Chapter Five
Tessa had already read her own story three times.
The first had been for mistakes. The second had been because her editor emailed to tell her it was performing well. The third had been less defensible.
She sat cross-legged at the end of her couch with her laptop balanced against one knee, a plate containing two pieces of toast resting untouched on the coffee table. The article remained open on the screen beneath a row of browser tabs she had been meaning to close for days.
BACK TO BASICS
Inside Belov's reset: Why the Convoy believe their star goalie is poised for a rebound
The headline looked larger on the Tribune’s home page than it had in the document she’d filed. More authoritative. More permanent.
She had seen her byline online hundreds of times before, but this was different. The story sat near the top of the sports page beside national football coverage and a column about the Convoy’s chances of returning to the playoffs. Frank Donnelly’s name had occupied that space for most of her life.
Now hers did.
A message from her editor appeared in the corner of the screen.
Strong start. Good traffic. Keep an eye on Belov tonight. Readers are clearly interested.
Tessa stared at the final sentence longer than the rest.
Of course readers were interested. Belov had been the biggest question surrounding the team since the previous season ended. If he played well in his first preseason appearance, people would see it as evidence that the summer had worked. If he struggled, they would decide nothing had changed.
Either way, they would click.
She closed the message and looked again at the story. She had been careful with it. The numbers were honest without being cruel. McLean’s explanation of the technical issues gave context to the decline, and Sundberg’s quotes showed that the change extended beyond Belov’s movement in the crease.
Tessa wondered whether he had read it.
The thought arrived before she could stop it.
She immediately felt ridiculous. Players were busy.
They had meetings, practices and workouts, not to mention lives that existed beyond the arena.
Matvei Belov probably did not spend his mornings studying the Halifax Tribune’s sports page to see whether the new beat reporter had written anything nice about him.
Even if he had seen it, one fair article wouldn’t undo years of resentment toward the media.
She knew that.
Her phone vibrated against the couch cushion.
Nina: You alive?
Tessa picked it up and smiled.
Tessa: Technically.
Nina: Drinks Friday? You owe me a full report on NHL life.
She glanced toward the schedule taped to the wall near her desk. The Convoy had another preseason game Friday night, followed by practice early Saturday morning.
Tessa: Working Friday. Rain check?
Three dots appeared, disappeared and appeared again.
Nina: You have been rain-checking me since May.
Guilt tightened briefly in Tessa’s stomach.
Nina wasn’t wrong. They had met during their first year of university and remained friends through job changes, bad apartments and several relationships that should have ended months before they did. Over the last year, seeing each other had become something discussed more often than accomplished.
Tessa started typing an apology, then stopped when she noticed the time.
She needed to leave.
Tessa: I know. I’m sorry. Next week?
She sent the message before Nina could ask which day. Then she closed the laptop, took one bite of cold toast and carried the rest into the kitchen.
Her apartment was even more of a disaster than usual. Laundry sat in a basket beside the bedroom door, clean but unfolded. Notebooks covered half the dining table. Three mugs waited beside the sink, each containing enough dried coffee to require soaking before she could wash them.
She would deal with all of it tomorrow.
Probably.
Tessa gathered her laptop, recorder and notebooks into her backpack, then changed into the dark trousers and cream sweater she had laid across the bed earlier.
She added a blazer after staring at herself in the mirror for several seconds and deciding she looked too much like someone on her way to class.
Tonight would be her first NHL game on the beat.
It was preseason against Pittsburgh. The result wouldn’t count, half the lineup would be made up of prospects and several veteran players would watch from the press box.
None of that made it feel less important.
By the time she reached the Atlantic Centre parking garage, the sidewalks surrounding the arena were filling with fans in navy and silver jerseys. Families posed for photographs near the main entrance while scalpers stood at the edge of the plaza offering tickets to anyone who made eye contact.
Tessa slowed as she approached the media entrance.
Training camp had made the building feel busy. Game night made it feel alive.
Music from the concourse carried through the glass doors. Arena staff directed people toward security lines while vendors hurried past pushing carts loaded with programs. Television reporters stood beneath bright lights delivering live updates to cameras as fans moved behind them.
For years, Tessa had entered junior arenas through side doors that occasionally failed to unlock. The press box meal had usually consisted of pizza left in a hallway, and announced attendance sometimes required generous interpretation.
This was different in every possible way.
She scanned her credential, followed the elevator signs and reached the press level with almost two hours remaining before puck drop.
The media workroom was already crowded.
Printed lineup sheets covered the central table beside copies of the league’s game notes.
Reporters moved between their desks and the press dining area, carrying plates of pasta and discussing which veterans had been scratched.
Television producers stood near the windows checking the lighting on their pregame positions.
Tessa found the Tribune’s seat and set down her bag.
A folded roster sheet had been placed on the desk beside a laminated card listing the game’s officials. She picked it up and immediately found Belov’s name beneath the projected starters.
Rick appeared carrying a plate piled high enough to suggest he hadn’t eaten all day. He dropped into the empty chair beside her and pointed his fork toward the dining area. “Free food. That’s the most important lesson anyone will give you on this beat.”
“I ate.”
He glanced at her.
“Toast.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You say that now. Wait until the third period when the game goes to overtime and the only food left is a granola bar from someone’s desk drawer.”
Tessa looked toward the press meal, where several reporters were assembling plates.
“Fine.”
Rick nodded approvingly. “You’re learning already.”
She returned several minutes later with pasta, salad and a bread roll she doubted she would finish.
By the time warmups began, the anxious energy in Tessa’s chest had settled into something closer to focus.
She had created the shell of a game story, entered the line combinations for Halifax and Pittsburgh and opened a second document for notes.
Her recorder was charged. Her laptop was plugged in.
The roster sheet was covered with circles and arrows that made sense only to her.
She stepped out to the press seating area as the house lights dimmed.
The Convoy emerged from the tunnel to a roar that felt excessive for a preseason game until Tessa looked around and saw how many seats were filled. Children pressed against the glass holding signs. Fans stood along the railings taking videos as players skated their first laps.
Belov led the team onto the ice. He skated directly to the crease and began moving through his warmup without acknowledging the noise around him.
Tessa watched him tap each post with the blade of his stick.
Left.
Right.
Crossbar.
His movements were controlled and deliberate, but there was a tension in his shoulders she hadn’t noticed during practice. He stopped the first several warmup shots cleanly, then sent a rebound hard into the corner with his blocker.
Every save drew cheers.
Every rebound that escaped him produced a quieter reaction.
Even in warmups, people were measuring him.
Tessa returned to her seat before the anthem and opened her notes.
The first five minutes of the game passed without much happening. Halifax controlled the puck but generated little around the Pittsburgh net. Belov faced one harmless shot from the point, catching it against his chest before leaving the puck for a defenseman.
Tessa wrote the save into her running notes even though it would never appear in the story.
The next attempt came nearly three minutes later.
A turnover at the offensive blue line sent Pittsburgh back the other way with speed. Their winger carried the puck down the right side while a defenseman drove toward the net, forcing Halifax’s last player back to defend the pass.
Belov came out beyond the top of his crease.
The winger shot instead.
The puck slipped beneath Belov’s blocker and struck the inside of the far post before crossing the line.
For a moment, the building went silent.
Then a scattered groan rolled through the lower bowl.
Belov remained in his stance and looked back at the net. He reached behind him, swept the puck toward the official and took a slow lap around the crease before resetting.
The video board showed the replay.
The shot had come from a difficult angle, but it was one an NHL starter was expected to stop. Belov had opened his body early, creating a narrow gap beneath his arm.
Tessa typed quickly.
7:18 first. Shot from right circle beats Belov under blocker. One he’ll want back.
Her phone lit up beside the laptop.
Social media had already decided the goal meant everything.
Same Belov.
First real shot of camp and it’s in.
Maybe the Tribune should hold off on the comeback stories.
Tessa closed the app.