Chapter Twenty-Three
Viktor’s setback became official on a Thursday morning.
The Convoy announced it in the same language teams used when they wanted to provide information without inviting more questions than necessary.
Viktor Sundberg experienced increased discomfort in his right knee during the latest phase of his rehabilitation. He will be reevaluated after a period of rest. There is no updated timeline for his return.
Tessa read the statement twice before leaving her apartment.
No updated timeline.
The words were more concerning than injured reserve, week to week or any of the other labels teams applied to injuries they believed they could predict. A timeline meant progress could be measured. No timeline meant nobody inside the organization was willing to guess anymore.
She arrived at Atlantic Centre before the rest of the media.
The team did not practice until ten-thirty, but the morning had already become larger than a normal practice day. Viktor’s setback affected the lineup, the playoff picture and every decision the front office would make before the trade deadline.
It also meant Ben Carver would remain in Halifax.
Tessa opened a blank document and began listing questions.
What happened during Viktor’s progression?
Had he returned to skating?
Would surgery become a consideration?
Did the team still expect him to play that season?
How did the uncertainty affect planning for the deadline?
The questions were straightforward.
None would receive a straightforward answer.
By nine-thirty, the media workroom filled. Rick entered carrying coffee and the expression of someone who had already recorded two radio segments about an injury nobody fully understood.
“No timeline,” he said, dropping into the seat beside Tessa. “That’s never good.”
“No.”
“You think he’s done?”
“For the season?”
Rick shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
Neither did Tessa.
That was the problem.
The Convoy sat third in the Atlantic Division, safely inside a playoff position but not securely enough to behave as though April had already been guaranteed.
Their two strong home games after the international break had been followed by the disaster in Atlanta and an uneven four-game stretch in which they collected five of eight possible points without looking particularly convincing.
They were good.
They wanted to be better.
The distinction shaped late January.
Every game carried two conversations. What happened that night and what it suggested about the spring.
A line could produce for a week and become the reason Halifax did not need another forward.
One bad road loss could expose a roster flaw people had ignored for months.
Viktor’s absence transformed every shift Carver played well from a pleasant surprise into a question about whether he could survive a playoff series in the same role.
Tessa had started writing about probability more than results.
How many points Halifax needed over the remaining schedule. Which teams held games in hand. Whether finishing second or third in the division created a more favorable first-round matchup. What the underlying numbers suggested about the team’s ability to maintain its position.
Elaine wanted a playoff-odds analysis by the weekend.
“Not a standings story,” she had emphasized. “Tell me whether they’re actually this good.”
Tessa had spent the previous night sorting through expected-goals data, special-teams performance and Matvei’s workload.
Halifax had received strong goaltending for most of the season, but the offense still disappeared too often against teams that defended the middle well.
The Convoy controlled play at five-on-five more consistently than they had the previous year.
Their power play remained unreliable. Their path to the postseason looked likely but not inevitable.
The honest answer was that Halifax probably made the playoffs.
The more complicated answer was that making them and being built to survive them were different questions.
Practice began without Viktor.
That was not new.
The finality of the statement made his absence feel different.
Tessa watched from the press level while Carver remained between Joona and the veteran winger.
The line had cooled from its first two games together but still produced enough possession to stay intact.
McDonough ran several defensive-zone sequences that placed additional responsibility on Carver low in the zone, perhaps preparing him for a longer stay at center.
Matvei stopped almost everything during practice.
Tessa noticed because she always noticed.
She did not write it down.
Their relationship had settled into a routine neither had planned and both seemed afraid to name too quickly. They saw each other three or four nights a week when the schedule allowed it, almost always behind a closed door.
Sometimes his.
Usually his, because the kitchen was larger and the neighborhood quieter.
Sometimes hers, where Matvei complained about the size of the bed, the absence of food and the radiator that knocked loudly enough to wake him during the night.
They cooked.
Or Matvei cooked while Tessa claimed responsibility for tasks he considered impossible to perform correctly, such as washing pans or cutting onions evenly.
When she worked late, he ordered takeout and left the bag unopened until she arrived because he had learned she would say she had eaten if he gave her the chance.
They watched movies.
Matvei had chosen You’ve Got Mail after discovering it appeared on nearly every list of romantic comedies involving writers. He spent the first hour objecting to the business practices of both leads and the second insisting Joe Fox should have disclosed his identity earlier.
Tessa agreed with him and hated that he took this as evidence that he understood the genre better than she did.
They slept together.
They also slept.
The second part began to matter more.
Tessa had grown accustomed to waking in his house with one of his arms heavy around her waist and the smell of coffee reaching the bedroom before she fully opened her eyes.
Matvei had grown accustomed to finding her laptop open at his kitchen island while she finished a story and telling her to stop working only after placing food beside it.
None of it looked like dating from outside.
Nobody saw them enter restaurants, sit together at games or walk through Halifax with their hands joined.
Their relationship existed in rooms.
Warm, private rooms that began to feel normal until one of them mentioned the world beyond them.
Tessa watched Matvei push across the crease and catch a shot cleanly through traffic.
He looked toward the press box.
She lowered her gaze to her notes.
At work, their routine remained different.
He answered her questions.
She asked only when she had reason.
They no longer overcorrected into coldness, but neither offered the other anything that could draw attention. Sometimes their eyes met across the dressing room. Sometimes they did not.
The secrecy worked because both treated it like work.
That did not make it easy.
After practice, McDonough addressed Viktor’s setback in the media room.
His face tightened before the first question ended.
“He had some discomfort after progressing,” he said. “We backed him off. That’s where we’re at.”
“Was there a specific incident?”
“No.”
“Is surgery under consideration?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Do you still expect him back this season?”
McDonough paused.
That was the only answer that mattered.
“We expect him to keep working,” he said. “I’m not putting a date on it.”
Not yes.
Tessa wrote it down.
The team’s medical staff would not be made available. Viktor would not speak that day. McDonough refused to speculate about how the setback might affect the trade deadline.
“I’m coaching the players we have,” he said. “That’s my job.”
The general manager’s job would be different.
Tessa returned upstairs and began writing.
Her first story handled the injury.
Her second examined the roster implications.
By the time she finished both, the media room had mostly emptied. The playoff-odds analysis remained open in another tab, requiring several more calls and at least one conversation with someone who could explain how much the division’s remaining schedule favored Halifax.
Tessa rubbed both hands over her face.
Her phone vibrated.
Matvei: Still there?
She looked down. The ice was empty.
Tessa: Yes. Viktor stories.
Matvei: Eat?
Tessa: Not yet.
The answer appeared immediately.
Matvei: I bring.
Tessa looked around the workroom.
One television producer remained near the back. An arena employee collected recycling beside the entrance.
Tessa: You cannot bring food to the press box.
Matvei: Why?
Tessa: Because you are a player and I am a reporter and people have eyes.
A longer pause followed.
Matvei: Bad system.
Tessa smiled.
Tessa: I’ll eat when I leave.
Matvei: When?
She checked the time.
Tessa: An hour.
Matvei: You say hour. Means two.
He was not wrong.
Tessa: I have a playoff story to finish.
Matvei: It is January.
Tessa: Tell that to Elaine.
The typing indicator appeared.
Matvei: Come after. I order Thai.
Tessa looked toward the analysis still waiting on the screen.
Tessa: Your house?
Matvei: Yes.
Tessa: I might be late.
Matvei: I know.
The familiar words no longer sounded dismissive.
They sounded like someone making room.
The first major hire for Halifax’s women’s team arrived four days later.
The ownership group named Claire Dunning as president of hockey operations.
Dunning had spent eight years working in hockey administration, first with the national women’s program and later as the assistant general manager of one of the league’s most successful franchises.
She was known for player development, contract negotiation and insisting that women’s teams should not be praised merely for existing when they deserved to be evaluated on how well they operated.
Tessa liked her before they met.