Chapter Twenty-Three #2
The introductory press conference took place in a smaller room at Atlantic Centre than the expansion announcement, but the interest remained significant. The still-unnamed franchise had no roster, branding or public schedule. Each hire became a clue toward what the organization intended to build.
Dunning spoke without notes.
“We are not here to create a women’s version of something Halifax already has,” she said. “We’re here to build a team with its own identity, expectations and history.”
When the floor opened for questions, Tessa asked about the timeline for hiring a general manager and whether Dunning expected the hockey operations staff to include people with direct experience in the women’s game.
“Yes,” Dunning said. “Not exclusively, but meaningfully. There is expertise in women’s hockey that organizations have overlooked for too long because they believed hockey experience was interchangeable. It isn’t always.”
Tessa followed with a question about scouting players whose professional roles might differ from how they had been used internationally or in university hockey.
Dunning’s expression sharpened with interest.
“That’s one of the most important parts of building from nothing,” she said. “You’re not only collecting names. You’re projecting fit before a room exists.”
The answer became the center of Tessa’s profile.
Elaine had initially requested six hundred words.
Tessa filed twelve hundred.
Rather than cut it, Elaine moved it into the Sunday section and asked for a separate sidebar on the general manager search.
“You’re becoming our women’s hockey department,” Elaine said over the phone.
“I am the only person who has attended every announcement.”
“Exactly. Department.”
Tessa smiled and continued typing.
She enjoyed the work.
That should not have surprised her anymore.
The stories required a different kind of imagination from the Convoy beat. Halifax’s NHL team carried decades of assumptions into every decision. Fans knew which lines should produce, how management usually operated and what failure looked like.
The women’s franchise remained entirely theoretical.
Every hire created possibilities rather than correcting old problems. Tessa could ask what kind of organization they wanted before a losing streak, bad contract or coaching controversy forced the answer.
The blank spaces energized her.
She mentioned that to Matvei while sitting at his kitchen island the following evening.
He stood near the stove stirring pasta sauce. Tessa’s laptop occupied one side of the counter beside printed notes from Dunning’s press conference.
“You like new team,” he said.
“I do.”
“More than Convoy?”
“That is not a fair comparison.”
“Why?”
“One exists.”
“Other soon.”
Tessa leaned back in the stool.
“The Convoy beat is the job I wanted. The women’s team is just new.”
“New is good.”
“Sometimes.”
Matvei tasted the sauce, frowned and added salt.
“You ask different questions.”
“At the press conference?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Team sends video.”
“You watched a women’s hockey executive press conference?”
Matvei looked toward her.
“You are there.”
The answer moved through her quietly.
“You watched because of me?”
“Some.”
“That means yes.”
“It is hockey.”
“You have never once watched a full ownership press conference.”
“Jeff talks too much.”
Tessa laughed.
Matvei pointed the wooden spoon toward her laptop.
“She likes your question.”
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“She gave a good answer.”
“You make good answer.”
“That is not how questions work.”
“It is.”
He returned to the stove.
Tessa watched him.
Their relationship remained filled with these moments, small admissions offered while one of them looked elsewhere. Matvei rarely announced that he cared. He learned her work, remembered her deadlines and watched press conferences because she appeared in them.
Tessa closed the laptop.
Matvei looked over his shoulder.
“You finish?”
“For now.”
“Good.”
She crossed the kitchen and wrapped both arms around his waist from behind.
Matvei became still for half a second.
Then placed one hand over hers.
“Sauce,” he said.
“I’m not interfering with the sauce.”
“You distract.”
“That sounds like a personal failing.”
Matvei turned within her arms.
His mouth touched hers.
The kiss remained brief because the sauce began bubbling behind him.
Tessa smiled.
“Very domestic.”
“You say this before.”
“It keeps happening.”
“Bad?”
“No.”
Matvei looked at her face.
The answer seemed to satisfy him.
Still, later that night, while they ate pasta at his table, he said, “We do nothing.”
Tessa looked up.
“We are eating dinner.”
“Always house.”
“Your house has better food than most restaurants.”
“Not date.”
“This feels like a date.”
“No.”
The firmness of the answer surprised her.
“What does a date require?”
“Outside.”
“That seems like an arbitrary rule.”
“People go.”
“People also order Thai food and argue over movies.”
“Not same.”
Tessa rested her fork against the plate.
“Do you mind?”
Matvei considered the question.
“Yes.”
Her chest tightened.
“You mind being with me?”
“No.” His expression sharpened. “I mind hide.”
Tessa looked down.
The word had existed between them without either using it directly.
Hide.
They were careful. Private. Responsible.
They also hid.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Matvei frowned.
“Not your fault.”
“I am the reason we cannot go somewhere.”
“Job is reason.”
“My job.”
“Yes.”
“That distinction is not especially comforting.”
He reached across the table and took her hand.
“I know.”
Tessa let him hold it.
Neither solved anything that night.
Her birthday fell on the final Friday of January.
Tessa had mentioned the date once.
Only once.
She told Matvei while explaining why Nina wanted to reserve a Saturday evening for dinner. He asked how old she would be. Tessa told him twenty-seven and expected the information to disappear among dozens of other details exchanged across his kitchen.
Instead, three days before her birthday, he sent a message.
Matvei: Friday. Seven. I take you dinner.
Tessa read it while sitting at her desk in the Tribune newsroom.
The Convoy had no game that night. Practice ended before noon. Her only assignment involved finishing the playoff analysis before the weekend.
Tessa: Where?
Matvei: Restaurant.
Her stomach tightened.
Tessa: We discussed restaurants.
Matvei: I fix.
That answer created more concern than reassurance.
Tessa: How?
Matvei: You see.
Tessa: Matvei.
Matvei: Trust.
She did trust him.
That was the problem.
Matvei’s solutions often involved money, certainty and the assumption that any obstacle could be removed if he applied enough force to it.
Tessa called him.
He answered after two rings.
“You are working,” he said.
“You sent me a mysterious restaurant invitation.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
“You come Friday.”
“Will other people be there?”
“No.”
Tessa closed her eyes.
“Did you rent out a restaurant?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without shame.
“You cannot rent out an entire restaurant.”
“I did.”
“How much did that cost?”
“No.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is not your money.”
“That is not the point.”
“What point?”
“The point is that you do not have to spend a ridiculous amount of money because I said we cannot be seen together.”
Matvei became quiet.
Tessa immediately regretted the tone.
He had tried to solve something that hurt him. Something that hurt both of them.
“I’m not angry,” she said more softly.
“You sound.”
“I’m surprised.”
“It is birthday.”
“I know.”
“We go date.”
The quiet hope beneath the declaration undid her.
“A real one?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The Press Gang.”
Tessa knew the restaurant.
Everyone in Halifax did. It occupied a historic building downtown, dimly lit and intimate enough that birthdays, anniversaries and proposals seemed built into the walls. She had passed it dozens of times without entering, always assuming it belonged to a version of adulthood more elegant than hers.
“You rented out The Press Gang.”
“Yes.”
“For the whole night?”
“Later. After normal dinner.”
That sounded marginally less insane.
“So the staff stays for us?”
“Yes.”
“Just us.”
“Yes.”
Tessa pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“This is not what normal people mean by going out to dinner.”
“Nobody sees.”
The answer captured everything.
He had not created normalcy.
He had created privacy with table service.
Tessa should have objected again.
Instead, she pictured sitting across from him somewhere that was not his house or hers. Wearing something chosen for the evening rather than work. Entering through a restaurant door together, even if nobody remained inside to watch.
“Seven?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“No. I pick you up.”
“That creates another visibility issue.”
“I park behind.”
“Of course you do.”
Matvei’s voice softened.
“You come?”
Tessa smiled.
“Yes.”
The Press Gang looked closed when Matvei’s truck pulled into the narrow space behind the building.
The front windows were dark enough that Tessa wondered whether he had misunderstood the arrangement and rented a dining room without ensuring anyone would unlock the door.
Matvei turned off the engine.
He wore a dark suit.
Not a hockey-event suit with a team tie, stiff collar and the faint impatience of someone required to stand through sponsor photographs. This one fit more closely through his shoulders and remained open over a black shirt without a tie.
Tessa had spent too long choosing her dress.
Dark green again, though this one fell below her knees and exposed more of her shoulders than anything she wore near an arena. Nina had approved it over video call, then demanded to know where Tessa was going.
Tessa claimed dinner.
Nina said that answer contained nothing.
Tessa refused the follow-up interrogation.
Now Matvei’s gaze moved over the dress slowly.
“You like?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That sounded almost painful.”
“You know.”
“I like hearing it.”
“Beautiful.”
The word warmed her.
She looked toward the building.
“Are you sure this is legal?”
“Yes.”
“You sound unusually confident.”
“I pay.”
“That does not make everything legal.”
“It helps.”