Chapter Thirteen #2
The temperature had fallen overnight.
He liked the way the cold entered his lungs and cleared the remaining heaviness from sleep.
Snow covered the sidewalks in a fresh layer, though city crews had already begun clearing the main streets.
Helsinki remained quiet. Most shops were closed for Christmas, and the trams carried only a handful of passengers.
The walk took less time without someone beside him.
Matvei disliked noticing.
The tournament arena felt almost empty.
Music played quietly near the ice while several Finnish players skated at one end. Canada occupied a training room on the opposite side of the building, and two American coaches stood near the benches watching video on a tablet.
Russia’s optional session consisted of seven skaters, one backup goaltender and several players using the gym.
Matvei did not dress for the ice.
The staff had planned his workload carefully. He would start against the United States, and the coaches saw no value in adding another skate after the opening game. Matvei spent twenty minutes on a stationary bike, then moved through a strength and mobility session with one of the trainers.
The work required enough concentration to keep his mind quiet.
Mostly.
He completed single-leg movements designed to activate his hips without adding fatigue, then worked through a series of resistance-band exercises. The trainer corrected the angle of his knee twice and told him to slow down several more times.
“You have game tomorrow,” the trainer said in Russian. “You are not trying to win workout.”
“I know.”
“You are acting like you do not.”
Matvei reduced the weight.
The trainer watched one repetition before moving toward another player.
Through the glass wall, Matvei could see part of the corridor outside the gym. Tournament staff moved between rooms. A television crew passed carrying tripods. Two reporters stopped near the entrance and checked the availability schedule posted beside the door.
Tessa was not with them.
He finished the workout.
After treatment and a short video meeting with the goaltending coach, Matvei showered and changed into the red Russia tracksuit. The communications staff had arranged a brief availability for the players who attended. Four reporters waited in the mixed zone, fewer than the previous day.
Tessa arrived as the first question began.
She wore the same coat.
Matvei stared at it.
She had added a thicker scarf and different gloves, though the coat remained the useless wool one that had failed her the previous night.
Her eyes found him.
For the briefest moment, the professional expression slipped.
He saw the walk register between them.
Then she pulled the recorder from her pocket and became the Halifax Tribune reporter again.
Matvei answered questions about recovering after the Finland game and Russia’s planned adjustments. The American team generated offense quickly off turnovers, particularly when defensemen became trapped below the puck. Russia needed cleaner exits and stronger support through the middle.
Tessa waited until the others finished.
She stepped closer and turned on the recorder.
“The United States had a lot of success creating second chances in its exhibition games,” she said. “Does that change how you manage rebounds, or is the bigger adjustment making sure they don’t get bodies inside first?”
Matvei looked at her.
She had watched the games.
“The second,” he said. “If forwards have inside, rebound becomes dangerous even if I put where I want. We need protect middle first.”
“Do their east-to-west plays require you to be more patient than you were against Finland?”
“Yes. They hold puck longer. They want goalie move before pass.”
“Is that harder when you’ve only had one game with this defense?”
“Some. But defensemen know. We talk.”
Tessa nodded and lowered the recorder.
“Thank you.”
That was all.
No acknowledgment of the night before. No question about whether his hands had eventually become cold. Nothing in her expression suggested he had held her beneath a streetlight or spent half an hour with his arm around her.
Matvei should have appreciated the discretion.
Instead, he found it irritating.
“You work all Christmas?” he asked.
The other reporters had already moved toward one of Russia’s defensemen. Nobody appeared close enough to hear.
Tessa looked at the recorder, then switched it off fully.
“Most of it.”
“Canada practice?”
“I was there this morning.”
“You do not stop.”
“That sounds familiar.”
He understood the reference to the walk.
Something in his chest loosened.
“You are cold already,” he said.
Tessa’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m inside.”
“Bad coat.”
She looked down at it as though hoping the wool had developed a defense of its own.
“I am not discussing this with you again.”
“You should buy new.”
“Everything is closed. It’s Christmas.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m here for one more week. I’ll survive.”
Matvei looked at her gloves. “New?”
“Better.”
“They look same.”
“They are not.”
He almost asked to inspect them.
The mixed zone had begun filling as Finland’s optional skate ended. Joona appeared through the doorway with several teammates and noticed Tessa immediately.
He lifted one hand in greeting.
Tessa responded, then looked back at Matvei.
“I should talk to him.”
“Yes.”
Neither moved.
The pause lasted only a second.
Still long enough.
Tessa shifted the notebook beneath her arm.
“Good luck tomorrow.”
“You will be there.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
Matvei nodded.
She walked toward Joona.
He watched until the Finnish reporters gathered around them and blocked his view.
Matvei remained at the arena longer than necessary.
He reviewed several American power-play sequences with the goalie coach, though they had already discussed most of them. He ate lunch in the players’ area and spoke with his old coach, who had arrived in Helsinki that morning and immediately found three details in Matvei’s game worth criticizing.
By the time Matvei changed into his coat, most of the optional groups had left.
The Russian team vehicle waited near the secured entrance.
Matvei told the driver he would walk.
The response was a shrug. Nobody expected anything else now.
He stepped outside and pulled on his gloves.
The afternoon had begun fading even though it was not yet four. Christmas lights glowed above the street, and the snow reflected the last pale traces of daylight.
Tessa stood beneath the arena overhang.
For one moment, Matvei assumed she had missed the media shuttle again.
Then he noticed there was no phone in her hand.
Her laptop bag rested over one shoulder. Both gloved hands were inside the pockets of her coat. She looked toward the secured doors as he emerged, and the relief in her expression disappeared quickly enough that he might have imagined it.
Matvei stopped.
“You miss bus.”
“No.”
He looked toward the empty curb.
“Then what?”
Tessa drew one hand from her pocket and adjusted the strap of her bag.
“I thought you might walk.”
The words settled somewhere low inside him.
“You wait for me?”
She seemed to reconsider the honesty only after it had already been offered.
“I don’t know the route as well as you do.”
“You walked yesterday.”
“In the dark.”
“It is dark now.”
“Exactly.”
Matvei looked toward the sky. Enough daylight remained to make the excuse weak.
He said nothing.
Tessa’s chin lifted slightly.
“You can take the bus if you want.”
“I do not.”
“Then are we walking?”
Matvei stepped out from beneath the overhang.
“Yes.”
She fell into place beside him.
This time, neither of them could pretend the company was accidental.
The first part of the route remained familiar.
They passed the same tram stop, crossed the same intersection and followed the street away from the arena. Christmas had emptied the city further. Restaurants had begun reopening for the evening, their windows glowing warmly against the snow, but most shops remained dark.
Tessa walked more carefully than she had the night before.
Her boots were not made for ice either.
Matvei added them to the list of clothing she had chosen incorrectly.
“You worked out?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But didn’t skate.”
“No.”
“Do goalies usually avoid the ice the day after a game?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
He looked at her. “This is interview?”
“No.”
“You ask many hockey questions.”
“I spend most of my life asking hockey questions. It’s difficult to turn off.”
“You should try.”
“Fine.”
Tessa considered for several steps.
“What would you rather I ask?”
Matvei had not expected her to return the decision to him.
He looked ahead.
“Anything.”
“That is a dangerous amount of freedom.”
“You always choose question anyway.”
“True.”
She tucked her chin into the scarf. “Why did you decide to become a goalie?”
The question still involved hockey, though not the next game.
Matvei accepted it.
“I was good.”
“As a child?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the entire story?”
“I like stopping puck.”
“You didn’t want to score?”
“No.”
“Every child wants to score.”
“I like when other children do not.”
Tessa laughed.
The sound had become familiar enough that Matvei knew when it was genuine. Her real laugh arrived suddenly, with no concern for whether it was appropriate. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and she usually looked away as though the reaction had escaped without permission.
He wanted to hear it again.
“So it was spite,” she said.
“Yes.”
“That makes more sense.”
“What about you?”
“Why did I become a journalist?”
“Yes.”
“You know. Romantic comedies.”
“That is stupid answer.”
“It is the embarrassing answer.”
“Real answer.”
Tessa’s expression changed.
They continued along the cleared center of the sidewalk.
“I liked writing,” she said. “And I liked knowing things first.”
“That is reporter.”
“I know.”
“You like gossip.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“News and gossip are different.”
“Sometimes.”
Tessa gave him a look. “I also liked sports. I was never good enough at any of them for that to matter, but I understood them. Writing was the thing I could do.”
“You are good.”
He had told her the night before. The words felt no less true now.