Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
Tessa wrote the shutout from Frank’s old seat while fans remained in the building long after the horn, chanting Matvei’s name without cruelty.
“Be-lov.”
Two syllables.
The same sound Atlanta used against him.
Everything about it felt different.
The Convoy traveled to Toronto knowing they did not want a seventh game.
Halifax’s players said all the usual things. They would approach Game 6 like any other. They would not look beyond the next shift. They would not allow urgency to become panic.
Tessa had covered enough hockey to understand that none of them believed it was any other game.
Toronto scored first.
The goal came eight minutes into the opening period, a shot through traffic that struck the inside of the post before Matvei reacted.
Halifax answered before intermission.
Joona forced a turnover and found Carver entering late through the middle. Carver’s shot hit the goaltender’s pad. The rebound moved toward the right circle, where a defenseman fired it into the open side.
The second period brought one goal for each team.
Toronto led 2-1 after a power-play deflection.
McCrae tied it several minutes later by driving toward the crease and forcing the puck through a pile of bodies.
The game entered the third tied 2-2.
Every shift felt capable of ending the season for one team and extending it for the other.
Matvei stopped a breakaway five minutes into the period.
Toronto’s forward tried the same delay used in Game 1. Matvei stayed upright, waited and closed the space with his pad.
At the other end, Joona hit the crossbar.
Carver missed the net from the slot.
The clock moved beneath five minutes.
Tessa’s game story remained divided into possible endings.
Halifax advances.
Toronto forces Game 7.
She hated writing both.
With three minutes remaining, Carver won a faceoff in the offensive zone. The puck moved to the point, then down the wall. Joona collected it and cut toward the middle before finding Carver near the far post.
The pass struck a defender’s skate.
Carver reached it anyway.
He shot before the goaltender reset.
The puck entered beneath the crossbar.
Halifax led 3-2.
Carver screamed before his arms fully rose. Joona struck him hard enough to drive both into the boards. The Halifax bench emptied halfway onto the ice before officials forced everyone back.
Tessa rewrote the lead.
Toronto pulled its goaltender with one minute forty seconds remaining.
The noise became physical.
Every clear drew a groan. Every puck held inside the zone lifted the crowd again.
Matvei stopped a shot from the point with forty-three seconds left.
He held it for a faceoff.
Toronto won the draw.
The puck moved toward the right circle. A forward shot through the legs of a Halifax defenseman.
Matvei made the save with his pad.
The rebound went directly toward the opposite side.
Another Toronto player waited with most of the net open.
Matvei pushed across.
For one second, Tessa saw the first practice after the injury.
The shortened movement.
The stick used for support.
The fraction of space his body had failed to cover.
Then he reached the post.
The shot struck his glove.
Matvei fell backward and held it against his chest.
The whistle sounded.
Seventeen seconds remained.
Toronto’s crowd stared toward the replay on the video board.
The glove had arrived barely in time.
Pat stood behind the bench with both hands against the glass.
Cole leaned over the boards.
The final faceoff came to Matvei’s left.
Toronto won it again, but McCrae blocked the point shot. The puck moved toward the boards. Joona reached it first and sent it the length of the ice.
The clock reached zero before icing could be called.
Halifax had won the series.
Players poured over the bench.
Matvei remained near the crease as they reached him, disappearing beneath helmets, gloves and arms. Cole forced his way through the group and wrapped both arms around him. Carver arrived behind Joona, still shouting.
The handshake line formed several minutes later.
Tessa watched Matvei move through it, speaking briefly with Toronto’s players and tapping the opposing goaltender’s pads before returning toward his teammates.
He looked exhausted.
He looked healthy.
He looked like himself.
Then Tessa opened her laptop.
The work began.
She wrote about Carver, the player recalled because Viktor’s knee had created a hole and who had now scored the goal that ended Toronto’s season.
She wrote about Matvei’s final save.
She wrote about Halifax surviving a series that shifted every two nights between confidence and doubt.
The dressing-room celebration remained controlled, though less restrained than after Game 1. Music played. Players wore shirts commemorating the first-round victory. Joona interrupted Carver’s interview twice before communications staff moved him away.
Tessa found Matvei after the largest group left his stall.
His hair was wet. A black championship-style cap from the series victory sat backward on his head.
“On the final save,” she began, recorder between them, “did you read the rebound immediately, or were you reacting once the second shooter released it?”
“Both.”
Tessa waited.
Matvei’s mouth shifted.
“First shot comes pad. I know where rebound goes. I push before he shoots.”
“You had to cover almost the full width of the crease.”
“Yes.”
“How confident were you that you would reach it?”
“Enough.”
Tessa smiled slightly.
“Was there any part of you thinking about how your movement felt a month ago?”
His eyes held hers.
The question sounded technical to everyone nearby.
It was more intimate than anything she had asked him publicly.
“No,” he said. “Only next puck.”
Sergei’s words.
The lesson from Helsinki.
Tessa wrote them down.
“Six games,” she said. “What did this series show you about the Convoy?”
Matvei looked around the room.
Carver stood beneath a television answering another question. Joona talked loudly behind him. Cole laughed with a defenseman near the door. McCrae carried three unopened bottles of water despite appearing to drink none of them.
“We do not stop,” Matvei said.
Tessa clicked off the recorder.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
She moved away.
Their private conversation waited until after she filed.
It came through the phone as the team bus prepared to leave for the airport.
Matvei: You finish?
Tessa sat alone in the visiting press box, laptop finally closed.
Tessa: Yes.
Matvei: Four.
She smiled.
Four wins down.
Twelve remained.
Tessa: Twelve.