Chapter Thirty-Two
The Stanley Cup entered Atlantic Centre through the same tunnel the Convoy had used all season.
Tessa had seen it on television enough times to believe she understood what the moment would look like. The white-gloved handlers. The polished silver catching every arena light. The players attempting to remain still while something they had spent their entire lives imagining moved toward them.
From the press box, it looked less like a trophy than an event arriving under its own power.
The crowd rose again.
Nearly everyone inside Atlantic Centre had remained standing since the horn. The noise had never fully receded, only changed shape through the handshake line, Joona’s playoff MVP presentation and the hurried construction of the ceremony near center ice.
Now the Cup appeared.
Joona stood several feet from the presentation area holding his own trophy with both hands.
The rookie looked as though somebody had placed it there before explaining what it was.
His eyes kept moving toward the Cup and then back to the teammates surrounding him, as if waiting for someone older to confirm the night was real.
Viktor stood at the front of the group.
The captain had removed his helmet. Sweat flattened his blond hair across his forehead, and the right knee that had kept him out for four months bent slightly beneath his weight.
Tessa could see the exhaustion in the way he held himself.
She could also see that nothing would have convinced him to sit.
The league commissioner spoke.
Tessa heard only pieces of it through the crowd. Congratulations to the City of Halifax. An unforgettable seven-game series. The Convoy’s second championship.
Second.
Frank had covered the first.
Tessa placed both hands on the desk in front of her.
The commissioner turned toward Viktor.
“It is my privilege to present the Stanley Cup to the captain of the Halifax Convoy, Viktor Sundberg.”
The sound became physical.
Viktor skated forward.
For a moment, he only looked at the Cup. His mouth opened slightly, but whatever he said disappeared beneath the roar.
Then he reached for it.
The weight seemed to surprise him despite the years he had spent imagining it. He secured both hands around the bowl, lifted it slowly from the table and brought it against his chest.
The crowd chanted his name.
Viktor closed his eyes.
Tessa felt her throat tighten.
He had spent January without a timeline. He had spent February skating alone before practices, rebuilding his knee while the season continued on the other side of the walls. He had admitted wondering whether he was working toward something real or refusing to accept that his career might be ending.
Now the Cup rested against him.
Viktor opened his eyes and raised it.
His entire body extended beneath the weight, arms high above his head and face turned toward the lights. He shouted into the noise.
The players behind him lost whatever restraint remained.
Sticks struck the ice. Gloves lifted. Joona jumped with both arms raised despite still holding the playoff MVP trophy. Cole wrapped one arm around Matvei’s shoulders and shook him hard enough that the goaltender nearly lost his championship cap.
Tessa watched Matvei.
His eyes followed the Cup.
Viktor lowered it after one slow lap near center ice.
He did not need to consider who received it next.
He turned directly toward Matvei.
The gesture stopped Matvei.
Even from above, Tessa saw the surprise. Matvei looked toward Viktor, then the Cup, as if confirming the captain had not intended to pass it to somebody behind him.
Viktor said something.
Matvei shook his head once.
Viktor said it again.
Then pushed the Cup toward him.
Matvei took it.
The first thing Tessa noticed was the care.
He placed one hand beneath the bowl and the other near the base, adjusting his grip until he trusted it. His shoulders lowered slightly under the weight.
For one moment, Matvei only stared at the names engraved across the silver.
Then he raised it.
The expression on his face changed completely.
Tessa had seen Matvei smile. She had seen him laugh in the dressing room, tease teammates and look at her across a restaurant as though the rest of the room had stopped existing.
She had never seen joy take him over.
His head tipped back. His mouth opened in a shout that reached the press box only as part of the crowd. He skated with the Cup held above him, passing the Convoy bench and the section where his mother and sister stood behind the glass.
They had arrived in Halifax before Game 6.
Tessa knew because Matvei had sent one message after their plane landed.
Matvei: Mama here. Katya too.
There had been no time for introductions. No private dinner. No way for Tessa to meet the two people Matvei had described across quiet nights without exposing a relationship neither of them was ready to explain.
Now his mother cried openly behind the glass.
His sister shouted and pressed both hands against it.
Matvei lowered the Cup long enough to bring it close to them. His mother touched the glass opposite his hand.
Tessa looked away first.
Not because the moment felt private.
Because it was too easy to understand.
Matvei continued his lap and passed the Cup to one of the veteran defensemen.
It traveled through the roster slowly. Every player lifted it differently.
McCrae roared before the Cup reached his shoulders.
Carver looked down at it in disbelief, then searched immediately for the teammates who had kept him in Halifax after Viktor’s injury.
Cole held it above his head and closed his eyes.
When Joona’s turn came, the rookie nearly forgot to set down the playoff MVP trophy.
Viktor took it from him before both ended up on the ice.
Joona lifted the Cup with less caution than Matvei had shown, arms shaking slightly as he carried it toward the glass. His smile never disappeared.
The player who had not known whether he would make the roster in September now held both trophies awarded at the end of the season.
Tessa’s laptop waited in front of her.
The main story document remained open beneath the first paragraphs she had written during the game.
She should have been typing.
Instead, she watched until every player received the Cup.
The team gathered near center ice for the photograph. Players arranged themselves in rows around Viktor and the trophy. Coaches moved in behind them. Equipment staff, trainers and members of the hockey operations department filled the remaining spaces.
Pat stood directly behind Matvei.
McDonough knelt near the front with one hand resting against the Cup’s base. His intimidating expression had disappeared. The coach looked exhausted and almost young beneath his championship cap.
The photographers called for everyone to look forward.
Flashes filled the ice.
The official team photograph lasted only seconds.
Tessa knew it would remain inside Atlantic Centre for decades.
Then the barriers opened.
Families and partners entered the ice.
They emerged carefully from the tunnel, some wearing high heels not designed for a hockey surface and others carrying young children against their chests. Players separated from the team group and moved toward them.
Viktor reached his family first.
His wife wrapped both arms around him before he could remove his gloves. Their daughter, perhaps six, wore a small Convoy jersey with DADDY across the back and skated unsteadily toward him in sneakers. Viktor dropped to one knee and caught her.
His younger son followed more cautiously, one hand held by an arena employee. Viktor lifted him with his other arm.
The boy touched the championship cap on his father’s head.
Viktor laughed.
His wife wiped at her face.
Joona’s parents appeared near the tunnel carrying a Finnish flag. His mother reached him first and pulled him into an embrace while his father held the playoff MVP trophy as though afraid somebody might ask for it back.
Carver’s family surrounded him.
Cole kissed a woman Tessa had seen only once before, then lifted a small child wearing oversized protective headphones.
Matvei’s mother and sister stepped onto the ice together.
He moved toward them immediately.
His mother reached up to hold his face between both hands. Matvei bent toward her. She kissed his forehead, then pulled him against her with enough force that his large body folded around hers.
Katya wrapped both arms around them from the side.
Matvei laughed.
The scene spread across the ice in dozens of versions.
Wives.
Girlfriends.
Parents.
Children.
People who had waited through road trips, injuries, losing streaks and every private cost the public never saw.
Tessa remained behind the glass.
The pang arrived quickly.
She could have been down there.
Not officially. Not yet. No one would have known where to place her or how to explain why the Halifax Tribune’s beat reporter had entered the family area and walked directly toward the starting goaltender.
But she wanted it.
She wanted to cross the ice without checking who watched. She wanted Matvei’s arm around her shoulders while the Cup moved through the crowd. She wanted to meet his mother and sister as the person he loved rather than the reporter asking him questions after games.
She wanted a photograph.
One private piece of proof that she had existed beside him through the season rather than only above it.
The longing tightened beneath her ribs.
Then Linda touched her arm.
“Media’s going down.”
Tessa looked toward the stairs.
Reporters gathered recorders, notebooks and phones. Editors had begun sending messages. Deadlines waited. The city wanted words before the players had finished taking photographs.
Tessa’s hand moved toward her recorder.
The pang did not disappear entirely.
It became smaller than the work.
She looked once more toward the ice.
Matvei stood between his mother and sister, one arm around each. He turned his head slightly toward the press box.
Tessa could not know whether he saw her.
She did not need him to.
He knew she was watching.