Chapter Twenty-One #2
For the first several minutes, the conversation remained easy. Travel fatigue. The adjustment back to Halifax. Her yoga class, which Matvei asked about with a level of interest that made her suspicious.
“You really did picture it,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You have no idea what kind of yoga it was.”
“You bend.”
“That covers most of it.”
“Good.”
Tessa kicked his ankle lightly beneath the table.
Matvei smiled into his glass.
He told her the first Convoy practice back had felt fast despite lasting less than an hour. His legs were heavy from travel, and the smaller ice altered every angle he had grown accustomed to in Helsinki.
Tessa listened without reaching for a notebook.
That remained difficult.
He described a drill Pat had changed midway through practice and the way Joona refused to stop mentioning the overtime goal.
Every detail pulled at the professional part of her mind, the instinct to ask which side the drill began from, whether Matvei expected to start the next game and how Joona’s confidence looked after the tournament.
She forced herself not to turn the conversation into an interview.
“How bad is Joona?” she asked instead.
“Terrible.”
“He earned it.”
“No.”
“He scored the championship winner.”
“Lucky.”
“You are going to maintain that forever, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Tessa smiled.
“Did he bring the medal to practice?”
“Yes.”
“Of course he did.”
“He puts in my stall.”
She laughed.
“What did you do?”
“Trash.”
“You threw away his gold medal?”
“No. He cries.”.
Tessa took another sip of the cocktail.
“Did Viktor come in?”
Matvei’s gaze shifted.
The question was connected to the press conference fear, not a story. Still, she heard the professional edge after asking it.
“Yes. Treatment.”
“How is he?”
“Same.”
Tessa nodded and let the subject go.
Matvei watched her.
“You can ask.”
“I’m not working.”
“You want know.”
“I do.”
“Then ask.”
She looked at him.
“That is part of what makes this difficult.”
“What?”
“I always want to know.”
He seemed to consider the answer.
“About hockey.”
“About everything.”
Matvei reached for his glass.
“You ask me different here.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
The words carried no accusation.
Tessa looked down at the watch still hanging around her wrist.
Matvei followed her gaze.
“You bring back.”
“You told me to.”
“I tell keep.”
“You said you would come get it.”
“I came.”
“No, I came to you.”
“Yes.”
“That is not how retrieving something works.”
He touched the loose band.
“I make smaller.”
“You cannot give me this.”
“Why?”
“Because it is expensive.”
“It is watch.”
“It is your watch.”
“You like?”
Tessa examined the simple face.
“I do.”
“Then keep.”
“I cannot accept expensive gifts from a player I cover.”
Matvei’s expression tightened.
The familiar distinction had entered the room again.
“At rink,” he said.
“You are still the same person outside it.”
“So are you.”
“I know.”
She wished she could explain that this was exactly the problem.
Tessa did not become someone other than a reporter when she left Atlantic Centre.
The obligation followed her. Accepting a watch from Matvei would not become harmless because he gave it to her across a dinner table instead of beside his stall.
He reached for the clasp and removed it from her wrist.
Tessa expected him to fasten it around his own.
Instead, he placed it on the table between them.
“Later,” he said.
It was not agreement.
Only postponement.
Tessa accepted it.
She asked about his house.
Matvei had bought it three years earlier after deciding he was tired of living in a downtown apartment where people recognized him in the lobby. The neighborhood was close enough to the arena without placing him near the center of the city. Viktor had helped him choose it.
“Viktor chose this?” she asked.
“He says good investment.”
“Does he approve all your major purchases?”
“No.”
“Just houses?”
“And truck.”
Tessa laughed.
“Did you choose anything?”
“Kitchen.”
She looked around.
“You renovated it?”
“Yes.”
“That explains why you know where everything is.”
“It is my house.”
“You would be surprised how many men treat kitchens like unexplored territory.”
Matvei looked offended on behalf of kitchens.
They finished dinner slowly.
Neither rushed to clear the table, though their plates had been empty for several minutes. The second long drink remained half-finished in front of Tessa. She had drunk enough to feel warm but nowhere near enough for the room to soften around its edges.
She was completely aware of where she was.
That mattered again.
Matvei leaned back in the chair.
“You like?”
“The dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Very much.”
“Date?”
Tessa’s mouth curved.
“Yes. I like the date.”
His satisfaction appeared in the subtle relaxation of his shoulders.
“You were nervous,” she said.
“No.”
“You were checking the oven every twelve seconds when I arrived.”
“Chicken.”
“You made a homemade Finnish cocktail.”
“Long drink.”
“You wore a shirt.”
Matvei looked down at himself.
“I wear shirts.”
“This shirt has buttons.”
“Yes.”
“You did research.”
He took a drink.
Tessa laughed.
“I think it’s sweet.”
The word made him frown.
“Not cute?”
“That too.”
“No.”
She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand.
“Very cute.”
Matvei turned his palm and closed his fingers around hers.
He did not let go until she stood to collect the dishes.
“You sit,” Matvei said.
“I am helping.”
“I cook.”
“And I clean.”
“You are guest.”
“You have used that already.”
Tessa carried the plates toward the kitchen before he could stop her.
Matvei followed with the serving dishes.
They worked around one another in the narrow spaces between the island, sink and dishwasher. Tessa scraped plates while he stored leftovers in glass containers. He attempted to take the sponge from her twice.
The second time, she held it behind her back.
“You are very controlling in your own kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“I am capable of washing a pan.”
“You use too much soap.”
“I have not used any yet.”
“You will.”
Tessa looked toward the bottle beside the sink.
“How much is the correct amount?”
Matvei demonstrated with a small squeeze.
“That is not enough.”
“It is.”
“You cannot wash chicken grease with three molecules of soap.”
“You waste.”
“You made food for seven people.”
“That is not waste. I eat tomorrow.”
Tessa added more soap when he turned away.
He noticed the bubbles.
His expression suggested betrayal.
She laughed.
The domestic feeling returned more strongly than it had in the hotel shower.
There was no temporary room-service tray to be collected after them. No suitcase waiting near the door. The leftovers had a place in Matvei’s refrigerator. The plates had a cabinet. The pan Tessa washed would remain in his kitchen after she went home.
She learned that he stored cutting boards vertically beside the refrigerator and kept tea in a drawer with labels written in both Russian and English.
A row of magnets held photographs along one side of the refrigerator, most of them family pictures.
His mother and sister in front of a flowering garden.
Matvei at perhaps twelve years old wearing goalie pads too large for his body.
Viktor holding a fish with an expression suggesting the photograph had been taken against his will.
Tessa stopped.
“You fish?”
Matvei looked toward the picture.
“Viktor fishes.”
“You appear to have been there.”
“I sit.”
“What did you do while he fished?”
“Read.”
“That sounds more like you.”
Another photograph showed Matvei and Joona at a team charity event, both wearing aprons and standing over a tray of badly decorated cookies.
Tessa pointed.
“This one needs explanation.”
“No.”
“Joona looks twelve.”
“He acts twelve.”
“What happened to the cookies?”
“Children eat.”
“Were they warned?”
Matvei reached around her and removed the magnet.
Tessa laughed.
He placed the photograph facedown on the counter.
“I’m going to ask Joona.”
“No work.”
“That is personal.”
“Worse.”
Tessa returned to the sink.
When the kitchen was clean, Matvei dried his hands and looked toward the living room.
“Movie.”
“You planned a movie?”
“Yes.”
“What movie?”
He did not answer.
That should have warned her.
The living room was arranged around a stone fireplace and a television large enough to make Tessa question his claim that Viktor approved only practical investments.
A dark gray sectional occupied two walls, covered with more pillows than she expected Matvei to own.
Books filled built-in shelves beside the fireplace.
Actual books.
Tessa moved closer.
Several were in Russian. Others were English translations of Russian novels, hockey memoirs and histories. A paperback mystery rested facedown on the end table with a bookmark halfway through.
“You read,” she said.
Matvei gave her a look.
“I know that sounded insulting.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t expect this many.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Goalies cannot read?”
“Most players I interview say they spend road trips playing cards.”
“I play cards.”
“And read.”
“Yes.”
Tessa scanned the shelves.
A framed photograph near the bottom showed Matvei’s mother seated beside him at what appeared to be his draft. His sister stood on his other side, younger and smiling widely. No father.
Tessa moved away before looking became intrusive.
Matvei picked up the remote.
“You sit.”
“Are you assigning me a seat?”
“Yes.”
He pointed toward the corner of the sectional.
Tessa settled there.
Matvei disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned with water, the remaining long drink and a folded blanket.
He placed the blanket across her legs.
Tessa stared.
“What?”
“You are cold.”
“I’m not.”
“Always.”
She drew the blanket higher.
He sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched.
The television screen displayed a streaming service menu. Matvei opened a saved list.
Tessa recognized several titles immediately.
When Harry Met Sally.
You’ve Got Mail.
The Proposal.
Notting Hill.
Never Been Kissed.
She looked toward him.
“What is this?”
“Movies.”
“I can see that.”
“You like.”
“How do you know?”
“You say romantic comedy.”