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“All those trips you planned will come in handy, right?” Together, they swerved two dawdling little kids in baggy jerseys.
“Eden says there’s a dining room decorated like an Italian trattoria and another like a French brasserie,” said Georgie, excited to visit both.
Passing a display for Olympic hockey, Oliver’s focus snagged. “You know, we could dress up and go to a proper Italian restaurant…”
“No, Marché’s perfect! And we won’t be at the mercy of slow service, so we can get home to Waffles sooner.”
Oliver squeezed her hand. “I love our little happy family. I’m so glad he’s our pup now.”
Pushing open her office door, Georgie winced. “You sure Xander’s not having second thoughts? Giving up your pet is huge.”
“Bug, Xander’s the first person to say he was never home. Waffs spent most days alone or with me. Now he’s got you and me, our friends, and all his doggie daycare pals, too.”
Georgie collected her coat and purse. “I had to bribe him with four biscuits so he’d come home with me on Friday. Then he spent all night watching Ringo through the window.”
Oliver laughed. “Best TV show ever.”
Smiling, she gestured to her phone. “I’ll just call Will and see if he’ll dog-sit a little longer tonight.”
“I already did,” said Oliver. “Dad can’t get enough of his grand-dog.” He shifted out of the way as Georgie turned off the lights and closed the door behind them. “How’d today’s class go?”
“Amazing! It was an all-girls hockey team. Most of them didn’t know who Justine Blainey, Phyllis Chorney, or Abby Hoffman were, let alone what they went through so girls like them could play today. But by the end of the talk, they bombarded me with questions.”
Oliver grinned. “From your smile, I assume you didn’t mind working a Sunday?”
“Not at all! I loved it!” Gratitude coursed through her, warm and comforting like the best hug. “I feel like I’ve won the life lottery—you, Waffles, this job.”
Oliver nodded, but his attention seemed to drift to a sign pointing toward the room where the NHL’s trophies were displayed. “Hey, can we take a detour to see the Cup?”
Georgie blinked into a laugh. “Who are you, and what have you done with Dr. Jönsson?” She waved him on. “C’mon, then.”
As they entered the Great Hall, Oliver’s gaze swept its rich cherrywood and ornate plasterwork before leaping upward to the breathtaking stained glass dome. The largest of its kind in Toronto, each colourful panel depicted mythical creatures, flowers, or emblems of a burgeoning Canada.
His jaw dropped as he craned his neck. “This is—wow, it’s like a church in here, so quiet and beautiful.” Looking downward, he lavished his attention on the individual glass cases housing the gleaming trophies.
The crown jewel—the glittering Stanley Cup—held court at the far end of the room.
Georgie’s heart swelled with pride. She led the way, bringing Oliver closer. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Leaning in, Oliver searched the Cup for the engraved names of the 1992-93 Maple Leafs. “Ah, there they are. Each player etched into history. Wow, this is really something…”
Georgie nodded, but with a look of concern. “I still pinch myself when I’m in here, you know? It all feels like a dream sometimes and I wonder…what if Gretzky didn’t get thrown out of Game 6 for high-sticking Gilmour? Would we have still won that series? Would we even have gone on to the Final?” She glanced over, her gaze softening, returning home. “What if you went for pancakes somewhere else that day?”
Oliver pulled her gently toward him. “We’ll never know, I guess. But if this is a dream…” He smiled and swept her hair from her eyes. “I never want us to wake up.”
