Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
The overtime winner came on a broken play. A shot hit a defender, changed direction and moved across the crease toward a forward Matvei never saw.
The series went to Boston tied 1-1.
The visiting building treated every Halifax player as though he had committed a personal offense by arriving.
Viktor received the loudest boos during introductions.
Matvei received the first taunting chant.
“Bel-ov.”
He stopped the opening shot.
Then the second.
Game 3 became ugly before it became hockey.
McCrae fought Boston’s fourth-line winger six minutes into the first period after a hit drove Joona face-first into the boards. The officials assessed a major penalty for fighting and reviewed the original hit, deciding it did not warrant more than two minutes.
McDonough screamed from the bench.
Boston’s crowd approved.
Tessa wrote through all of it.
The teams combined for forty-two penalty minutes. Halifax scored twice on the power play. Boston scored once.
Matvei stopped thirty-seven shots in a 4-2 win.
Viktor played almost nineteen minutes.
Tessa saw the knee stiffen late in the third.
He remained on the bench between shifts longer than he had in Game 1. When he returned, he avoided one deep battle and moved the puck quickly rather than holding it near the wall.
Afterward, he insisted he felt fine.
Tessa asked only once.
The team had earned enough credibility through the rehabilitation process that she did not turn every cautious movement into a setback.
Halifax led the series 2-1.
Boston tied it again in Game 4.
This time, the Convoy lost themselves.
They took six minor penalties. Boston scored on two of the resulting power plays. Matvei allowed four goals, none disastrous but two stoppable enough to become part of the postgame discussion.
Viktor’s frustration became visible midway through the third when he slammed the bench door after another offensive-zone penalty ended a Halifax power play.
Boston won 5-2.
The series returned to Halifax tied.
The travel schedule, late games and constant writing narrowed Tessa’s life into small sections.
Arena. Airport. Hotel. Laptop.
She saw Matvei constantly and barely at all.
He existed across rooms, behind microphones and inside the crease. Their texts became practical.
Matvei: Land?
Tessa: Yes.
Tessa: Treatment okay?
Matvei: Yes.
Matvei: Eat.
Tessa: You too.
They had not spent a night together since before the Toronto series.
Tessa missed him in ways that felt more domestic than physical. His hand reaching across the bed in his sleep. His irritation when she skipped breakfast. The quiet sound of him moving through the kitchen while she worked.
After Game 4, he called from the team hotel.
Tessa answered from her own bed with the laptop open across her legs.
“You finish?” he asked.
“Almost.”
“You always almost.”
“I have a notebook to file.”
“About penalties?”
“Yes.”
“Easy. We take too many.”
“That is the theme.”
“You need quote?”
“I have several.”
“Good.”
Neither spoke for several seconds.
Tessa closed the laptop halfway.
“How are you?”
“Bad game.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Hip?”
“Good.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She heard the exhaustion in his voice.
“I miss you,” she said.
The admission came more easily than it once would have.
Matvei paused.
Then, “Yes.”
Tessa smiled.
“That was not a complete response.”
“I miss.”
“Me?”
“No. Your apartment.”
“You hate my apartment.”
“Small bed.”
“You complain every time.”
“I miss complain.”
Her chest tightened.
“We’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Practice.”
“I know.”
“Game after.”
“I know.”
The schedule waited between them.
Matvei exhaled.
“After series.”
Tessa hated how far away that sounded.
“What if it goes seven?”
“Then after seven.”
She rested her head against the wall.
“Win sooner.”
“Yes.”
They did not.
Game 5 became the first time Halifax looked afraid.
The fear did not appear in the opening period. The Convoy controlled the puck, generated chances and held Boston without a shot for nearly eight minutes.
Then Boston scored on its first one.
The puck came from above the circle with no screen. Matvei moved his glove and missed.
The building quieted.
A second goal came three minutes later after a defensive-zone turnover. Matvei stopped the first shot. Boston reached the rebound.
Halifax entered intermission down 2-0.
Joona scored early in the second, pulling the crowd back into the game. Boston answered less than a minute later.
The lead became 4-1.
McDonough considered pulling Matvei.
Tessa saw him speak with Pat at the bench. Pat shook his head.
Matvei remained.
Halifax scored twice in the third but never found the equalizer.
Boston won 4-3 and took a 3-2 series lead.
The Convoy’s season moved one loss from ending.
The dressing room afterward sounded almost silent.
Viktor sat in his stall wearing only compression shorts and a long-sleeved base layer, sweat still drying along his hairline. He answered questions about leadership, urgency and whether Halifax had allowed Boston’s structure to frustrate it.
“We’re not dead,” he said.
The sentence became the headline across several outlets before Tessa returned upstairs.
Matvei appeared later.
He stood despite the loss.
“Do you want the first goal back?” a national reporter asked.
“Yes.”
“How do you keep one mistake from becoming part of a larger pattern at this stage?”
“Next shot.”
“Was there any thought of coming out after the fourth?”
“Ask coach.”
“Do you still feel like your game is where it needs to be?”
Matvei looked toward the reporter.
“Yes.”
The confidence sounded harder than the night supported.
Tessa waited until the scrum thinned.
“On the first goal, did you lose the release above the defender’s stick, or did you see it cleanly?”
“Clean.”
“So it was positioning?”
“No. Miss.”
The bluntness made the room quieter.
Tessa nodded.
“After falling behind by three, what gave you confidence the team could still make it a one-goal game?”
Matvei looked around the dressing room.
“We do not stop.”
The same answer he gave after Toronto.
This time, Halifax had stopped one goal short.
Tessa wrote it anyway.
She filed three stories.
The loss.
Viktor’s declaration.
A Game 6 preview asking whether the team that spent the season climbing could avoid ending it before returning home.
She left Atlantic Centre after two in the morning.
Matvei’s truck waited in the far corner of the players’ garage.
Tessa stopped walking.
He should have been gone.
Most players had left more than an hour earlier. The arena had become quiet enough that the sound of her shoes carried across the concrete.
The driver’s door opened.
Matvei stepped out wearing a dark coat and a knit hat pulled low over his hair.
Tessa looked toward the security camera near the entrance, then the empty rows around them.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“You cannot wait for me here.”
“Nobody.”
“There are cameras.”
“They see car.”
“They see you.”
Matvei walked closer.
Tessa’s anxiety fought with the relief of seeing him.
“You lost,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“You should be home.”
“You too.”
“I was working.”
“I know.”
He stopped in front of her.
They had not touched in more than two weeks.
Tessa looked toward the garage entrance once more.
Matvei opened the passenger door.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“We leave separately for a reason.”
“I drive. Bring you back early.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Yes.”
She should have refused.
Game 6 waited in Boston. Their entire season balanced on it. If anyone saw her enter his truck after a loss, no explanation would protect either of them.
Matvei looked exhausted.
Not broken.
Not seeking comfort he expected her to provide.
He had waited because they had run out of private places inside the schedule.
Tessa got in.
The drive to Matvei’s house passed mostly in silence. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other near the console, close enough that Tessa eventually placed her fingers over it.
He turned his palm beneath hers.
At the house, they entered through the garage. No lights showed from neighboring windows.
Matvei locked the door.
Tessa removed her shoes.
The kitchen remained exactly as she remembered it, except for unopened mail piled near the edge of the island and a bowl of fruit that had begun to soften.
“You have not been home,” she said.
“Some.”
“Not enough to eat the bananas.”
“I do not like.”
“You bought them.”
“For you.”
The answer made her chest ache.
Tessa moved closer.
Matvei rested both hands at her waist.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Tessa wrapped her arms around him.
He held her tightly.
The tension in his body felt larger than one bad goal.
Months of work, injury and expectation had narrowed into one game.
If Halifax lost in Boston, the season ended.
Viktor’s return became a short chapter rather than a comeback.
The trade-deadline restraint became failure.
Every question about Matvei’s future returned before the equipment bags were packed.
“You’re still here,” Tessa said.
“Yes.”
“You’re still good.”
Matvei’s arms tightened.
“Reporter?”
“No.”
He lifted his head.
Tessa touched the scar along his jaw.
“Me.”
He kissed her.
The kiss remained slow and tired, carrying none of the urgency that usually followed weeks apart. Tessa held his face between her hands and let the contact become comfort instead of hunger.
They went upstairs.
Matvei changed into sleep clothes. Tessa borrowed one of his shirts. They lay in bed facing each other, close enough that their knees touched beneath the blankets.
“What happens tomorrow?” she asked.
“Fly.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Practice. Game next.”
“What happens in the game?”
Matvei looked toward her.
“We win.”
The certainty sounded almost unreasonable.
Tessa smiled.
“Good.”
His hand moved along her side.
“You believe?”
“I believe you can.”
“Not same.”
“No.”
He waited.
Tessa considered everything she had watched since September. The first hostile interview. The Atlanta collapse. The hip. The final save in Toronto.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe.”
Matvei closed his eyes.
He did not fall asleep immediately.
Neither did she.