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“Hmm…surprise me?”
“Gladly.” Her smile collapsed. “I’m gonna miss you.”
His heart fizzed. “No, you won’t,” he replied playfully. “You’ll get all caught up with your friends and the game. Besides, you’ll be back before you know it.” He narrowed his gaze. “Actually, when are you back?”
Georgie tugged her Leafs toque down to her brows. “Around five tomorrow, depending on traffic. We’re dropping everyone off at the Gardens.”
“Want me to meet you? We could rent a video, grab pizza?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” Her laughter roused his smile, removing all thoughts of Will.
* * *
The slam of the apartment door sprung Oliver into action. Boxers on, socks found, he thrust his arms down the sleeves of his crumpled dress shirt. “Wake up!” He slapped his cheeks as he passed Georgie’s half-open closet, bursting with blue and white apparel. “Think, think! How will you tell her?”
Perhaps coffee would help fire up his orgasm-addled brain.
Following a quick bathroom stop, he wandered barefoot into the living room and… Whoa! Eyes bulging, he scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “How’d I miss this?”
Eight hours earlier when stumbling into Georgie’s dark apartment mid-kiss, sex, and only sex, was on Oliver’s mind. But with the morning light spilling through the east-facing windows, the true extent of her beloved pastime came sharply into focus.
Framed Leafs jerseys (Bower, Palmateer) shared wall space with an art print of a goalie crouched in the crease as well as signed programs and hockey cards—including the signed McKenny card given to her by Michael—all lovingly displayed inside shadow boxes. Several team photos of little kids in hockey gear kept them company, and Oliver easily spotted tiny goalie Georgie in the front row. Her gap-toothed smile speaking volumes.
Leafs pillows and throws cozied up her couch, and a rod hockey game monopolized the small dining table for four, its flat blue and white players pointing their sticks toward a mini Stanley Cup at centre ice. Hockey books interspersed with framed photos of friends, several basset hounds, and a loving couple he assumed were her parents crowded her shelves.
The celebration of all things Leaf-y continued in the kitchen, too, with glassware and a wall calendar, its January 1993 photo devoted to a player lacing up his skates.
It was a lot to take in, but so much care had gone into its curated presentation that Oliver could only smile, momentarily forgetting his dilemma. “Georgie girl, I love how you’re so authentically you.”
Pouring just enough piping hot coffee to allow for milk (in a Leafs mug, of course), he stepped toward the fridge and discovered a constellation of photos. Pictures of Ringo the raccoon overlapped snapshots of Michael and various friends, Georgie in her sexy Catwoman costume (which he studied for several minutes), and…
Me? Oliver gasped. Held in place with magnets amidst her cherished memories was the photo from their first date at the Queen Mother Café. Drinks held aloft, he smiled at the server/photographer while Georgie grinned across the table, her besotted gaze on him and only him.
The heaviness plaguing Oliver’s chest ached. God help me. I can’t lose this girl.
THIRTY
GEORGIE
The next day, Sunday, January 10, 1993
Leafs record: 18 wins, 17 losses, 7 ties (in overtime)
Still buzzing with post-trip glee, Georgie babbled non-stop as she wandered the aisles of Blockbuster with Oliver, the shelves mostly empty. “Grateful doesn’t even cover it. Three orgasms Friday, a 5-4 win in Montréal yesterday, dinner and a movie tonight…” Their hands entwined, she stroked his with her thumb. “I couldn’t ask for a better weekend—or boyfriend.”
Oliver didn’t respond, and Georgie glanced over. Carrying her backpack on his shoulders, he seemed lost in thought, staring blankly beyond the racks of VHS tapes.
Leaning in, she cocked a brow. “I even made out with the Zamboni driver. Habs fan or not, he was super hot!” Her ridiculous fib didn’t make a dent either. She squeezed his hand. “Earth to Ollie…?”
He flinched into a nod. “Yeah, great!”
Tilting her head, she grinned. “Was it?”
“Oh. Sorry Bug, I was”—glancing at a shelf of Hollywood classics, he cleared his throat—“mulling over my report.”
If only she believed that. Since he met her bus, something had felt off, but she couldn’t put a finger on what that something was. She looked up at him, worry unsettling her stomach.
Oliver flashed a conciliatory grin and swung her hand. “What’d I miss?”
