Page 61

Hockey was there for her. Always. So why was her heart rebelling and pushing her toward a guy who hated everything about it?

Georgie’s throat thickened. Oliver seems so right for me, except for that one thing! She nibbled some popcorn, hoping the snack’s saltiness would counteract the sour taste plaguing her mouth.

Her palms had perspired so much at McNally’s she’d needed to subtly dry them on her dress. While annoying and inconvenient, the butterflies that swirled in her gut were even more so. Chicken wings, soft drinks, her early morning walk with Oliver along Carlton—nothing dampened their frenzied flight. In Georgie’s experience, visceral reactions of that ilk only meant one thing—an untimely reveal of a deep-seated truth.

But in this case, the truth scared her, and she didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

She bounced her right knee feverishly as the Leafs swarmed Minnesota’s end. They passed the puck back to the blue line, to the edge of the faceoff circle, then through the slot, and back to the blue line again.

“SHOOT!” Georgie shouted, leaning forward. “ON THE NET!” But Toronto kept passing. She threw her hands in the air. “The perfect opportunity doesn’t exist! Just fucking shoot!”

Terry grumbled. “It doesn’t have to be pretty!”

Exasperated, Michael cupped his hand at the side of his mouth and yelled, “You won’t win if you never shoot!”

Nodding, Georgie hollered, “Shoot your shot! NOW!”

And as she sat back, she was struck by exactly what she needed to do.

FOURTEEN

GEORGIE

The next day, Monday, October 19, 1992

Leafs record: 2 wins, 3 losses, 1 tie (in overtime)

Walking along the north side of Bloor Street West with a tea in hand, Georgie glanced left toward Oliver sipping his large takeout coffee. Yep, still handsome. Her heart skipped a jittery beat.

If he was nervous, he didn’t look it, whereas Georgie gnawed the inside of her cheek, unable to halt the unease coursing through her. Blame the meeting or blame her attraction to Oliver, her thoughts were equal opportunity offenders, ricocheting back and forth between His boss will hate me and I wish he liked me. She tightened her shaky grip on the hot drink. Why she’d bought it, she had no idea. The nerves whirling in her belly made it impossible to consume anything, even her favourite comforting beverage.

“Thanks for meeting me beforehand,” she said, her tote and purse bouncing against her hip.

“Thanks for the coffee and invigorating walk. I needed this.” Oliver downed another substantial sip and glanced inside his small bag of Timbits. “My stuffy office does me absolutely no favours. I nodded off four times this morning. Kept picturing myself slamming face-first into Amalia’s desk mid-meeting.”

If you did, I’d kiss everything better. Georgie pressed her lips together, stifling her smile but not her longing. “Thank god for an afternoon Timmies run.”

He nodded. “And you for suggesting it.”

Dipping her chin, Georgie hid a grin behind her hair and spotted the designer handbag Amalia had grasped during their brief encounter. Sitting front and centre in the stylish window display of Holt Renfrew, it probably cost the equivalent of Georgie’s rent—times ten. She glanced back as Oliver skirted a doddering pigeon. “Have you seen Amalia today?”

“No, she had meetings all morning.” Oliver offered Georgie his donuts. “There’s one left.”

“It’s all yours.”

The paper bag crinkled as he reached inside. “Want to run through the notes?” He popped the last Timbit in his mouth.

“I think I’m good,” said Georgie. “I went over everything about a hundred times after the game last night.”

“Oh, did they win?”

“We lost 5-1.”

Oliver’s brows squished together as he swallowed. “Strange. I heard cheering outside my flat.”

“Probably Jays fans leaving McNally’s. Toronto won Game 2 of the World Series.”

“Ah, good for them.”