Chapter Seventeen
For the first several blocks, neither of them mentioned the championship.
The awkwardness followed them away from the arena, quiet but undeniable. It existed in the small distance Matvei left between their shoulders and the way Tessa kept both hands inside her coat pockets, as though neither trusted what might happen if they allowed themselves to move naturally.
Snow had begun falling more steadily. It covered the pavement in a thin new layer, softening the footprints left by the volunteers and arena employees who had departed before them.
The streets were nearly empty. Helsinki had celebrated the championship farther inside the city, where car horns and distant singing occasionally reached them through the night, but the route toward the hotels felt separate from all of it.
Tessa adjusted the strap of her laptop bag.
Matvei glanced toward the movement but said nothing.
He had waited for her.
That fact occupied more space than any conversation they might have attempted. He had lost a championship in sudden-death overtime, answered questions about the puck touching the edge of his glove and watched Joona receive the gold medal he had wanted for himself.
Then he had stood outside an arena for more than half an hour while Tessa wrote about the goal that beat him.
She could not decide whether the gesture made the silence easier or more difficult.
“You didn’t have to wait,” she said eventually.
Matvei looked ahead. “I know.”
The answer was familiar now.
“That seems to be your response to everything.”
“Because you say things I know.”
“I’m attempting to thank you.”
“You say thank you already.”
“Then I’m attempting to understand.”
His breath appeared briefly in the air.
“Understand what?”
“Why you waited.”
Matvei’s stride slowed slightly, though he did not look at her.
“I wanted walk.”
“You could have walked at any point.”
“Yes.”
“With me,” Tessa clarified.
“Yes.”
The simplicity of the admission moved warmly through her despite the cold.
She looked down at the snow beneath their feet.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“Why?”
“You lost.”
“I know.”
“And I spent the night writing about Joona winning.”
“That is job.”
His answer came without bitterness.
Tessa studied his profile. “You’re really not angry about that?”
“Joona scores.”
“I know.”
“You write.”
“I know.”
Matvei looked toward her then. “Why I am angry?”
“Because sometimes knowing something is my job hasn’t stopped you.”
A shadow of recognition moved through his expression.
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
He looked ahead again.
Tessa waited.
Matvei did not answer immediately, but his shoulder moved closer to hers until the sleeve of his coat brushed against her arm.
“Before I know,” he said.
The sentence was incomplete.
She understood it anyway.
Before he knew her. Before Montreal. Before Helsinki. Before he learned that her version of the truth could hurt without becoming betrayal.
Tessa looked toward the snow-covered street.
“You played well,” she said softly.
“Not enough.”
“That goal could have gone either way.”
“It went in.”
“That doesn’t make the rest of the game disappear.”
“No.”
His voice had become flatter.
Tessa regretted pushing.
She knew the difference between encouraging someone and refusing to allow him his disappointment. Matvei had stopped thirty-eight shots. He had also felt the overtime winner touch his glove before entering the net. Both could be true.
“Joona said you told him it was lucky.”
“It was.”
She smiled. “He disagreed.”
“He is wrong.”
“You gave him a very good quote.”
Matvei’s mouth moved slightly.
“He belongs.”
“He does.”
“Yes.”
They continued another block.
The tension did not disappear, but it changed. The game became something they could stand beside rather than a wall between them. Tessa told him how Joona’s family reacted after the goal. Matvei had not been able to see their section from the crease once Finland’s players flooded the ice.
“His mother cried,” she said.
“She always cries.”
“She wore the same jersey every game because she thought it was lucky.”
Matvei shook his head. “Now Joona believes.”
“He’ll never allow her to wash it.”
“He will steal.”
“That might be worse.”
Matvei smiled.
The expression was brief, but it loosened something in Tessa.
A gust of wind moved through the street.
She pulled her scarf higher and immediately regretted not accepting the warmer coat Nina had sent her a link to before the trip. She had been in Finland long enough that stubbornness had become the only remaining reason not to purchase one.
Matvei looked down at her.
“No.”
Tessa sighed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face.”
“My face is fine.”
“Red.”
“It is winter.”
“Bad coat.”
“You lost a championship three hours ago, and you’re still thinking about my coat?”
“Yes.”
The answer carried enough seriousness that she laughed.
Matvei watched her for half a second.
Then, without asking, he lifted his arm and settled it around her shoulders.
The gesture returned them immediately to the first walk.
Tessa felt it in the weight of his arm, the warmth along his side and the instinctive way her body shifted closer to fit beneath him. He pulled her against his coat, blocking the wind before it reached the gap near her scarf.
This time, she did not resist.
She slid one hand from her pocket and rested it lightly against his back.
Matvei’s arm tightened.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The word came quietly.
They walked like that through the next intersection, close enough that their steps had to find the same rhythm. Matvei shortened his without appearing to think about it. Tessa could feel the rise and fall of his breathing through the layers between them.
The awkwardness had not vanished.
It had become intimate.
“Were you nervous in overtime?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
Matvei looked down at her. “I do not get nervous.”
“You told me your mother watching makes you nervous.”
“That is different.”
“Why?”
“She cannot help.”
“And you can?”
“Yes.”
“You looked nervous on the bench before overtime.”
“I was thinking.”
“About?”
“Next shot.”
“Only the next shot?”
His hand shifted slightly against her upper arm.
“What else?”
Tessa hesitated.
She had wondered during the intermission whether he was thinking about her. Not romantically, exactly. Whether he knew she would have to write one of two stories, and whether either outcome would change how they found their way back to one another.
The question seemed embarrassingly self-centered now.
“Nothing,” she said.
“You ask because something.”
“I was wondering whether you knew I was watching.”
Matvei did not answer for several steps.
Then he said, “Always.”
Tessa’s pulse changed.
“You always know where the press box is.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t what you mean.”
“No.”
She looked up at him.
Matvei’s attention remained on the street ahead, but the line of his jaw had tightened. He had offered the admission without looking at her, as though direct eye contact might make it larger than he intended.
Tessa leaned more fully into his side.
“I was watching,” she said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Always.”
This time, the word made her smile.
They passed beneath another row of Christmas lights. The gold glow reflected across the snow and caught along the edge of Matvei’s hat. The celebration sounds had faded behind them, leaving the street quiet enough that Tessa could hear the soft drag of their boots.
“What happens now?” she asked.
Matvei looked down.
“With tournament?”
“With us.”
The question stopped him.
Tessa stopped too, still beneath his arm.
The hotels remained several blocks ahead. Nothing required them to answer immediately. The street around them offered no distraction, only snow and darkened windows.
Matvei’s hand rested firmly against her shoulder.
“I do not know,” he said.
“You keep saying that.”
“You also.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I hoped you’d figured it out.”
“No.”
Tessa looked toward the lights ahead.
“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Good.”
“But I still don’t know how this works when we go back.”
“Not back yet.”
The answer could have sounded careless.
Instead, it felt like permission.
Not to ignore the problem. Only to remain inside the night they still had.
Tessa nodded.
“Not back yet.”
Matvei began walking again.
She stayed beneath his arm.
The old bar appeared before the hotels.
Its windows glowed amber against the snow, the painted sign above the door nearly hidden beneath a white layer. Only a handful of people remained inside. Tessa could see the same brass lamps hanging over the tables and the dark wood divider near the back.
Matvei slowed.
Tessa looked toward him.
He was already looking at the bar.
“Do you want to go in?” she asked.
His gaze moved to hers.
“Yes.”
The answer came quickly.
Tessa smiled. “Because it’s cute?”
Matvei’s expression became long-suffering.
“Yes.”
She laughed.
“You said it.”
“It is cute.”
“I knew you’d come around.”
“I do not know what cute means.”
“You used it correctly.”
“Because you like.”
“That is generally how language works.”
Matvei removed his arm as they approached the door. The loss of contact felt temporary rather than final.
He held the door open.
Tessa stepped inside.
The bartender from Christmas night recognized them. His eyebrows lifted slightly before he greeted them in English and gestured toward the tables.
Their table in the back was empty.
Tessa noticed Matvei notice.
Neither suggested another.
They removed their coats and returned to the same seats, though this time Matvei shifted his chair slightly closer to the corner rather than sitting directly opposite.
The angle placed them beside each other across one edge of the table, near enough that their knees touched without either having to stretch.
“One,” Tessa said.
Matvei looked toward her.
“Maybe two.”
“You say many things.”
She smiled.
He ordered vodka again. Tessa chose another long drink, partly because it tasted good and partly because repeating the order made the night feel connected to the first one.
The drinks arrived.
Matvei lifted his glass.
“To Joona?” Tessa asked.