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“Do it!” Michael rolled up his jersey’s sleeves, exposing the Why not? tattoo on his left forearm. “And tell him this fuck-up reeks of sexism, favoritism, and…amateurism.”

Georgie laughed. “That’s a lot of ’isms.” She gave a wide berth to a cluster of fans demolishing a heap of nacho chips and jalapeño peppers drenched in a hot pool of goopy cheese sauce.

“Yeah! ’Cause you have a strong case.”

“I know! I would’ve spoken to him yesterday, but…” She sidestepped a tiny Leafs supporter barreling toward her, swamped in a numberless jersey.

“Why didn’t you?” asked Michael.

“He took off right at 3:20. Wasn’t around today either.”

They joined the line for the small concession stand tucked in the corner—the one they always frequented—left of the tight stairwell leading up to grey section 85. Georgie didn’t recognize the two young women serving popcorn and drinks. New hires, probably.

“I keep thinking, though,” she continued, “what if speaking up damages my prospects for the promotion? I don’t want this to be the hill my career dies on.”

“But what kind of career can you have there if they think they can just walk all over you? Set the precedent now, Gigi,” said Michael, adjusting his Expos cap. “Send them a clear message.”

A message Georgie knew wouldn’t go down well.

She studied the film counter on her camera. “I just need to work out what to say.”

“You’ll figure it out. You always do,” said Michael.

“Provided I don’t blurt out something I’ll regret later.” Georgie’s focus strayed to the slanted contraption loaded with wieners, rolling and cooking the hot dogs in individual metal troughs. Yeah, something like ‘Why are you such a fucking weenie, Laporte?’

After exchanging cash for soft drinks, a large bag of chips, and plain M&Ms to mix in with their popcorn—a game night ritual—they climbed ten steep cement steps then turned right to scale four more, reaching the small landing at the bottom of grey section 85, which overlooked the blue line and goal in the south end of the rink.

Nicknamed ‘the nosebleeds’, the greys were the highest, farthest seats from the ice, but they were also the most affordable tickets and attracted a passionate fanbase who, unlike some posh patrons in the pricey golds, weren’t shy about being loud and enthusiastic. Many were already in full voice, practicing their “Go Leafs Go!” chants while tormenting the occasional visiting Washington fan sprinkled throughout the upper reaches of the Gardens.

But Georgie didn’t hear their playful insults. Humming along to the organist’s spirited rendition of Van Halen’s “Jump”, she beheld the humungous time clock hanging from the ceiling, its 40,000 bulbs lit up with ‘Go Get ’Em, Leafs!’, and grinned.

“Where the hell’s Davis?” asked Michael. “I hope he’s still our usher⁠—”

“HEY! GEORGE MICHAEL!”

Only a select few knew that nickname.

Turning around, Georgie and Michael found Ezio and Terry, fiftysomething best friends (and Georgie’s seat neighbours since childhood) wearing their ’70s-style Darryl Sittler and Lanny McDonald jerseys, along with Leesa and Randall, nacho-sharing twins in their late twenties who owned the pair of season tickets directly behind them.

“Hey!” Clutching her popcorn and drink, Georgie raced up the last set of stairs that stretched all the way up to the back row of the arena, but thankfully, she didn’t have to scale that far. She stopped at row E—her row—and walked past four yet-to-be-occupied seats. “It’s so good to see you!” She hugged chubby Ezio then turned to Terry, careful not to bump his half-eaten hot dog, giving him a quick squeeze.

The two men inched back, allowing Georgie and Michael to slip by and claim seats 12 and 11 to their left. Terry’s buoyant gaze latched onto Michael bobbing past with his pop and chips. “Mikey, you finally did it!” He demolished the rest of his hot dog with one large bite.

“Did what?” Michael parked his soft drink on the floor as Terry wiped away a splodge of nuclear yellow mustard from his bristly moustache.

“Bought the Zezel jersey,” answered Randall from the row behind, his high-top fade sporting small maple leaves shaved into the sides.

Georgie placed her drink under her seat then shared fist bumps with him and his sister in lieu of hugs.

“Peter Zezel is an underrated god.” Michael had a penchant for buying customized jerseys celebrating the team’s unsung heroes, the grinders and defensive specialists as opposed to the feted goal scorers most fans chose to wear. “Winning faceoffs with his skates? I mean, come on, who does that? I’ll tell you: Zez and only Zez.”

Leesa nodded, her sleepy-eyed gaze defying her enthusiasm. “I read somewhere he could’ve played professional soccer.” The Leafs logo stickers on her brown cheeks rose and fell as she chewed a nacho.

“That’s true!” Stood with her back to the ice, Georgie nestled her bag of popcorn into the gap between her slightly opened padded seat and its backrest. “The Toronto Blizzard drafted him in the ’80s.”

“Ooh, don’t jinx it, mentioning blizzards.” Ezio shivered and wound his Leafs scarf around his neck. “Summer ended way too soon.”

“Sounds like someone had fun,” said Georgie.