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And super hot. Her passion for hockey, coupled with her exuberance and enviable self-confidence, was a huge turn-on. While he didn’t understand Georgie’s love for her team, he enjoyed her undying enthusiasm and optimistic attitude, and how they made him feel. Georgie was a joy to be around, a golden ray of sunshine lighting up everyone around her.

But with the good came the bad, and with every step closer to his apartment, Oliver dreaded the moment when the slam of a departing taxi’s door would abruptly end the best night out he’d had in ages. Until then, he’d keep their conversation flowing so he could hold on to the deliciously giddy feeling a little longer.

“You have season tickets, though. Doesn’t that prove your merit as a fan?” he asked.

“You’d think so, right? It’s a big commitment and I can’t afford to splash the cash just for show or to prove a point—a point I shouldn’t have to prove in the first place.” Georgie adjusted the purse on her shoulder as they passed the hot dog cart, the scent of grilled meat and onions permeating the air. “And don’t get me started on when we’re loud or sweary at the game. It’s okay for guys to do it, but us? The double standard is nauseating.”

Oliver shook his head. “It’s like they’re stuck in the 1930s.”

“My grandfather used to talk about the women he’d see at games back then,” said Georgie. “Well-dressed, knowledgeable women, sat with their female friends. They were just as vocal, just as passionate as the men, but some would look down their noses at them. Call them names, laugh at their expense. Grandad was convinced things would be different by the time I was an adult, but here we are, facing the same sexist nonsense.”

They walked in silence for several steps until Georgie muttered “It’s tiresome” on a loud exhale that turned into a yawn. “But motivating as hell.” She blinked. “Just because it’s always been this way doesn’t mean we can’t change it. If not for us, then for the next generation of little girls who love hockey and deserve a safe and welcoming space to explore that love. That’s why I’ll always challenge the archaic attitudes we encounter. I’ll fight forever if I have to. I’m not afraid. Bring it!”

Oliver grinned. “Like I said earlier, Georgie Law is brave.”

She scrunched her nose. “I don’t know about that. I just have zero tolerance for judgmental dickheads.”

A joyful squeal of laughter across the street stole their attention. Two women in Chicago jerseys were walking arm in arm, chatting a mile a minute about “autographs” and someone they deemed “sexy”.

Georgie’s mouth quirked at the corners. “And why are some guys bothered if a woman gets into hockey because she thinks a player’s hot? Everyone has to start somewhere. A cute face might be the initial draw, but chances are they’ll fall in love with the game and stick around, learning about offsides and save percentages. I think it’s great. The more, the merrier.

“And really, who am I to judge. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never found a player attractive. I have. Lots of them. Just like I’ve had crushes on musicians and actors and the guy who sells me my monthly Metropass.” She rubbed beneath her lashes, smearing a splotch of purple eyeshadow. “I love a good crush. They make daily life feel exciting and invigorating, you know?”

Oh, I know. Glancing over, Oliver admired her slightly smudged beauty as adrenaline whooshed through him again. “But what about women who sleep with players? The ones who aren’t interested in learning the game?”

“It’s none of my business who people have sex with. It’s not my place to shame them, either. As long as it’s consensual and no one gets hurt, live and let live.”

He nodded slowly, considering. “Have players ever…?”

“Come on to me? Yeah, happened once at McNally’s when I was dealing with migraine aura. Kaitlin was staying at mine that weekend, so she grabbed my stuff and said she’d take me home. On our way past the bar, a player who”—Georgie laughed—“will not be named later started flirting with me. He said, ‘Leaving early, gorgeous?’ and other stuff. I stopped, partially because I was woozy, but also…flattered, I guess? He was one of the young, single guys. Popular, good-looking. Knew it, too.” She smiled. “I was about to respond when Kait grabbed my arm and said, ‘Not tonight, Casanova’ and dragged me out of there.”

“How’d he react?”

“Don’t know. I never talked to him again.” Georgie tugged on her tartan scarf, wrapping it tighter around her neck. “It was for the best. I was not in a good place. I’d turned down a marriage proposal a week or two before and was feeling lonely, questioning everything. The migraine attack and medication didn’t help either. They clouded my judgment, made me forget how problematic some players can be, a fact Will reiterated later when he called.”

Oliver widened his eyes. “Will?”

“He checked up on me the next day.” Georgie pulled her camera out of her bag. “He gently suggested I probably needed more time to mourn my last relationship, and a one-night stand with a player would make things a lot messier.”

Oliver fought back a scowl. How fatherly of Will, doling out life advice.

Granted, it was good advice.

He looked over, locking eyes with Georgie. But why’d she say no to the proposal? It wasn’t his place to ask, even though he was dying to know: what was the relationship deal-breaker for Georgina Law?

Her gaze, however, gave nothing away. “I’d come to the same conclusion on my own, but sometimes it helps to hear someone else say it.” She dissolved into an impish grin. “I also realized making out with someone mid-migraine flare would be a terrible idea! My lips and tongue go numb. I can’t feel a thing!”

Oliver half-laughed, but Georgie’s declaration and her sly glance at his mouth left him lost for words and fidgeting with the keys inside his coat’s pocket.

She peered upward into the inky night. “Ahh, men. God love ’em, but you add hockey in this town and things get complicated.”

Tell me about it. Oliver’s gaze locked on her faded lipstick. And yet, here I am, crushing hard.

Leaving the starless city sky behind, Georgie looked over, her eyes widening. “Shit! I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’ve become Chatty fucking Cathy.”

Oliver laughed as they stopped outside his apartment building, the dread of their impending farewell rolling through him. Farther up the street, Leesa and Kaitlin’s out-of-tune version of Madonna’s “Express Yourself”, complete with drunken dance moves, earned a laugh from Georgie. She snapped a sneaky photo, then another.

“For what it’s worth, I enjoy your stories,” said Oliver, hesitant to let her go.