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“I’ll always be a Red Wing, but I was born a Toronto fan. Once they get their claws in ya, it’s a hard habit to shake.”
That’s what Georgie said. Oliver’s heart sagged. Everything reminded him of her: the popcorn behind the bar, Blockbuster, raccoons. He nudged aside the bag of all dressed chips he’d been eating as Will moved the dirty pitcher to a tray of glassware destined for the dishwasher. He’d even walked fifteen minutes out of the way yesterday in order to pass the Golden Griddle, hoping he’d spot her coming or going. He didn’t.
“So how’d your boss take the lost deal news?” asked Will, wiping down the bar.
“Surprisingly okay. She said we’ll find something better.” Amalia also said several other things, but Oliver didn’t have the chance to share.
“Ollie, look!” Will’s gaze widened as he pointed at the TV. “QUICK!”
Oliver caught a live clip of fans chanting “Go Leafs Go” in the Gardens concourse. Front and centre was a familiar face. “Georgie…!”
But as fast as she and Michael appeared, they vanished when Hockey Night in Canada cut to first period highlights. Georgie’s excitement was hardly surprising. The playoffs were her icing, “the best part of the season”. Oliver deflated, missing her all the more.
“You know, you could go to the game,” said Will. “See her.”
“How? Isn’t it sold out?”
Will reached into his jeans pocket and yanked out his wallet. He pulled out several fifties. “Here, go buy a scalper’s ticket.”
Oliver recoiled. “Uh, isn’t buying resale tickets illegal?”
Will winked. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
* * *
“Nope, not splitting a pair.” Fists planted in the pockets of his dirty windbreaker, the scalper’s weathered forehead creased under his greasy hair. “Like I said, two hundred for two.” His shifty gaze darted, checking for cops.
Oliver’s heart dropped. “That’s ludicrous! The game’s a third over!”
“Don’t like it, bud, go home,” the reseller snarled out the side of his mouth, “and stop wasting my time.”
Oliver threw his hands up as the scalper turned his back and began negotiating with two desperate fans in flaking face paint.
I can’t walk away, not when I’m this close. Oliver glanced at his watch. “Fine!” he said, interrupting. “How about one hundred and fifty?”
The guy smirked over his shoulder. “Deal.”
The transaction quickly completed, manic energy tore through Oliver’s veins as he raced inside, his frenzied gaze leaping from the tickets to the lobby’s east entrance, its turnstiles cleared to the side. He handed a white-haired usher one of the tickets.
“Escalator up one level.” The old fella tore away the bottom and gave Oliver the top stub. “Then turn left for standing room behind the south reds.”
Wide-eyed, Oliver blinked at his palm. “I’m standing?”
“Enjoy the game.” The hard-of-hearing usher resumed chatting with another coworker, easily ten years his senior.
$150 bucks for two tickets and no seat? Oliver scoffed and ran toward the only escalator still heading upward. “Whatever, I’m here. That’s what matters,” he mumbled, climbing the moving stairs.
* * *
Oliver had been around Georgie long enough to know it was frowned upon to leave your seat before a stop in play, and that standing conversations of any length were best left to the intermission, so with the second period underway and Detroit leading 1-0, he proceeded to his ticketed spot. He couldn’t see much, though, as three fans several beers deep had commandeered his standing room vantage point. Not keen on an argument, Oliver wandered off and stopped in the men’s room, relieving himself in its weird communal trough. As he washed his hands, the crowd roared in an arena-rattling celebration signalling what must’ve been a Leafs goal.
Curiosity led him to the concourse TV where he watched Toronto and Detroit trade goals, then to the bottom of the stairs leading up to Georgie’s section. He waited there impatiently for the final minutes of the period to wind down, smoothing his hair and fussing with his shirt.
The blare of the horn marking the end was like a starter’s pistol, and Oliver was off! Leaping up the steps to the landing, he turned, passing Davis in his blue usher blazer and a stampede of fans heading down for beer and snacks. Thankfully, Georgie wasn’t one of them.
Five rows up talking to Michael, Terry, and Ezio, she casually looked downward, her gaze tangling with Oliver’s. Her brows lifted, and one by one, her friends followed her stare.
An audience. His chest tightened. Great.
