Chapter Thirty-Three
The Halifax Tribune posted the women’s hockey job internally at nine-sixteen on Monday morning.
Tessa saw the email while sitting in Frank Donnelly’s old seat at the Atlantic Centre press box, surrounded by the remains of a season that had ended less than forty-eight hours earlier.
The city had not returned to normal.
It did not appear interested in trying.
Convoy flags hung from office buildings.
People wore jerseys to work. Television stations replayed Matvei’s final save so often that Tessa could describe the movement frame by frame without watching.
The city announced the parade route Sunday afternoon, beginning near the waterfront and ending with a rally inside Atlantic Centre on Wednesday.
Hotels filled again. Schools sent notices acknowledging that absences might be higher than usual.
Tessa had slept for eleven hours after leaving the building Saturday morning, woken long enough to eat and answer several messages, then slept for another five.
She still felt tired.
The Tribune expected a parade preview, an offseason priorities story and a notebook collecting everything that had been lost beneath the larger Game 7 coverage. Elaine also wanted Tessa to begin planning a long feature about the season, though she admitted it could wait until after the parade.
Tessa opened her email intending to find the media schedule for the day.
The subject line stopped her.
INTERNAL OPPORTUNITY: Halifax Tides beat reporter
She clicked.
The posting began with language similar to the one that had brought her to the Convoy beat the previous summer.
The Tribune sought a full-time reporter to lead its coverage of the Halifax Tides during the professional women’s hockey franchise’s inaugural season.
The position would include daily beat coverage, practices, games, travel, breaking news, analysis, enterprise reporting and features.
The reporter would be expected to develop sources throughout the organization and league while documenting the creation of a new professional sports franchise in Atlantic Canada.
Tessa read that paragraph twice.
Then she reached the salary.
The range began only slightly below her current salary and extended beyond it. Benefits were the same. The position reported to Elaine. Travel would be funded through the sports department rather than treated as occasional special-event coverage.
There was no mention of splitting the beat with another assignment.
No requirement to handle high school sports on off days or cover the Tides only when they did something important enough to justify the space. The job was not described as an entry-level opportunity for someone who could eventually move into a more prestigious role.
Dedicated beat reporter.
Full time.
Permanent.
The Tribune was treating the Tides as a team that required the same daily attention as any other professional franchise.
Tessa felt something warm and unfamiliar move through her.
Encouragement, perhaps.
Relief.
She had expected the paper to cover the team. Claire Dunning’s introduction, the Tides name and the first hires had each drawn enough readership to justify continued attention. Tessa had written most of those stories because she cared and because nobody else had claimed them.
A dedicated beat remained a larger commitment.
The internal application window would remain open until Friday afternoon. If no Tribune employee received the position, the paper would post it publicly the following Monday.
Tessa scrolled to the top and read everything again.
“Find something?”
Rick’s voice made her close the email too quickly.
He stood several seats away holding two coffees and a paper bag. He had arrived to record a radio segment from the empty arena before attending the Convoy’s final media availability of the season.
“Just an internal email.”
“That sounded secretive.”
“It wasn’t.”
Rick placed one coffee beside her laptop.
“You look like you need this.”
“I do.”
He sat near the aisle and opened the paper bag.
“You working on the parade?”
“Yes.”
“Think anyone shows up?”
“Probably just a few close relatives.”
“Good. Less traffic.”
Tessa smiled and reopened the email after he turned toward his breakfast.
The listing remained there.
She minimized it but did not close the tab.
The Convoy’s championship story sat beside it on the Tribune website. Matvei stretched across the crease in the photograph, blocker extended toward a shot that should have forced overtime. The article remained the most-read story on the site.
Her Joona sidebar followed it.
Tessa looked between the two screens.
The NHL was supposed to be the peak.
That was the phrase people used throughout her career. The NHL beat. The highest level. The job reporters worked toward after junior, university or minor-league assignments. Covering an NHL team full time meant she had reached something most hockey writers never did.
Tessa had believed that when Elaine offered her the Convoy position.
She still believed it.
The access, competition and attention surrounding the league were unlike anything else in hockey. The Stanley Cup Final had demanded everything she possessed as a reporter. She had written the largest story of her career from the same seat Frank occupied for thirty-nine years.
Moving away after one season felt almost absurd.
It also felt more possible than she wanted to admit.
The Tides would begin with nothing.
No record.
No playoff history.
No franchise legends or inherited expectations. The first captain, first goal, first winning streak and first bad trade had yet to exist. Every story would establish part of the record other reporters referenced later.
Tessa had felt that possibility during Claire’s introductory press conference. She felt it when the team unveiled the name and colors. The blank spaces energized her in a way she had not expected.
The question was whether that energy could equal the NHL.
Whether the women’s game could be its own peak rather than a level beneath something else.
Tessa looked toward the ice.
Two days earlier, this building held the Stanley Cup.
The Tides would play their first home game here in several months.
The same press box.
A different history.
Her phone vibrated.
Matvei.
Matvei: Where?
Tessa smiled.
The question no longer required caution about whether they had permission to acknowledge each other privately. The season had ended. The beat still existed, but the immediate intensity had loosened enough for both of them to breathe.
Tessa: Atlantic Centre.
Matvei: Why?
Tessa: Work.
Matvei: Season over.
Tessa: Newspapers continue after championships.
Matvei: Bad system.
Another message appeared.
Matvei: Come after.
Tessa looked at the internal posting again.
Tessa: I have the parade preview and final availability. Probably late afternoon.
Matvei: I wait.
The words carried a different meaning now.
He did not wait because they had stolen two hours between road trips or because one of them might be interrupted by a deadline. He could wait without counting the minutes.
Tessa closed the phone.
She returned to the parade story.
The Tides listing remained open behind it.
The Convoy’s final media availability lasted almost two hours.
Players emerged individually or in small groups carrying bags of equipment and personal belongings from their stalls. The room looked increasingly temporary. Nameplates disappeared. Skates moved into storage bins. Staff collected anything left behind after the celebration.
The season ended publicly in stages.
McCrae spoke about wanting to return despite reaching unrestricted free agency.
Carver admitted he had no idea whether his role would remain in Halifax once Viktor returned for a full season.
Cole answered questions about proving he could play more games and whether the Convoy could afford to keep both goaltenders beyond the following year.
Joona arrived wearing the playoff MVP cap backward and carried nothing except his phone.
“Did you pack?” Tessa asked when her turn came.
“No.”
“You are leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“Viktor helps.”
From across the room, Viktor said, “I absolutely do not.”
Joona smiled.
Tessa asked him about the parade. He had watched videos of previous Halifax celebrations but did not understand how many people the city expected.
“Everybody comes?” he asked.
“That appears to be the plan.”
“Why?”
“You won the Stanley Cup.”
Joona looked toward the Cup logo still painted on the floor.
“Good reason.”
Tessa wrote that down despite having no immediate place to use it.
Matvei appeared last.
His stall had been emptied except for a roll of tape, one skate guard and the championship hat resting on the top shelf. He wore black shorts and a gray Convoy shirt. The fatigue around his eyes remained, though he looked more rested than he had Saturday morning.
He stood in front of the stall while reporters formed around him.
Questions returned to the final save.
Tessa expected they would follow him for the rest of his career.
“What have you learned since watching the replay?”
“That I look bad before.”
The room laughed.
“You were out of position?”
“The puck changes. I drop for first shot. Then I have to go.”
“Did you know you could reach it when you left your feet?”
“No.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Stop.”
Simple.
Complete.
The questions moved toward the future.
His contract.
The extension he would become eligible to sign during the summer.
Whether winning the Cup changed the likelihood that Halifax committed to him long term.
Matvei’s expression became more guarded.
“I do not know.”
“Do you want to sign an extension this summer?”
“Yes.”
“How important is staying in Halifax?”
“Very.”
“Would you be willing to take less money to keep the team together?”
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
Matvei looked toward the reporter.
“I do not negotiate now.”
The answer ended that line of questioning.
Tessa remained near the back.