Chapter Twenty-Two
The Convoy won twice while Tessa was off.
The first victory came against Detroit, the second against Montreal, both at Atlantic Centre and both convincing enough that Elaine’s substitute reporter had little reason to contact her.
Tessa maintained the boundaries of her vacation.
Mostly.
She watched the games on television.
That did not count as work, even if she kept noticing line combinations, power-play adjustments and the way Halifax protected the middle of the ice more effectively than it had before the international break.
She did not take notes. She did not message Elaine.
When Matvei stopped thirty-one shots against Montreal, she sent only:
Tessa: Good game.
His answer arrived after the media had left the dressing room.
Matvei: Yes.
Then, several seconds later:
Matvei: Better date.
Tessa had smiled at the phone for an embarrassing amount of time.
The Convoy’s first practice after her return to work felt less comfortable.
She had known it would.
Helsinki had given them distance from their normal lives.
Her days off had extended it, allowing Matvei to exist inside her apartment, his house and the careful messages between them without forcing either to confront what happened when she returned to Atlantic Centre with a credential around her neck.
Now Tessa sat in Frank Donnelly’s old seat with a notebook open beside her laptop, looking from the press box while Matvei worked at the opposite end of the ice.
Everything appeared exactly as it had before the tournament.
Pat McLean stood near the crease with an iPad tucked beneath one arm.
Cole Bennett waited beside the net for his turn in the drill.
Joona Salonen circled through the neutral zone, talking to anyone close enough to listen.
Mike McDonough leaned over the boards wearing the expression of a man disappointed by every pass completed less than perfectly.
Matvei wore his mask.
From the press level, he looked like the same goaltender Tessa had watched since September.
She knew how his hair looked wet from the shower.
The thought arrived without invitation.
Tessa lowered her gaze to the notebook.
Ben Carver had skated between Joona and a veteran winger through most of practice.
Typically a winger, Carver had been recalled from the Convoy’s minor-league affiliate when Viktor’s knee prevented him from returning after the international break and was filling in at center.
Carver had spent pieces of three seasons in Halifax without establishing himself as a permanent NHL player, usually summoned when an injury created a temporary opening and returned as soon as the roster became healthy.
This recall had begun differently.
He scored in each of the two home games Tessa missed, added an assist and earned enough trust from McDonough to remain on the second power-play unit.
His pace helped the line, but so did the patience he had developed during another season in the minors.
Earlier recalls had shown a player desperate to create something every time he touched the puck.
Now he seemed more willing to allow a play to develop.
That was the story.
Not Matvei.
Tessa watched Carver stay late with an assistant coach to work on faceoffs after most of the team left the ice. She wrote down the detail.
When the dressing room opened, she went to him first.
Carver’s stall sat along the far wall, several spaces away from Matvei’s. He was still pulling tape from his socks when Tessa approached. A television reporter had already asked about his two-game scoring streak and moved away after receiving the usual answer about confidence and opportunity.
Tessa waited until Carver looked toward her.
“Do you have another minute?”
“Sure.”
She turned on her recorder.
Carver was not an effortless interview. He considered every question for several seconds and seemed suspicious of any answer that sounded too complimentary toward himself. Tessa began with the obvious changes in his role, then asked about what he had learned from repeatedly moving between leagues.
“At first, every time I came up, I thought I had to do something right away,” Carver said. “You get called up, and you know it might be three games or five games or whatever. You want to prove you belong before they send you back.”
“How did that affect the way you played?”
“I forced stuff. I’d get the puck and think I had to make a play that showed why I was here. Sometimes the right play is just putting it behind their defense and going to work.”
Tessa followed up on his faceoff work and the changes he had made in the minors. Carver explained that he had asked to play more center there rather than remaining exclusively on the wing, believing versatility offered his best path toward staying in the NHL.
The answer gave the story shape beyond two good games.
As Tessa wrote, she became aware of Matvei across the room.
He sat beneath his stall in a black workout shirt, elbows resting on his knees while he spoke with Pat. His attention appeared to remain on the tablet between them.
Then he looked up.
Their eyes met for less than a second.
Matvei did not smile. He did not acknowledge her in any way another person would notice. His gaze moved toward Carver, then the recorder in Tessa’s hand before returning to Pat.
Still, Tessa felt the look.
She asked Carver another question.
“What has changed about the way you handle the uncertainty?”
He considered it.
“I don’t know if it ever stops being uncertain. I think I’m just better at not letting that become the whole thing. If I play well today, maybe I’m here tomorrow. If I’m only thinking about tomorrow, I’m probably not helping anybody today.”
It was the line she needed.
She asked about Viktor, careful not to make Carver sound as though he were benefiting from the captain’s injury.
Carver immediately credited Viktor for helping him understand the defensive responsibilities of the position and insisted that nobody viewed his absence as an opportunity in the normal sense.
“You want him here,” Carver said. “Everyone does. I’m just trying to do the job while he can’t.”
Tessa thanked him and clicked off the recorder.
Carver reached for the towel beside him.
“Was that all right?”
“It was great.”
He looked relieved.
Tessa stepped back.
Matvei remained at his stall.
Pat had moved away. Cole was speaking with a radio reporter nearby. Nobody stood directly in front of Matvei, though his posture suggested he expected someone to approach eventually.
Tessa had no reason to.
He played well in the two games she missed. The team practiced routinely. There was no goalie story requiring another question.
She crossed toward Joona instead.
The decision should not have mattered.
It did.
Tessa asked Joona about Carver’s fit on the line, and Joona praised his speed, faceoffs and willingness to retrieve pucks. The answer wandered into a complaint about Carver refusing to celebrate goals properly. Tessa redirected him before the conversation became unusable.
When she finished, Matvei was still watching.
This time, the amusement in his expression was visible only because she knew where to find it.
Tessa left the room without speaking to him.
Her phone vibrated before the elevator reached the press level.
Matvei: Good questions.
Tessa looked around.
Rick stood beside her, scrolling through hockey transactions. Linda was answering an email. Neither paid attention.
Tessa: You were listening.
Matvei: Carver talks loud.
Tessa: He does not.
Matvei: Then maybe I listen.
She put the phone away before smiling became too obvious.
The Carver feature ran the following morning.
Elaine placed it prominently on the sports page, calling it exactly the kind of story readers missed when everyone focused only on stars. Tessa appreciated the compliment, though the irony was difficult to ignore.
Her first story back had been about someone other than Matvei.
He still found his way into the process.
Atlanta was the first road trip after Helsinki.
That fact should not have changed anything.
Tessa traveled commercially with several other reporters. The Convoy flew on a private charter several hours later. They stayed in different hotels and arrived at the arena through different entrances.
Tessa felt the difference from the moment she packed.
The previous road trips had been simple. Work existed in every direction, leaving no need to wonder whether Matvei was awake, eating or thinking about her in another part of the same city.
Now she knew he was.
Their messages remained restrained during travel.
Matvei: Land?
Tessa: Yes.
Matvei: Hotel?
Tessa: On the way.
Nothing anyone could misunderstand.
Nothing either of them failed to understand.
Atlanta had joined the league that season and already developed a reputation that extended beyond the expansion roster’s performance.
The team had won more than expected, fed by an audience that treated every home game like a civic event.
Sellouts became routine by the preseason.
Visiting players compared the building to playoff arenas.
National broadcasts repeatedly showed fans gathering outside hours before the doors opened.
The noise became part of the team’s identity.
Tessa heard it from the parking area.
Music pulsed through the arena walls as she followed Rick toward the media entrance.
Fans crowded the plaza wearing the team’s colors, most of them in jerseys too new to carry any visible wear.
A drumline performed near the main doors.
Children held handmade signs welcoming specific players and insulting visiting teams with surprising creativity.
Rick stopped to record a video.
“This is January,” he said.
Tessa looked toward the crowd.
“Imagine if they make the playoffs.”
“They might take the roof off.”