Chapter Twenty-Nine #4
“No.”
A few people laughed.
Matvei did not.
“He always goes.”
“What has it meant to have him back?”
Matvei looked toward Viktor’s empty stall.
“Everything.”
The word carried enough weight that nobody immediately followed.
Tessa asked, “When Viktor scored, you were one of the last players to reach the celebration because you had to come from the other end. What were you thinking during that skate?”
Matvei’s eyes found hers.
“That he did it.”
Only that.
It was enough.
Viktor entered ten minutes later.
The room reacted before reporters reached him. Players shouted, struck sticks against the floor and pulled him into another embrace. Joona returned the helmet by placing it crookedly on Viktor’s head.
Viktor laughed and shoved him away.
Then he sat carefully.
The knee had stiffened.
Tessa noticed.
So did Matvei.
Neither said anything.
Reporters gathered.
“How does it feel?”
Viktor looked around.
“Which part?”
The room laughed.
“The goal.”
He exhaled and glanced down.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Did you know the rebound crossed the line?”
“No. I heard everybody before I saw the light.”
“What made you follow the play that deep into the zone at the end of a long shift?”
Viktor smiled.
“Bad judgment.”
Another laugh.
Then he became more serious.
“Joona had space. Carver drove the net. I thought there might be something behind it.”
“There were points this season when you wondered whether you would return. What does it mean to score that goal now?”
Viktor’s eyes lowered.
The room went quiet.
“I spent a lot of days alone in this building,” he said. “You’re here before the team. You leave after them. Sometimes you’re working while they’re playing, and you hear the crowd through the walls.”
He swallowed.
“You wonder whether you’re working toward something real or whether you’re just refusing to admit it’s over.”
Nobody moved.
Viktor looked toward the stalls around him.
“Tonight was real.”
Tessa wrote through the tightening in her throat.
She asked the final question.
“Was that the biggest goal of your career?”
Viktor looked toward the game puck waiting beneath his nameplate.
“Until the next round.”
The captain had returned.
The season continued.
There was always something next.
Tessa filed after three in the morning.
The media room had emptied around her. Empty coffee cups covered the desks. The arena remained lit beyond the windows, though the stands had finally cleared.
Her Viktor feature sat at the top of the Tribune’s sports page.
The game story followed.
A notebook item examined Matvei’s thirty-eight saves, including six in overtime.
Her phone vibrated.
Matvei: You finish?
Tessa smiled.
Tessa: Yes.
Matvei: Eight.
Eight wins.
Eight remained.
Tessa: Eight.
Another message appeared.
Matvei: Come house.
Tessa looked toward the time.
Tessa: It is after three.
Matvei: I know.
Tessa: You have treatment and meetings tomorrow.
Matvei: I know.
She waited.
Matvei: I want see you.
The directness erased every practical objection.
Tessa packed the laptop.
When she entered the garage, Matvei’s truck was not waiting.
He had learned.
She drove separately.
The porch light glowed when she reached his house.
Matvei opened the door before she knocked.
He wore sweatpants and the black Convoy playoff shirt. His hair remained damp.
Tessa stepped inside.
He locked the door.
Then pulled her against him.
The kiss tasted faintly of sports drink and exhaustion. Tessa wrapped both arms around his neck and held him as closely as the laptop bag between them allowed.
Matvei removed it from her shoulder and placed it on the floor.
“Viktor,” Tessa whispered against his mouth.
“Yes.”
“I cannot believe he did that.”
“I can.”
She drew back.
“You said the same thing downstairs.”
“Because true.”
“He could barely skate at the end of the shift.”
“He still goes.”
Matvei kissed her again.
The series remained on him. The tension, adrenaline and disbelief had not left his body. Tessa felt all of it in the way his hands held her waist.
She touched his face.
“You were good.”
“Yes.”
She laughed softly.
“You could pretend to be humble.”
“Not tonight.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You write good?”
“I think so.”
“About Viktor.”
“Yes.”
“Not me.”
“I wrote about you too.”
“Second.”
“He scored the overtime winner in Game 7 after missing four months.”
Matvei considered it.
“Fine.”
Tessa smiled.
They moved toward the living room.
Neither had enough energy for anything except the couch. Matvei sat and drew her against his side, one arm across her shoulders.
Highlights played silently on the television.
The winning goal appeared again.
Joona’s pass. Viktor’s shot. The rebound. The pile.
Matvei watched the replay all the way through.
Then he reached for the remote and played it again.
Tessa rested her head against him.
“The next round is Ottawa,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You hate Ottawa.”
“Yes.”
“So does everyone in Halifax.”
“Good.”
The rivalry waited.
More games.
More stories.
More chances for everything to become complicated again.
Tessa closed her eyes against his chest.
Eight wins remained.