Chapter Twelve #4
The absence made her uncertain what to do with her hands, even though they remained buried in her pockets.
“You played well,” she said.
Matvei looked toward her.
“Interview is finished.”
“I’m aware.”
“You still ask hockey.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You are thinking question.”
“I was giving you a compliment.”
He considered that.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Several steps passed.
“You write Joona story?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“About goal?”
“And his family. What it meant to score here.”
“He will read.”
“He reads all of them?”
“Your stories.”
The answer sent an unexpected flicker through her.
“Why?”
Matvei shrugged. “He likes.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“He thinks you make him sound smart.”
“He is smart.”
“I know.”
The immediate certainty softened something in her.
They crossed a quiet intersection. The pedestrian signal changed before they reached it, though no traffic moved through the street. Matvei waited anyway.
The light changed.
They crossed.
Tessa stared toward the snow beyond the opposite curb.
The argument after Montreal still existed between them, though neither had mentioned it since. They had returned to something functional, occasionally warmer, but never quite as open as the brief period before the headline.
Walking beside him now made the distance more noticeable.
“Do you still think I changed?” she asked.
Matvei slowed slightly.
Tessa immediately questioned the decision. The empty street, Christmas lights and absence of other people had made the conversation feel separate from work. It was not separate enough to ignore everything that came with it.
He looked ahead.
“You write bad game.”
“I know.”
“You say truth.”
“It was.”
“Yes.”
The agreement surprised her.
“But?” she asked.
Matvei exhaled, the breath briefly visible in the air.
“But headline is there.”
“I know.”
“Your name is there.”
“I know that too.”
They walked several more steps.
“I read again,” he said.
Tessa turned toward him. “The story?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After.”
“After our argument?”
Matvei nodded.
“And?”
“You did not write same as headline.”
Relief arrived too quickly, followed immediately by irritation that she wanted it from him at all.
“I told you that.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t believe me?”
“I believe you did not choose. I did not know if story was different.”
“You could have read it before deciding I betrayed you.”
Matvei’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I read first time angry.”
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“No.”
The simple acceptance stole some of her momentum.
Tessa looked ahead again.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“You did not ask.”
“I followed you into a hallway and argued with you for ten minutes.”
“You ask why I am angry. I tell.”
“That is not the same as admitting you were wrong.”
“I do not say wrong.”
She stopped walking.
Matvei took another step before noticing. He turned.
“You just said the story wasn’t the headline.”
“Yes.”
“And that I wrote the truth.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not saying you were wrong.”
“I was angry.”
“You can be angry and wrong at the same time.”
His eyes narrowed.
Tessa folded her arms, immediately regretting the movement when it pulled her hands from the warmth of her pockets.
“Why is apologizing impossible for you?”
“I say sorry.”
“When?”
Matvei thought.
Tessa waited.
His expression changed just enough to suggest he could not produce a recent example.
“That’s what I thought.”
He looked toward the empty street as though hoping someone might interrupt them.
No one did.
Finally, he said, “I was wrong to say you wait for bad game.”
The apology was awkward and carefully constructed.
Tessa stared at him.
Matvei’s expression became defensive. “You want sorry.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to actually do it.”
“Then why ask?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are difficult.”
She laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Matvei looked at her for a second, then smiled.
Not the guarded version he allowed during interviews. The real one she had seen when he spoke Russian.
Something shifted inside Tessa.
She resumed walking before he could notice.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For admitting it.”
“I do not say sorry.”
“You essentially did.”
“No.”
“I’m counting it.”
“That is bad reporting.”
Tessa laughed again.
This time, Matvei joined her.
The city around them remained quiet enough that the sounds seemed louder than they should have.
They moved through a residential section where apartment windows glowed behind curtains. Christmas trees stood near the glass in several homes, lights reflected against the dark.
Tessa checked the time.
It was after nine in Helsinki, barely midafternoon in Halifax.
“Do you usually walk around alone on Christmas Eve?” she asked.
“I am not alone.”
The answer entered the space between them before either appeared prepared for it.
Matvei looked at her.
Tessa felt warmth rise beneath the cold pressing against her face.
“I meant normally.”
“I know.”
He looked ahead again.
“In Russia, Christmas is later,” he said. “January.”
“Right.”
“So today is game day.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It is.”
“You don’t celebrate at all?”
“Some. New Year is bigger.”
“Will the team do anything tonight?”
“Dinner. Maybe drinks. Coaches pretend they do not see.”
“And you left them to walk alone.”
Matvei glanced toward her.
“Not alone.”
There it was again.
Tessa pushed her hands farther into her pockets.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?”
“You miss Christmas.”
“I’m working.”
“That is not answer.”
She smiled faintly. “You sound like McDonough.”
“He asks better.”
“Sometimes.”
Matvei waited.
The silence felt different from the kind he used during interviews. Not a refusal. Space.
Tessa watched the lights overhead.
“My family is doing Christmas without me,” she said. “They’re used to hockey affecting holidays. Usually I can at least see them around the schedule, but Helsinki made that difficult.”
“You want be home?”
The honest answer required thought.
“I want to be here.”
“That is different question.”
She looked toward him.
Matvei’s gaze remained forward, but his attention felt entirely on her.
“Yes,” she said. “Part of me wants to be home.”
He nodded as though both things could exist without contradiction.
“No romantic comedy Christmas?” he asked.
Tessa nearly tripped.
“How do you know about that?”
“You wrote first story.”
“My first story?”
“About yourself. When Tribune announce new reporter.”
Tessa remembered the short introduction the paper published when she received the beat. Elaine had asked her to provide a few personal details. Tessa mentioned romantic comedies because the alternative was revealing that her primary hobby involved falling asleep in front of the television.
“You read that?”
Matvei shrugged.
“You said you didn’t know who I was when we met.”
“I did not.”
“The article was published before camp.”
“I read later.”
“Why?”
He took several seconds to answer.
“I want know who writes.”
That was reasonable.
It did not explain why he remembered the romantic comedy detail months later.
Tessa chose not to point that out.
“So yes,” she said. “This is not the Christmas the movies promised.”
“What happens in movie?”
“The woman goes back to her hometown, meets someone she hated in high school and discovers he owns a Christmas tree farm.”
“Why tree farm?”
“I don’t know. They all have one.”
“And she quits job?”
“Usually.”
“Bad movie.”
“They’re comforting.”
“They sound stupid.”
“They are comforting because they’re stupid.”
Matvei considered that.
“What movie about reporter?”
“There are a lot.”
“She works too much?”
“Usually.”
“Then she quits?”
“Sometimes.”
“For tree farmer.”
“Or architect.”
“Better.”
“Why?”
“Trees are not job.”
Tessa looked at him. “Growing trees is absolutely a job.”
“They grow themselves.”
“That is not how farms work.”
“You know tree farm?”
“No.”
“Then you do not know.”
She laughed again.
The conversation felt strange only when she remembered who he was.
Not Matvei, exactly. She knew who he was.
A player she covered.
A source whose name appeared in more of her stories than anyone else’s. A man she had argued with in an arena hallway and defended to Nina before realizing she found him attractive.
None of those facts disappeared because they were walking through Helsinki on Christmas Eve.
But they felt farther away.
“You really like the cold?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Matvei looked toward the snow gathered along the sidewalk.
“It makes everything quiet.”
Tessa listened.
“When snow comes, city changes,” he continued. “Cars, people, everything slower. Sound is different.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who wants things slower.”
“Hockey, no.”
“Everything else?”
He thought before answering.
“Sometimes.”
They crossed another street and entered a more open section near the harbor. Wind moved between the buildings, stronger than before. It reached through Tessa’s coat immediately.
She pulled the scarf higher.
Matvei looked at her.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“You lie bad.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your face is red.”
“So is yours.”
“I like.”
“That doesn’t change the temperature.”
The wind struck again.
Tessa tucked her chin deeper into the scarf and tried to walk faster. The movement only allowed more cold air through the front of her coat.
Matvei stopped.
“What?”
“Your coat.”
“We have established your opinion.”
“You are shaking.”
“I’m not.”
She was.
Only slightly.
Matvei stepped closer and unzipped his own coat.
Tessa stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you coat.”
“No.”
“You are cold.”
“And then you’ll be cold.”
“No.”
“You’re not immune to weather because you’re Russian.”
“Mostly.”
“I’m not taking your coat.”
Matvei looked at her for several seconds, clearly evaluating whether arguing would be useful.
Then he zipped it again.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
He resumed walking.
Tessa followed.
After two steps, Matvei placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side.
The movement was so matter-of-fact that she did not react immediately.
Then every part of her became aware of him at once.