Chapter Twenty-Nine #3
Still, the breathing between them eventually slowed.
For several hours, the season existed outside the room.
Halifax won Game 6 in Boston by surviving the first period.
The Bruins attacked as though they intended to end the series before intermission. They generated sixteen shots, two power plays and enough sustained zone time that the Convoy barely completed a clean line change.
Matvei stopped everything.
One save came through a screen.
Another required him to extend the right pad against a rebound near the post.
The largest came with thirty seconds remaining, when a Boston forward broke alone toward the net and attempted to pull the puck across the crease.
Matvei stayed with him.
The horn sounded with the game scoreless.
Halifax found its legs in the second.
Carver scored first. McCrae added another after forcing his way through a defender near the crease. Boston answered late in the period.
Viktor restored the two-goal lead early in the third.
He received a pass from Joona near the left circle, delayed long enough for the goaltender to shift and shot inside the far post.
The celebration looked younger than Viktor.
He dropped to one knee, shouted toward the Halifax supporters and was immediately buried beneath teammates.
Boston scored once more.
Halifax held the rest.
The Convoy won 3-2.
Game 7 would be played at Atlantic Centre.
Viktor entered the dressing room still breathing hard.
“We told you,” he said before anyone asked a question.
Nobody needed clarification.
They were not dead.
The city spent two days preparing for Game 7 as though preparation could affect the result.
Flags appeared in windows. Convoy jerseys filled offices, restaurants and schools. Radio stations replayed Viktor’s goal and Matvei’s first-period saves until every listener could describe them without seeing the screen.
Tessa wrote four stories before Game 7 began.
The matchup.
The goaltending.
Viktor’s return.
The history of Halifax elimination games at home.
Frank’s byline appeared throughout the archive.
He had covered nearly every one.
Tessa read his old game stories late at night, studying how little space he wasted on prediction. The stories began with what happened, not what the moment was supposed to mean.
She tried to remember that when Atlantic Centre filled.
Game 7 did not belong to the city’s hope yet.
It belonged to the next puck.
The first period ended scoreless.
The second ended 1-1.
Boston scored first on a power play. Halifax answered when Joona redirected a shot from the point.
Viktor created the screen.
The third period brought no goals, though both teams came close enough that the crowd reacted to every shot as though it might decide the series.
Matvei stopped a rebound with three minutes remaining.
Boston’s goaltender caught Carver’s shot through traffic with less than a minute left.
The horn sounded.
Overtime.
Tessa removed both hands from the keyboard.
Around the press box, nobody spoke above a murmur. Reporters revised leads, checked statistics and prepared for a game that might end ten seconds after resuming or continue into the night.
She looked toward the ice.
Matvei stood inside the crease while the officials inspected the surface.
Viktor circled near center.
His right leg had carried more than twenty minutes of hockey. The stride looked shorter now. Fatigue had made every turn cautious.
Tessa wondered whether McDonough would reduce his shifts.
The coach sent him over the boards for the opening faceoff.
Boston controlled the first several minutes.
Matvei stopped two shots. Halifax blocked another. An icing trapped the Convoy’s tired players on the ice long enough for McDonough to use the timeout.
Viktor leaned over the boards, chest rising heavily.
Joona stood beside him.
McDonough spoke quickly, drawing a route on the small board in his hand. Viktor nodded. Joona tapped the blade of his stick against the floor.
Play resumed.
Halifax survived the faceoff.
The puck moved out.
A line change followed.
Viktor returned four minutes later.
The overtime clock passed eleven.
Boston carried the puck through center and attempted a pass toward the left wing. McCrae reached into the lane and changed its direction.
Carver collected it.
Halifax moved the other way.
Joona crossed the blue line on the right side. Carver drove toward the net, pulling one defender with him. Viktor entered behind the play.
The captain should not have been there.
His shift had already lasted nearly forty seconds. His stride shortened through center ice. The knee had to be burning.
He kept moving.
Joona held the puck near the right circle.
Boston’s defense collapsed toward Carver.
The passing lane opened late.
Joona found Viktor between the circles.
The puck reached his stick.
Viktor shot.
The goaltender made the first save.
The rebound dropped in front.
Viktor followed it.
He reached with one hand, pushed the puck beneath the pad and fell forward across the crease.
For one second, nobody knew where it was.
Then the red light appeared.
Atlantic Centre erupted.
Tessa saw the official point toward the net.
Viktor remained on the ice.
Joona reached him first, diving across his back. Carver arrived a second later. The entire Convoy bench emptied toward the crease, players throwing gloves and sticks behind them as they crossed the ice.
Matvei left his net.
He skated the length of the rink and threw himself into the pile.
The crowd’s sound became something without shape.
Tessa stood before realizing she had moved.
Around her, reporters rose and immediately sat again. Laptops waited. Deadlines began.
She looked toward the replay.
Joona’s pass.
The first save.
Viktor following the rebound despite the knee, the shift and everything that had kept him out for months.
The puck crossed the line before the pad came down.
Halifax had won.
Viktor had ended it.
Tessa sat.
Her hands shook above the keyboard.
She began writing.
The handshake line took longer than usual.
Viktor received words from nearly every Boston player. Some tapped his shoulder. Others leaned close enough to speak near his ear.
When he reached the opposing goaltender, the two embraced briefly.
Then Viktor returned toward center ice.
The crowd began chanting his name.
“Sund-berg.”
He lifted his stick.
The sound became louder.
Matvei stood several feet away, watching him.
Tessa wrote the lead before leaving the press box.
For nearly four months, Viktor Sundberg could only watch the Halifax Convoy’s season move without him. On Tuesday night, he ended Boston’s.
She read it once.
Then headed downstairs.
The dressing room looked nothing like the first-round celebration.
Music shook the walls. Players shouted across stalls. Towels and tape covered the floor. Someone had placed the game puck in front of Viktor’s nameplate, though he had not yet returned from treatment.
Joona wore Viktor’s helmet.
Nobody seemed able to explain why.
Matvei sat beneath his stall with his hair wet and a towel around his shoulders. He looked exhausted and happier than Tessa had seen him inside a dressing room.
Reporters surrounded him.
“What did you see on the winning goal?”
“Joona pass. Viktor stays.”
“Were you surprised Viktor had enough left to join the rush that late in the shift?”