Playoff hockey in Toronto was religion—and George Fuller had just become its newest prophet.

After his overtime snipe in the first round, the Leafs were rolling. The city, long starved for playoff glory, buzzed with belief. Every coffee shop, subway car, and apartment window had something blue and white. “FULLER 96” jerseys were everywhere, from Bay Street to Bloor West.

George tried to stay grounded. He still texted his old buddies from Fort Severn before games, still called his grandmother after every win. Daisy stayed by his side, his anchor in the chaos.

But the deeper the Leafs went, the harder it got.

The second round was a war. George took a cross-check to the ribs that left him gasping. He played through it. In Game 5, he blocked a slapshot with his foot and couldn’t take a full stride—but when overtime came, he was still on the ice. And when he dished the assist for the game-winner, the bench exploded.

By the time the Leafs reached the Eastern Conference Final, George wasn’t just surviving—he was thriving. Seven goals, eleven assists, and more ice time than anyone not wearing a “C.” Pundits called him a playoff warrior. But George wasn’t thinking about legacy.

He was thinking about the frozen river.

When the Leafs clinched the series and earned their first Stanley Cup Final berth in decades, George didn’t celebrate like the rest. He skated to the bench, lifted his helmet, and whispered, “One more.”

The Final was brutal. The Western champs were fast, mean, experienced. The series went the distance—Game 7, on home ice.

With seconds left in a tied third period, a puck trickled loose in the slot. George was there.

He didn’t think. He just played.

Wrister. Top shelf. Red light.

Pandemonium.

The Leafs were Stanley Cup champions.

George didn’t hear the roar at first. He saw his teammates rushing him, felt the weight of the moment. And as he skated the Cup around the rink, eyes full of tears, he paused at center ice, turned north, and held the trophy high.

“For Fort Severn,” he mouthed.

Back in Fort Severn, summer was brief but brilliant. George and Daisy returned not as guests—but as legends.

The town renamed the rink in his honor. Kids lined up for autographs, for hugs, for hope. George didn’t bring the Cup for a photo op. He brought it down to the river.

There, with the sun dipping low and the water barely thawed, George set the Stanley Cup on the riverbank beside a battered old puck. He skated one slow lap in sneakers on the muddy edge of ice and whispered to the wind, “We made it.”

edge of ice and whispered to the wind, “We made it.”

Later, he hosted free hockey clinics, gave away new gear, and funded an upgrade to the local rink. Not for attention—for the next kid like him. The one chasing pucks through the snowdrifts, dreaming bigger than the northern sky.

As the offseason wound down, and training camp loomed, George stood outside his childhood home, stick in hand, Cup on the porch beside him.

“You ready?” Daisy asked.

George nodded, a soft grin tugging at his lips.

“Always. But no matter where I go…”

He tapped his chest.

“…this place skates with me.”