Chapter Six
Joona Salonen was waiting beside Matvei’s stall when he arrived at the rink the following morning.
The young Finnish winger held his phone in both hands, staring down at the screen with the concentration of someone reviewing game film rather than translating a text message.
His damp blonde hair suggested he had already completed the optional workout scheduled for players who had dressed the night before, though the rest of him looked as if he had only recently woken up.
Matvei dropped his bag beneath the bench. “What?”
Joona glanced up. “This word.”
He held out the phone. A message from one of the equipment staff filled the screen, reminding him to leave his travel documents in the team office before practice.
Matvei pointed to the word Joona had highlighted. “Passport.”
“I know passport.”
“Then why ask?”
“This.” Joona tapped the next line. “Documentation.”
Matvei read the message again. “More papers.”
“What papers?”
“I don’t know. Ask equipment.”
Joona frowned at the phone as though it had personally inconvenienced him. “Why not say papers?”
“Because English likes too many words.”
That seemed to satisfy him. Joona nodded once, tucked the phone into the pocket of his shorts and returned to his own stall two spaces away.
Joona had been in Halifax less than three weeks, but Matvei had already become one of the people he approached when he did not understand something.
It made little sense. Matvei did not speak Finnish, and Joona’s Russian knowledge appeared to begin and end with a profanity he had learned from another European player during rookie camp.
Still, their English met somewhere in the middle.
Joona’s was better than Matvei’s had been at the same age.
He understood most conversations inside the room, especially when they involved hockey.
The problems came when people spoke too quickly, used expressions that had nothing to do with the words themselves or asked questions long enough that the beginning disappeared before the end arrived.
Matvei recognized the look Joona got when that happened.
The fixed expression. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The extra second before he answered while everyone around him mistook concentration for confusion.
Joona had spent the previous two seasons playing professionally in Finland, where he had gone from an undersized teenager fighting for minutes to one of the most productive young forwards in Europe.
He had scored at every situation the Convoy placed him in, including a strong showing at the previous spring’s World Championship, but none of it guaranteed him a place in Halifax.
North American ice was smaller. The game moved differently along the walls. Coaches wanted him to become more reliable without the puck, which was the phrase teams used when they liked a player’s offense but did not yet trust him.
Joona had heard it every day since arriving.
Matvei had heard variations of it throughout his own first training camp.
He understood enough now to know that teams often spoke carefully when they had not made a decision.
A player was never “struggling.” He was “adjusting.” He was never “about to be sent down to the minors.” The organization was “evaluating what would be best for his development.”
The language changed. The result did not.
Viktor arrived carrying two coffees and handed one to Joona as he passed.
Joona accepted the red Tim Hortons cup with surprise. “For me?”
“You asked yesterday.”
“I ask where you buy.”
“And I chose to understand that as I was buying today.”
Joona looked between the cup and the captain. “I owe money?”
“You owe me a goal.”
“In practice?”
“Preferably in a game, but I’m flexible.”
Joona smiled and took a cautious sip. His expression immediately shifted.
“This is not coffee.”
“It says coffee on the cup.”
“It is sugar.”
“You’ll fit in here eventually.”
Viktor continued toward his stall while Joona studied the drink with open suspicion. Matvei sat and began unpacking his gear.
The room gradually filled around them. Music started from the speaker near the training area, low enough that conversation still carried across the stalls.
The players who had dressed the night before moved more slowly, several nursing bruises from a game that supposedly did not matter.
Those competing for roster spots arrived early, changed quickly and disappeared toward the gym before anyone could question their effort.
Joona belonged to the second group.
He had spent most of camp moving as though someone might evaluate the way he tied his skates.
Matvei had watched young players do that for years. They treated every mistake like evidence and every glance from a coach as a verdict. Most veterans told them to relax, which was useless advice. Nobody relaxed because an established player with a guaranteed contract suggested it.
Matvei pulled his practice shirt over his head and glanced toward Joona’s stall.
“You play tonight?”
Joona nodded. “Second line.”
“Good.”
“Maybe.”
“It is preseason. Nobody cares.”
Joona looked at him. “You care when you play.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
Matvei opened his mouth, then decided he did not have an answer he could explain before practice.
“Goalies are crazy.”
Joona considered that, then nodded as if Matvei had confirmed something he already suspected.
Pat appeared at the entrance to the room carrying a tablet. “Video in five.”
Matvei stood and followed him toward the meeting room. As he passed Joona’s stall, the young winger was still drinking the terrible coffee.
The coaches devoted most of the morning meeting to the previous night’s defensive structure. Matvei’s first goal appeared once, followed by the save he made from the same angle later in the game.
Pat froze the second clip as Matvei held his feet near the top of the crease.
“Better patience here,” he said. “You made the adjustment.”
Matvei watched the screen without responding.
From the row behind him, Viktor leaned forward. “Tribune girl saw that too.”
Several players turned toward Matvei.
Pat advanced to the next clip. “Apparently she did.”
Matvei looked over one shoulder. Viktor wore an expression of false innocence.
“You read too much newspaper,” Matvei said.
“I like knowing what’s happening.”
“You were in game.”
“And yet the article still had useful information.”
A few players laughed. Pat told them to pay attention and continued the video session, but Matvei remained aware of the folded newspaper in the top compartment of his bag.
He had read Tessa’s game story before leaving the rink.
He had not gone searching for it. Viktor had sent the link into the team’s group chat with a message praising his own quote, and Matvei had opened it only because he wanted to make sure nothing from their postgame exchange had been distorted.
The story acknowledged the bad goal immediately. She wrote that it was one he should have stopped and described the opening beneath his blocker without softening the mistake.
For several seconds, that had been all Matvei saw.
Then he kept reading.
She wrote about the adjustment. She explained that he had remained more patient when the same chance developed later.
She included his answer without correcting the missing words in a way that made him sound more polished, but she had selected the part that explained the play rather than the part that made the best headline.
Matvei still did not like the story.
He had played well after the first goal. He would have preferred if the first goal disappeared entirely.
But he could not call it unfair.
That was becoming a problem.
The video session ended, and the players filed toward the ice in small groups. Matvei stayed behind for a brief conversation with Pat about rebound placement, then entered the rink as the first drill began.
The morning practice was lighter for the players who had dressed the previous night, but the second group finished with an extended scrimmage.
Matvei shared the crease with the backup, rotating every several minutes while the coaches changed line combinations and stopped play to correct positioning.
Joona skated on a line with a veteran center and another young winger. The combination looked temporary, but he treated every shift as if the opening-night lineup depended on it.
He scored on his second rush.
The center carried the puck through the neutral zone and sent a pass wide to Joona, who entered along the left boards with a defenseman closing the gap.
Rather than force his way outside, Joona cut sharply toward the middle, pulled the puck across his body and released it before Matvei could reset his feet.
The shot went beneath his glove.
Joona continued behind the net and tapped his stick once against the glass.
Matvei retrieved the puck and sent it toward center.
“Lucky,” he called.
Joona’s grin widened. “You say this every goal.”
“Because every goal is luck.”
“Good for me.”
Two shifts later, Joona scored again, this time by finding open space behind the defense and redirecting a pass inside the far post. Matvei had no chance on the play, which did not improve his mood.
The coaches gathered near the benches afterward while the players skated a slow lap. Matvei could see them speaking about Joona. One assistant gestured toward the neutral zone, tracing the route Joona had taken on his first goal.
Joona noticed too.
His smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
He skated toward Matvei’s crease and stopped near the faceoff circle.
“What they say?” Joona asked.
“How should I know?”
“You see.”
“I see hands moving.”
Joona looked back toward the bench. “Good or bad?”
“You score twice.”
“Maybe defense bad.”
“Defense was bad.”
Joona frowned.
“They are talking because you were good,” Matvei said.
“You know?”
“No.”
Joona remained where he was.
Matvei sighed. “Go celebrate before I change answer.”
The winger pushed away, though his attention remained on the coaches for the rest of practice.