochure and flipped to a page showcasing Portofino, but her mind dawdled, wondering what Brian and Laporte were up to.

“…you think, Georgina?” The Glaswegian burr of biology teacher and guidance counsellor Duncan sawed through her worry spiral.

Glancing up, she spotted Eden enter the room. Her friend waved and made a beeline for the microwave, her padded lunch bag bouncing against her hip. Georgie looked diagonally across the rectangular table. “I’m sorry?”

The biology teacher considered his overstuffed kaiser and scratched his thick black beard. “I asked if this is Toronto’s year.”

“Might be.” She perked up. “This season feels different. For one thing, we now have Pat Burns!”

“He’s a good coach.” Displeasure dampened Duncan’s voice. “I’ll give him that.”

“I like him,” said Georgie. “He’s tough but fair. Worked wonders in Montréal getting them to the finals. I can’t wait to see how he gels with Gilmour.” She gave in to a huge smile. “It’s wild. I still get goosebumps. I still can’t believe Dougie’s ours.”

“I still can’t believe the cheek of your general manager.” Duncan snorted. “That trade was lopsided as all hell.”

Georgie laughed, remembering when she’d first heard the news about the ten-player trade with Calgary back in January. Stunned yet vibrating with giddiness, she’d spent her free afternoon period squealing down a pay phone in mmmarvellous mmmuffins to Michael. Somehow, some way, Cliff Fletcher, Toronto’s new general manager, had pulled off the hockey heist of the century, landing feisty goal scorer Doug Gilmour, the type of player you hated to play against but would love on your team.

Her grin grew. “You won’t hear me complaining.”

“Yeah, ’cause Cliff got you Calgary’s best player, plus four additional assets. Toronto hit the jackpot whilst the Flames…” The biology teacher grimaced.

“We gave up five players, too, you know,” said Georgie. “Man for man, we might’ve won the trade, but it still caused ripples through the dressing room.”

Duncan took a massive bite of his sandwich, squirting blobs of horseradish onto the sports pages of his Toronto Star and a large interoffice envelope. “Maybe so.” Cheeks stretched, he mumbled around chunks of roast beef and onion. “But Calgary got bleedin’ robbed.”

“Better them than us.” Georgie returned to her travel brochure, avoiding all glimpses of half-chewed food churning in his open mouth. She leafed through a few pages then paused, staring off at nothing in particular. “For the first time in forever I feel like we’re on the verge of something monumental.”

“Typical Leafs fan,” he grunted. “Optimistic to a fault, dreaming of the improbable.”

The smirk in Duncan’s reply was nothing new to Georgie. Life as a Toronto fan involved a never-ending rollercoaster of mockery, juvenile insults, and inappropriate personal attacks. Through the years these trials had helped Georgie build resilience and dignity—valuable traits she relied upon as an adult.

Dignity, specifically, came in handy that lunch hour. Instead of responding with an equally nasty putdown or jumping into a public slagging match, Georgie let the biology teacher’s boorish opinion hang unacknowledged in the lounge’s stuffy air.

Arguing wouldn’t change his mind anyway. Some people would never understand her love for her team.

“Hey!” Eden plunked herself down in the neighbouring chair with her bowl of steaming Alphagetti and a copy of Flare magazine. “It’s like Christmas Eve for you, eh, Georgie? Hockey season kicks off to—morrow, to—morrow!” she sang happily like an out-of-tune reject from Annie.

“And hopefully Santa’s bringing us the Cup.” Glancing up, Georgie scoped out the room. “Where is everyone?”