Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Inside, the concourses were already full more than ninety minutes before puck drop. Music continued between announcements. Every television displayed highlights from Atlanta’s first months, with graphics encouraging fans to arrive early and remain loud through warmups.
Tessa reached the press box and found earplugs waiting beside the lineup sheets.
She held one packet up.
Linda looked over from the next row.
“That seems dramatic.”
Twenty minutes later, none of them thought so.
Atlanta dimmed the house lights before the visiting team emerged for warmups. A low electronic pulse began beneath the music, building as the video board played clips of the city, the expansion announcement and the first home victory.
When Halifax stepped onto the ice, the crowd booed as though the Convoy had eliminated Atlanta from the playoffs every year for a decade.
Matvei led the team toward the crease.
The noise followed him.
Tessa stood near the press-box railing. She could feel the music through the concrete beneath her shoes. Fans behind the net pounded the glass with both hands while Matvei moved through his normal routine.
Left post.
Right post.
Crossbar.
He turned toward the first shot.
A puck struck his pad and moved into the corner. The reaction sounded almost like a goal.
Players attempted to talk near center ice and gave up. Carver leaned toward Joona, shouted something near his ear and received only a confused expression. An assistant coach stood at the bench pointing through the sequence because verbal instructions had become useless.
Tessa recorded a short video for the Tribune’s social platforms. The microphone on her phone distorted the sound.
Rick leaned closer.
“I can’t hear myself think.”
“You’ve said that before in quiet buildings.”
“I assume you were insulting me.”
Tessa nodded.
Rick stared.
“I still can’t hear you.”
The crowd remained at full volume through the national anthems.
When the puck dropped, the energy entered the game.
Atlanta attacked immediately. The expansion roster was built around speed rather than established stars, and the players seemed to move faster inside their own building. Every completed check produced a roar. Every Halifax turnover became an event.
Matvei stopped the first shot with his blocker.
The second hit him in the chest.
The crowd began chanting his name anyway.
“Be-lov.”
The sound came first from the section behind his crease, two syllables stretched into a taunt.
“Be-lov.”
More sections joined.
Tessa wrote it into her running notes.
The chant did not appear to affect him. Matvei remained set, tracking the puck while Halifax attempted to break through pressure.
The first goal arrived five minutes into the game.
Atlanta’s winger carried the puck below the right circle and attempted a pass through the crease. Carver had collapsed low to help defend, his stick extended toward the lane.
The puck struck the shaft.
It changed direction sharply, passing behind Matvei as he moved toward the original path.
The arena erupted.
Carver stopped beside the crease and looked toward the net, immediate horror in his expression. Matvei reached back, swept the puck toward the official and tapped Carver once on the shin pads before turning away.
Not your fault.
Tessa could read the gesture from the press box.
The chant began again during the faceoff.
Louder.
“Be-lov. Be-lov. Be-lov.”
The goal was not on him.
The crowd did not care.
For the next several minutes, Halifax played as though the noise had shortened every decision. Passes arrived too quickly or too late. Players dumped the puck without support. Atlanta’s forecheck turned routine retrievals into extended zone time.
Matvei stopped three more shots.
Then he allowed one he should have had.
The puck came from near the top of the right circle, released without a screen. Matvei was set. His angle looked right.
The shot slipped beneath his blocker and inside the far post.
The reaction was immediate.
Matvei remained in his stance for an extra second, then straightened.
He knew.
Tessa knew too.
She entered the details into her notes.
2-0, 12:41. Clean look. Under blocker. Needs save.
Atlanta’s crowd chanted before the puck had been placed at center.
Matvei skated one slow circle around the crease.
Pat stood near the end of the bench, watching him.
Halifax survived the rest of the period without allowing another goal, though it generated almost nothing offensively. The horn sent Atlanta’s players toward the tunnel with a two-goal lead and the crowd still standing.
Tessa began the shell of her story.
The first goal had been bad luck.
The second had not.
That distinction became the center of the opening, at least until the game changed again.
The third Atlanta goal came less than four minutes into the second period.
A forward entered along the left boards and appeared to run out of space near the goal line. Matvei stayed tight to the post but dropped early. The shot came from below the circle, catching a narrow opening above his shoulder.
Bad angle.
Short side.
The kind of goal that turned a loud building cruel.
Matvei looked upward after the puck entered.
The chant became almost musical.
“Be-lov. Be-lov. Be-lov.”
Tessa watched McDonough.
The coach did not move toward Pat yet.
Three goals could happen. One had been deflected by his own player. Halifax had given Matvei little support.
The fourth ended the decision.
Atlanta gained the zone on a routine rush. The puck carrier crossed the blue line and released from distance, perhaps hoping for a rebound. No traffic blocked Matvei’s view.
The shot struck his glove.
Then escaped it.
The puck dropped behind him and crossed the line before he could turn.
For a second, Matvei remained completely still.
The entire arena seemed to inhale.
Then the noise crashed down.
McDonough looked toward Pat.
Pat nodded.
Cole Bennett opened the gate.
Matvei skated toward the bench without waiting for an official signal. He removed his mask before reaching it, face flushed beneath the arena lights. McDonough said something near his ear. Matvei nodded once.
Cole tapped his glove.
Matvei returned the gesture and disappeared down the tunnel.
Four goals on fourteen shots.
Tessa stared at the statistic.
The first goal did not belong to him.
The next three did.
She rewrote the lead.
Atlanta won 6-2.
Cole allowed one goal after entering, then another went into the empty net. Halifax scored twice in the third, long after the result stopped feeling uncertain.
The crowd remained loud until the final horn.
Tessa closed the game story document and followed the other reporters toward the elevator. Her notebook contained the structure she already knew she needed.
Carver’s deflection.
Three stoppable goals.
The pull.
Halifax’s inability to handle Atlanta’s early pressure.
She did not want to write it.
That did not matter.
The visiting dressing room opened after McDonough’s press conference.
He arrived at the microphone angry but controlled, Boston accent sharpening every sentence.
“We weren’t ready for their push,” he said. “That building had energy, and we spent half the first period watching it instead of matching it.”
A reporter asked about Matvei.
“The first one goes off our own stick,” McDonough said. “After that, we need saves. He knows that. We know that. But there were five guys in front of him who didn’t do enough either, and I’m not putting the whole damn night on one player.”
Tessa wrote the answer.
It was fair.
So would her story be.
The dressing room felt smaller than Halifax’s and more crowded with cameras. Players dressed quietly, the music absent. Carver sat beneath his stall staring at his skates.
Tessa went to him first.
She asked about the opening goal.
“I was trying to take away the pass,” Carver said. “It hit my stick and changed direction. Belly had no chance.”
“Did he say anything to you afterward?”
“He told me to forget it.”
Carver looked back toward the floor.
“I wish I could.”
Tessa thanked him.
Then she approached Matvei.
Three other reporters stood near his stall. He wore a dark Convoy shirt and athletic trousers, hair still wet from the shower. His expression was controlled, but exhaustion showed around his eyes.
He answered the first question before Tessa reached the group.
“The first goal changes,” he said. “That happens. After, I am not good.”
“Did the atmosphere affect you at all?” a television reporter asked.
“No.”
“The chants?”
“No.”
“Did you feel yourself pressing after the second goal?”
Matvei considered that.
“Maybe. I try make next save before shot comes.”
The answer reminded Tessa of Sergei’s description in Helsinki. Moving for a mistake that had not happened.
Another reporter asked whether he had trouble tracking the puck.
“No. I see.”
Tessa lifted her recorder slightly.
“On the second goal, did you feel like your blocker was dropping as you moved laterally, or was it more an issue with your angle?”
Matvei looked at her.
Nothing in his face acknowledged the night at his house.
“Blocker,” he said. “I open when I move. Shot is not special.”
“And on the third, from below the circle?”
“I leave post early.”
“Were you anticipating the pass into the middle?”
“Yes. There is no pass.”
Tessa nodded and wrote.
She asked one final question.
“When you know early that a goal was one you should have stopped, how difficult is it not to start chasing the correction during the same game?”
Matvei’s gaze held hers.
“Very.”
The answer came quietly.
“You want fix immediately. Sometimes you make more problem.”
Tessa understood that the answer extended beyond goaltending only because she knew him.
Nobody else would.
She thanked him with the same tone she used for every player.
Matvei nodded.
The group moved away.
Tessa did not remain behind.
The media workroom emptied slowly.
Tessa wrote through the noise of television highlights repeating from screens mounted above the desks. Every few minutes, Atlanta’s crowd appeared again, arms raised as the puck escaped Matvei’s glove.
She built the story carefully.