Chapter Thirty-Four
By eight in the morning, downtown Halifax had stopped functioning as a city and become a parade route.
Barricades divided streets that normally carried buses and delivery trucks.
Convoy flags hung from windows several stories above the sidewalks.
Fans filled the waterfront in navy and silver, some arriving with folding chairs, homemade signs and children wearing jerseys large enough to reach their knees.
The parade did not begin until eleven.
Nobody appeared willing to risk arriving second.
Tessa reached the Tribune’s designated media area shortly after nine with two recorders, three notebooks and a laptop she knew she would not open until the rally ended.
The paper had assigned photographers throughout the route and another reporter to collect fan reaction, leaving Tessa responsible for the players, speeches and larger meaning of the day.
Elaine wanted one main story immediately after the rally.
A notebook could follow.
Something on Viktor if he provided an answer about his future.
Tessa carried that final assignment differently from the others.
Viktor had told her to ask after the parade.
She had replayed the answer enough times to wonder whether he had already made a decision then.
Perhaps he wanted the celebration to end before announcing retirement.
Perhaps he intended to return and preferred telling the city himself rather than allowing the news to arrive through a press release several days later.
Either outcome would become the story.
Tessa had written two possible openings the night before and deleted both.
She had learned enough by then not to draft emotion before the event supplied it.
The parade staging area occupied a closed section near the waterfront. Open-top buses waited behind temporary fencing, each decorated with the Convoy logo, championship banners and silver lettering announcing the final score of Game 7.
Players arrived gradually.
Some wore championship shirts and hats. Others had added sunglasses despite the cloudy morning. Joona appeared in a navy suit jacket over a white T-shirt and carried the playoff MVP trophy under one arm as casually as if someone had handed him a piece of luggage.
Viktor walked beside him holding the Stanley Cup.
Two white-gloved handlers remained close enough to intervene if necessary.
Joona looked toward the Cup.
The handlers looked toward Joona.
Viktor noticed both.
“Do not touch it,” he told the rookie.
“I already touch.”
“Do not touch it again.”
Joona smiled.
Tessa stood with the other media beyond the fence, recorder ready but not yet running. The staging area felt less controlled than a game-day dressing room. Players moved between families, staff and buses. Children ran through gaps adults struggled to navigate.
Viktor’s daughter wore the championship hat again. His son held a miniature plastic Cup with both hands and lifted it toward anyone who looked in his direction.
Cole Bennett arrived carrying his daughter on one hip. Her oversized protective headphones had been replaced by a small navy cap. His partner walked beside him, holding the child’s hand whenever Cole lowered her close enough to reach.
McDonough stepped off a team bus wearing sunglasses and a championship polo. He stopped almost immediately when a group of arena employees applauded him from behind the fence.
The coach removed his glasses.
Tessa could not see his expression clearly from the distance, but he stood there longer than politeness required.
Matvei arrived last among the players.
His mother and Katya walked with him.
Tessa recognized them immediately, though she had never met either woman.
His mother was smaller than she expected, dark hair cut near her shoulders and one hand resting against Matvei’s arm as though confirming he remained there.
Katya resembled him more obviously. The same brown eyes.
The same serious expression that softened completely when Joona attempted to place the playoff MVP trophy on her head.
Matvei stopped him before the trophy made contact.
Katya laughed.
Tessa watched from beyond the barricade.
The urge to cross the distance remained.
It felt less sharp than it had on the ice after Game 7 but more persistent.
There was no game to distract her now. No ceremony she could treat as work before emotion arrived.
Matvei’s mother stood perhaps thirty yards away, unaware that the woman watching from the media area had slept beside her son, loved him and spent months carrying the secret through every question she asked.
Matvei looked toward the reporters.
His gaze moved along the line.
It stopped on Tessa.
Only briefly.
Long enough.
She smiled before she could prevent it.
His mouth shifted.
Katya followed his attention.
Tessa immediately looked down at the notebook.
Her phone vibrated.
Matvei: You look away.
She stared at the message.
Tessa: Your sister looked at me.
Matvei: She looks at everyone.
Tessa: She looked at me because you were looking at me.
A pause.
Matvei: Maybe.
Tessa glanced up carefully.
Katya was speaking with Joona again.
Matvei remained near his mother, phone in one hand.
Tessa: Do not make this weird before the parade.
Matvei: You make weird.
Tessa: Go stand with your team.
He read the message.
Then lifted his head and met her eyes again.
Matvei: Reporter.
Tessa smiled.
The communications staff called players toward the buses.
Work began.
The route moved slowly from the waterfront toward downtown.
Players occupied the upper levels of the open buses, taking turns holding the Cup and lifting it toward both sides of the street. Families sat below or stood near the stairwells. Coaches and team employees filled additional vehicles behind them.
Tessa rode in a media truck positioned several vehicles back.
The elevated platform gave her a clear view of the crowd and almost no stability for writing. She braced one notebook against the railing while the truck moved in small bursts.
The number of people became impossible to estimate after the first block.
Fans filled sidewalks, parking structures and balconies. They stood on benches, climbed light posts and leaned from windows with flags draped beneath them. Children sat on shoulders. Older fans held photographs from the Convoy’s previous championship, laminated or protected inside plastic sleeves.
The city had prepared for celebration.
It had not prepared for this many people wanting to occupy the same streets at once.
Every player received his own chant.
Viktor’s came first.
Joona’s became the loudest.
Matvei’s spread the farthest, beginning near one intersection and continuing even after his bus moved beyond it.
“Be-lov.”
Two syllables again.
Tessa had heard them used to taunt him in Atlanta and welcome him home after the Boston series. Now the chant seemed to belong to the entire city.
Matvei stood near the front of the bus holding the Cup against one shoulder. He raised it toward the crowd and turned slowly so both sides could see.
His mother watched from several steps below.
Tessa wrote that down.
A teenager near the route held a sign reading BELLY SAVED THE CITY.
Another read JOONA 2, SEATTLE 1.
A group of fans wore homemade shirts showing Matvei stretched across the crease, his blocker extended toward the final shot. The image had already become simplified into silhouette, the details of the play transformed into something recognizable from half a block away.
Tessa wondered how many times she would write about the save during the rest of his career.
The answer was probably too many.
The buses stopped near a large intersection where the crowd had spilled far enough forward that police needed several minutes to clear space.
Joona took the Cup from Matvei.
Viktor spoke near his ear before releasing it.
Joona lifted the trophy above his head.
The crowd responded.
Then he tilted it toward Carver as though considering whether pouring something into it might improve the moment.
Viktor took it away.
Tessa laughed.
The photographer beside her caught the exchange.
“That’s the page one shot if he drops it,” he said.
“If he drops the Stanley Cup, we may not have a newspaper tomorrow.”
“Fair.”
The route continued.
Tessa gathered quotes when the buses paused long enough for reporters to move near them. Most answers were shouted down from above and captured only partially through the noise.
“What has today meant to you?” someone called toward Cole.
He looked across the crowd before answering.
“I didn’t know this many people lived here.”
The response reached enough microphones to produce laughter.
Joona leaned over the railing when Tessa called his name.
“How does this compare to the celebration in Helsinki?”
“What celebration?”
“After the international tournament.”
“Smaller.”
“Which one?”
Joona looked around.
“Helsinki.”
Viktor stood behind him.
“Do not put that in Finland.”
Tessa wrote it down anyway.
Matvei did not speak during the route.
He looked more overwhelmed than he had during the Cup presentation. The game gave him structure. Even the ceremony after Game 7 involved instructions and order. Skate here. Accept the Cup. Hold it. Pass it.
The parade asked him only to receive affection.
He did not seem to know where to place all of it.
When the bus passed a group of children wearing goaltending masks, Matvei removed his championship cap and threw it toward them. Three small bodies collided trying to catch it.
His mother struck his arm.
Matvei laughed.
The truck turned toward Atlantic Centre.
The building waited at the end of the route with every exterior screen showing the Cup, the final save and the words WELCOME HOME, CHAMPIONS.
The rally would begin inside.
Fans without tickets remained outside to watch on screens. Those who had received passes through season-ticket lotteries, community programs and team promotions had already filled the lower bowl.
The parade buses entered the underground loading area one by one.
Tessa gathered her equipment.
Her phone showed two messages from Elaine.