Chapter Twenty-Two #3
The first paragraph described the environment and the way Atlanta turned an early break into momentum.
The second separated the goals.
Carver’s deflection gave Matvei no opportunity. The next three were shots an established starting goaltender needed to stop.
Tessa included McDonough’s quote in full enough that the coach’s refusal to blame one player remained clear. Halifax had not managed the puck, generated offense or responded to Atlanta’s speed. Matvei’s performance had been the most visible failure, not the only one.
She used his own assessment.
After the first goal changed direction off Ben Carver’s stick, Belov placed the responsibility for what followed on himself.
Then:
“After, I am not good,” Belov said.
Tessa stared at the sentence.
There was no cruelty in it.
No attempt to make him sound broken, embarrassed or incapable of handling the environment. She explained each goal, provided the broader team context and noted the two strong home starts that preceded the loss.
Measured.
Fair.
Accurate.
She still hated pressing send.
The feeling bothered her.
Before Helsinki, filing a critical Matvei story would have caused anxiety because she knew he distrusted her.
Now she knew exactly what the story might cost him emotionally.
She had seen him after losing a championship.
She knew how quickly one bad night could become something he carried into the next.
But protecting him would be worse.
Not only professionally.
Personally too.
If their relationship required Tessa to lie about what happened in front of eighteen thousand people, it was already impossible.
She read the story one final time.
The headline Elaine had placed above the draft was straightforward:
Belov pulled as Atlanta overwhelms Convoy in 6-2 loss
Tessa submitted it.
The timestamp appeared beneath her byline.
She closed the laptop.
Her phone remained facedown beside it.
No messages.
Tessa packed slowly, delaying the moment when she would look.
Rick zipped his bag nearby.
“Rough one.”
“Yeah.”
“You got the goalie stuff?”
“I think so.”
“He was more honest than usual.”
Tessa nodded.
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
He left.
Linda followed several minutes later.
Tessa remained alone in the room with the television screens muted above her. She looked down at the phone.
Still nothing.
That should not have mattered.
Matvei was with the team. There would be a meeting, recovery and travel back to the hotel. He had no obligation to reassure her after she wrote critically about him.
Tessa picked up the phone anyway.
She did not message him.
She carried her bag toward the elevator, through the quieter arena and into the night.
The Atlanta fans remained outside, still celebrating beneath the plaza lights.
Someone recognized a group of Convoy staff leaving through another door and began the chant again.
“Be-lov.”
Others joined.
Tessa kept walking.
The message arrived when she reached her hotel room.
Matvei: You finish?
The same question he had asked outside the arena in Helsinki.
Tessa closed the door behind her.
Tessa: Yes.
She removed her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.
No answer came immediately.
Tessa opened the Tribune’s website despite herself. Her story sat at the top of the sports page. The headline looked harsher in larger type, though the words had not changed.
A push notification appeared.
Matvei: You eat?
Tessa frowned.
Tessa: Not really.
Matvei: Order.
Tessa: Did you read it?
The typing indicator appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Matvei: No.
Tessa looked at the word.
She could not decide whether it was relief or distance.
Tessa: Why not?
The answer came more quickly this time.
Matvei: I know game.
She waited.
Another message followed.
Matvei: First goal is Carver. Next three are me.
Tessa’s throat tightened.
That was almost exactly how she had written it.
Tessa: That’s what the story says.
Matvei: I know.
She stared at the familiar answer.
Tessa: You don’t know if you didn’t read it.
The pause lasted nearly a minute.
Then her phone rang.
Matvei.
Tessa answered.
“Hi.”
For several seconds, she heard only the quiet movement of air on the other end.
“Hi,” he said.
His voice sounded tired.
“Are you at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Tessa leaned back against the headboard.
“So why didn’t you read it?”
Matvei exhaled.
“Because game is bad.”
“I know.”
“I watch video tomorrow. Pat says things. Coach says things. I do not need story tonight.”
“That makes sense.”
“You think I am angry.”
The accuracy of it made Tessa quiet.
“A little.”
“No.”
“You haven’t read it.”
“I am not angry with you.”
“How can you know?”
“Because you work.”
The answer was simple.
Tessa looked toward the dark hotel window.
“You used to read everything I wrote about you.”
“Yes.”
“Even when you said you didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I look for what is wrong.”
“And now?”
“I know what you write.”
Her chest tightened.
“Matvei.”
“You say first goal is not me. You say next goals I need stop. You say team is bad too.”
Tessa almost smiled.
“You somehow summarized it without reading it.”
“That is game.”
“No, that is the story.”
“Same.”
She could hear movement on his end, perhaps fabric shifting as he sat or lay back.
“What if I had written something unfair?” she asked.
“You do not.”
“You cannot know that every time.”
“Yes.”
The certainty unsettled her almost as much as it moved her.
“You should not trust a reporter that much,” she said softly.
“You are not only reporter.”
The words entered the quiet between them.
Tessa closed her eyes.
“At the rink, I am.”
“Yes.”
“And tonight I had to be.”
“I know.”
He did not sound wounded by it.
That was the difference.
The Matvei she met in September had believed criticism revealed what a reporter had always wanted to say. This Matvei understood that Tessa could describe a bad performance without wanting him to fail.
The relationship had not made the story easier to write.
Trust made it survivable.
“You do not need to protect me,” Matvei said.
Tessa opened her eyes.
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
He sounded almost pleased.
She smiled.
“How are you?”
“Bad game.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
She waited.
Matvei remained quiet long enough that she thought he might refuse the question.
Then he said, “Angry with me.”
“Because of the goals?”
“Yes.”
“The first one was not your fault.”
“You already write.”
“I am not interviewing you.”
“Still true.”
Tessa drew one knee toward her chest.
“You had two very good games before this.”
“This game now.”
“Tonight. Not now.”
“Same night.”
“It won’t be forever.”
“No.”
His agreement sounded reluctant.
She wished she could cross the distance between their hotels. She wanted to lie beside him without discussing the game, to place one hand against his chest until the tension beneath it eased.
That was impossible here.
The team hotel contained teammates, staff and cameras in the lobby. Tessa’s hotel held reporters who knew her schedule. Crossing either one after midnight would create exactly the risk they had avoided by not going to a restaurant in Halifax.
“Do you want me to come over?” she asked anyway.
The question escaped before judgment could stop it.
Matvei was quiet.
“No.”
The answer hurt for half a second.
Then he continued.
“Too risky.”
Tessa let out a breath.
“Yes.”
“I want.”
“I know.”
“Tomorrow home.”
They were scheduled to fly separately, but both would be back in Halifax by evening.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
“Your house.”
The choice surprised her.
“My house?”
“Yes.”
“It is significantly smaller than yours.”
“I know.”
“My bed is smaller too.”
“I know.”
“You have never seen it.”
“I know you.”
Tessa laughed softly.
“Apparently.”
A knock sounded somewhere on Matvei’s end.
He said something she couldn’t quite make out away from the phone.
Another voice answered from the hallway.
“Who is that?” Tessa asked.
“Joona.”
“What does he want?”
“Talk.”
“About the game?”
“No. Food.”
“That sounds like Joona.”
Matvei’s voice softened slightly.
“You order too.”
“I will.”
“Tessa.”
“Yes?”
“I do not read.”
The words returned them to the story.
“You can if you want.”
“No.”
“Because you trust me?”
He paused.
“Yes.”
The answer held no reluctance.
Tessa looked at her laptop bag near the door.
She had spent the evening writing that Matvei failed. He knew that without needing to inspect the language for hidden cruelty.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For knowing the difference.”
“Between?”
“My job and me.”
Another quiet pause.
“Same person,” Matvei said. “Different thing.”
Tessa smiled.
It was not a perfect explanation.
It might have been the best either of them had found.
The knock came again, louder.
Matvei muttered something to himself in Russian that required no translation.
Tessa laughed.
“Let Joona in.”
“He eats everything.”
“You made enough food last night to feed him for a week.”
“That was for you.”
Warmth moved through her.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Good night.”
“Eat.”
“I will.”
“Tessa.”
“I will.”
He ended the call.
She ordered soup and bread from room service, mostly because Matvei would ask the next day.
While she waited, Tessa opened the Tribune’s homepage one final time.
The story remained there.
She did not reread it.
Neither did he.
For the first time, that did not feel like distance.
It felt like trust.