Page 64 of Love Wants Us to Win

“Which uni?” asked Oliver.

“University of Toronto for history. You?”

“Oxford for archeology and anthropology, but I did my Egyptology PhD at the University of Manchester.”

“Home of the famous United,” said Georgie.

“You like football?”

“Sometimes. It’s more Michael’s thing.” Georgie raised her tea to her lips, taking the smallest of sips.

“How long have you two been best friends?”

“Since we were thirteen. I met him at the Gardens.”

“Of course.” Oliver grinned. “At a game?”

“Sort of. It was a Toronto Marlies Junior ‘A’ game that followed a Leafs open practice. They used to schedule them back to back. It was the only time us kids could get tickets near the players’ benches.”

“Good times,” said Oliver.

“Not that Sunday. I ended up in the bathroom wiping away tears of mascara. The attendant asked what was wrong and told me to wait there, said she’d find some tissues to spare my eyes from the scratchy toilet paper. Well, as soon as the washroom door banged shut, out sprung Michael from one of the stalls, scaring me half to death. He blurted, ‘Your life’s a freakin’ soap opera—the bad kind!’ I froze, mortified. I wanted to tell him to shove it, but deep down I knew he was right.” Georgie shook her head. “Was my world ending? No. Was I being overly dramatic? Probably. I felt silly and immature and immediately stopped crying.”

She smiled fondly. “I didn’t have time to ask his name because he tore outta there. I found out later he’d snuck into the practice without paying and hid in the ladies’ to shake off a security guard. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the ladies’ washrooms in the golds had attendants and she walked in a minute later. He was stuck standing on a toilet seat through the entire practice and the beginning of the Marlies game!”

“Poor guy.” Oliver’s face pinched. “If you don’t mind me asking, what upset you so badly?”

“Oh, you know, typical teenage theatrics. Everything’s more painful at that age. A friend flirted with the fourteen-year-old popcorn seller I liked and I was devastated. He and I would talk and he’d give me free snacks. Once he even made me a mixed tape. It was love—or so I thought.” Georgie adjusted the purse and tote straps on her shoulder. “This friend knew I liked him but went after him anyway. To add insult to injury, she snatched the puck Jim McKenny had given me during the practice. In retrospect, I think I was more upset about losing that puck!”

“And that’s when you started hanging out with Michael?”

“Not right away, but I’d see him around, waiting outside the Gardens for autographs. He’d always be in his Leafs #15 Pat Boutette jersey, telling anyone who would listen that his last name was Boutette, too, and they were related.” Georgie laughed. “They weren’t, though, and he fooled no one. Then one night I was at a game on my own and saw the ushers at the turnstile shooing him away. He looked like they’d kicked his puppy, so I marched over and asked if he’d like to sit with me.”

“That was kind of you.”

“I’m an only child and at that age, I was constantly collecting friends in my search for stand-in siblings, someone—anyone—I could bond with and love unconditionally like a brother or a sister. The problem was, I didn’t always choose wisely. Sometimes, they only liked me because I had hockey tickets.” She grinned sheepishly. “But that night, Michael endeared himself straight away. He told me he’d been trying to sneak in, hoping he’d find me because he had an autographed Jim McKenny hockey card for me. I was so surprised he remembered how upset I was about that puck. He’s been my ride or die ever since. How ’bout you? Do you have a best friend? Or siblings?”

“I have a best friend. His name’s Rafferty. We met ten years ago in Manchester. I was working on my PhD, and he was the curator of textiles and costumes at an art gallery. He and I got along straight away. Both of us are into music and films and weekly games nights.”