Chapter Twenty-Five
The trade deadline passed without Matvei going anywhere.
Tessa knew that officially at four in the afternoon.
She had known it unofficially for almost an hour, after the national insiders stopped attaching his name to speculative posts and began reporting that the Convoy intended to keep both goaltenders for the stretch run.
Still, she did not fully trust the silence until the league’s deadline passed and Halifax’s general manager appeared at a podium inside Atlantic Centre.
Nobody had warned Tessa how strange deadline day would feel from inside the building.
She had covered junior hockey trades before, but those decisions usually arrived through a call from a parent, a suddenly empty stall or a teenager attempting not to cry while explaining that he had been asked to pack his equipment before the team bus left.
The NHL version involved more money, more sources and far more people pretending not to stare at their phones.
The Convoy practiced in the morning. Every player remained on the ice, though several glanced toward the benches whenever a team employee appeared near the tunnel.
Reporters gathered afterward in a dressing room carrying the nervous energy of people waiting for information that might arrive while they were asking about something else.
Joona treated the uncertainty like entertainment.
He walked through the room asking teammates where they believed they would be living by dinner.
Ben Carver told him he hoped somebody traded Joona to a team without direct flights to Finland.
Cole Bennett said nothing, though Tessa noticed him checking his phone twice while reporters spoke with Matvei several stalls away.
Matvei remained calm.
Or he appeared calm.
Tessa understood the distinction by then.
His answers stayed short when reporters asked whether management had updated him. Nobody had. His modified no-trade clause had never become relevant because the Convoy had not asked him to waive it or submit a revised list.
“Do you expect to be here after the deadline?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
The answer drew several smiles because it sounded so final.
Tessa knew he did not feel that certain.
He had slept badly the previous night. He had told her that through a message sent at three-thirteen in the morning, though he denied being awake because of the deadline.
Matvei: You sleep?
Tessa: I was until my phone lit up.
Matvei: Then sleep.
Tessa: Why are you awake?
Matvei: Nothing.
She did not believe him.
Now he sat beneath his nameplate while cameras waited for him to express relief before the deadline had actually passed.
Tessa asked no questions.
She had already written the contract analysis, spoken with league sources and explained every plausible reason the Convoy might listen to offers. There was nothing useful she could collect from making Matvei say again that he wanted to stay.
Instead, she spoke with Carver about the uncertainty surrounding depth players. His name had appeared in smaller rumors, the kind that never reached national television but still affected the person whose life might change.
“You try not to think about it,” Carver said. “Then somebody walks through the room holding a phone, and you wonder if they’re coming for you.”
That became part of Tessa’s deadline notebook.
By noon, two Eastern Conference teams had made major trades. Halifax remained quiet.
By two, reporters began hearing that the Convoy had acquired a forward from Philadelphia.
The official announcement arrived twenty minutes later.
Halifax sent a third-round pick and a fifth-round pick to Philadelphia for Gavin McCrae, a thirty-year-old winger known more for his physical play than his scoring.
McCrae stood six-foot-three, weighed nearly two hundred twenty pounds and had accumulated more penalty minutes than anyone on the Convoy roster.
He had seven goals that season.
He also had nine fighting majors.
The initial reaction from fans split predictably.
Some praised management for adding toughness before the playoffs. Others questioned whether two draft picks were too much for a fourth-line player who might not dress every night. Video clips of McCrae fighting members of Ottawa, Boston and Toronto circulated within minutes.
Tessa began writing before the deadline passed.
The first version of the story explained the trade.
The second asked why Halifax believed McCrae fit a roster built increasingly around speed and puck possession.
When the general manager finally spoke, he emphasized options.
“We like the chemistry in our room,” he said. “We weren’t looking to make a move that disrupted what this group has built. Gavin gives the coaching staff another type of player to use depending on the matchup.”
“Is he someone you expect to dress every night?” Tessa asked.
“That will be up to Mike.”
“So this was specifically about having a more physical option available in the postseason?”
“It’s about being prepared for different kinds of games. The playoffs have a way of changing from one night to the next.”
Another reporter asked whether the organization viewed McCrae as an enforcer.
The general manager resisted the word.
“He can play,” he said. “He forechecks, he finishes checks and he’s responsible defensively. But yes, there’s an element of deterrence. Teams know when he’s in the lineup.”
Tessa wrote the answer down.
Mike McDonough was less interested in avoiding the label.
“Sometimes you need somebody who makes the other team think twice before they take a run at one of your guys,” he said. “He can skate well enough to play, and he’s not afraid of anybody. That matters.”
The final question returned to the players Halifax had not traded.
“Were there serious conversations involving either of your goaltenders?”
The general manager paused.
“We received calls.”
Tessa felt the room sharpen around the answer.
“On Belov?”
“On several players.”
“Was there an offer that came close?”
“We weren’t interested in subtracting from the team we have. We’ve worked hard to put ourselves in this position. Our goal today was to support that group, not pull it apart.”
Tessa wrote quickly.
The Convoy had inched upward through February, climbing within two points of second place in the Atlantic Division. They had won seven of their previous ten games. Matvei had stabilized after Atlanta, and Cole continued giving the team quality starts when called upon.
Trading either would have solved a future financial question by creating a much larger immediate one.
The general manager said exactly what Viktor predicted.
A team trying to win did not usually trade one of the goaltenders it trusted.
Tessa filed three stories before leaving Atlantic Centre.
The trade.
The general manager’s explanation.
A deadline analysis arguing that Halifax’s restraint reflected belief in the roster as much as caution.
She avoided writing that the outcome caused relief she could feel physically.
That belonged nowhere in the coverage.
Her phone vibrated as she entered the elevator.
Matvei: Still Halifax.
Tessa stared at the message.
Then replied:
Tessa: I know.
Three dots appeared.
Matvei: You are happy.
She looked at her reflection in the elevator doors.
Tessa: Professionally, keeping both goalies makes sense for a contender.
His response came before the elevator reached the garage.
Matvei: Reporter.
Tessa smiled.
Tessa: Yes. I’m happy.
Gavin McCrae arrived the following morning.
He looked less frightening without skates and gloves than he did in the fight clips circulating online.
His nose had been broken enough times to bend slightly toward one side, and a faint scar divided one eyebrow, but he smiled when he introduced himself and spent his first several minutes in the dressing room apologizing for forgetting names.
Joona volunteered to help.
Nobody had asked him.
By the end of practice, McCrae had learned perhaps half the roster and been told at least three incorrect facts about Halifax by the Finnish rookie.
His first game came two nights later against Washington.
Halifax dressed him on the fourth line. McDonough said the decision was about getting the new player into the lineup quickly rather than a response to the opponent, though nobody believed the two things were entirely separate.
McCrae delivered four hits in his first period.
He nearly fought someone after a late shove against Joona but stopped when the official intervened. The crowd approved anyway.
Matvei faced twelve shots.
The twelfth caused the first problem.
Washington moved the puck across the offensive zone late in the period, forcing Halifax’s defenders to rotate. A pass reached the left circle, then traveled quickly through the slot toward a forward waiting near the opposite post.
Matvei pushed across.
His right pad reached the ice in time.
The puck struck it and moved into the corner.
The save looked routine from the press box.
The way he stood afterward did not.
Tessa had already begun entering the stop into her notes when she saw Matvei remain low for half a second longer than usual. He placed the blade of his stick against the ice and used it to straighten.
Then he rotated his right leg once.
Not the knee.
Higher.
His hand moved briefly toward the outside of his hip before returning to the stick.
Tessa stopped typing.
A whistle came several seconds later. An athletic trainer leaned over the boards and called something toward Matvei. Matvei shook his head and skated one circle around the crease.
Fine.
At least, that was what the gesture meant publicly.
Tessa watched him more closely through the rest of the period.
His movement did not obviously change. He stopped another shot through traffic and controlled the rebound. When the horn sounded, he left the ice with the rest of the team rather than waiting for a trainer.
She wrote nothing about the moment.
There was nothing to write yet.