Chapter Thirty-Four #2
Elaine: Rally speeches will be live. Need clean quotes immediately.
Then:
Elaine: Especially Viktor.
Tessa placed the phone in her pocket.
She knew.
Atlantic Centre looked unfamiliar from ice level without boards separating the floor from the seats.
A stage had been constructed over the center-ice logo. The Stanley Cup rested on a table near the front. The playoff MVP trophy stood beside it, shorter and less imposing but polished beneath the lights.
Players and families occupied chairs on both sides of the stage.
Viktor sat in the front row with his wife and children. His daughter kept removing his championship cap and placing it on her own head. His son remained focused on the miniature Cup, lifting it whenever cameras moved close.
Matvei sat between his mother and Katya.
Tessa remained in the media area near the stage with the other reporters.
The distance between them was smaller now.
It felt larger.
Fans filled every visible seat. The upper sections disappeared into darkness beyond the lights, but the noise came from all directions. The crowd had already spent hours along the route and appeared capable of continuing until the following morning.
The rally opened with videos.
The regular season.
The playoff clincher.
Viktor’s overtime goal against Boston.
The sweep in Ottawa.
Joona’s Game 5 winner.
The final seconds of Game 7.
The save played last.
Every replay slowed the moment further.
McCrae blocking the original shot.
The puck moving across the slot.
The open net.
Matvei diving.
The crowd reacted before the blocker reached the puck.
Tessa watched Matvei instead of the screen.
He lowered his head.
Katya leaned near him and said something.
Matvei shook his head, smiling.
The master of ceremonies introduced team staff, then the players individually.
Each name drew another ovation.
McCrae received a roar larger than his seven regular-season goals might have suggested. Carver’s lasted long enough for him to look down in embarrassment. Cole stood and lifted his daughter above his head, producing a response that made the child immediately cover both ears.
Joona stepped toward the stage carrying the playoff MVP trophy.
He held it out toward the crowd.
Viktor shouted for him to use both hands.
The final introduction belonged to Matvei.
He stood slowly.
The sound built before his name finished.
Matvei looked toward every side of the building, visibly uncertain whether he should wave, lift both hands or simply stand.
He chose to raise one arm.
The crowd chanted.
Tessa held the recorder higher.
The speeches began with Cole.
He approached the microphone carrying several folded pages and looked uncomfortable before saying anything.
“That’s more preparation than he did for any postgame interview,” Joona said from behind him.
Cole turned.
“You want to do this?”
“No.”
The crowd laughed.
Cole unfolded the pages.
“I wrote some things down because Belly told me speeches are easy, and Belly answers every question with three words.”
Matvei lifted both hands as though the criticism made no sense.
More laughter.
Cole looked toward the crowd.
“I came here wanting to prove I could play in this league. I think every backup goalie tells himself he is one opportunity away from being the guy, and I was no different.”
His voice steadied.
“But this year taught me that being part of something does not always look the way you picture it. There were nights I played. There were nights I didn’t. There were nights Belly carried us and nights he needed me.”
Cole looked toward Matvei.
“People tried to turn us into a competition all year. We were. We both wanted the net. But he was also the first person waiting for me after every win and the first person taking responsibility when things went wrong.”
Matvei lowered his gaze.
Cole continued.
“This Cup belongs to every player who dressed and everyone who didn’t. Every trainer, coach, equipment manager and person who kept this team moving when nobody outside the room saw it.”
He lifted one hand toward the crowd.
“And it belongs to Halifax. Thank you for making every one of us feel like we were part of this city.”
Cole stepped away from the microphone.
Matvei stood to embrace him.
The crowd rose with them.
Tessa wrote quickly.
The speech would fit inside the broader story, perhaps not the lead but near the center. Cole had summarized the goaltending debate more honestly than any analysis she had written in March.
Joona spoke next.
He brought no paper.
That concerned everyone.
Viktor caught his sleeve as he passed and appeared to give him one final warning.
Joona nodded solemnly.
Then reached the microphone.
“Hello.”
The crowd answered.
Joona looked surprised.
He leaned closer.
“Hello.”
The answer became louder.
Viktor covered his face with one hand.
Joona smiled.
“When I come to Halifax, I think maybe I play junior.”
The crowd quieted enough to listen.
“Then I think maybe AHL. Then I make team, and Viktor says do not be annoying.”
Viktor shouted, “You failed.”
The building laughed.
Joona looked toward him.
“Yes.”
He turned back.
“This year, everything happens very fast. First game. First goal. Playoffs. I do not understand sometimes.”
He looked toward the playoff MVP trophy.
“This, I still do not understand.”
The humor softened.
Joona’s eyes moved toward his parents seated near the stage, then to his teammates.
“I score goals because Carver gives puck. Viktor tells me when I do stupid things. Many times. Belly stops everything.”
“Not everything,” Matvei called.
The audience laughed.
Joona pointed toward him.
“Almost.”
His expression became more serious.
“I come here alone. Now not alone.”
Tessa stopped writing for half a second.
Joona looked toward the crowd.
“Halifax is home too.”
The sentence produced the largest reaction of his speech.
His mother cried near the side of the stage. Viktor stood first when Joona finished, wrapping one arm around the rookie before he reached his chair.
Tessa underlined the quote.
Not alone.
The simplest answers always carried more than Joona seemed to realize.
McDonough approached the microphone after him.
The coach carried no notes.
He removed his championship cap, rubbed one hand across his hair and replaced it.
The crowd began chanting his name.
McDonough stood still until the sound faded enough for him to speak.
“I had a whole speech,” he said. “Then the kid took all the good parts.”
Joona nodded proudly.
The crowd laughed.
McDonough gripped both sides of the podium.
“I’ve coached a lot of teams. Good teams. Bad teams. Teams that thought they were better than they were and teams that never understood how good they could be.”
His Boston accent thickened with each sentence.
“This group got punched in the mouth a lot this year.”
He looked toward Viktor.
“We lost our captain.”
Toward Matvei.
“Our goalie went through a stretch where everybody outside the room had an opinion about whether he should still be our goalie.”
Toward Carver and Joona.
“We put kids in roles they weren’t supposed to be ready for.”
McDonough looked back at the crowd.
“And every time something went wrong, this team got tighter.”
The arena quieted.
“There’s a lot of talk in hockey about character. Most of it is crap. People use the word when they don’t know how else to explain why somebody wins.”
A few players laughed.
McDonough smiled slightly.
“Character isn’t giving a speech. It isn’t hitting somebody or playing through something you shouldn’t. It’s doing your job when you aren’t getting what you want.”
Cole lowered his head.
“It’s supporting the guy playing in front of you. It’s coming to the rink every day when your knee won’t let you do what it used to. It’s being twenty-one years old and not acting like the moment is too big, even when it should be.”
Joona looked toward Viktor.
McDonough’s voice roughened.
“And it’s a city believing in a team long enough for the team to believe it too.”
The crowd rose.
McDonough stepped back from the microphone but did not leave immediately. He looked across the building, eyes moving slowly through the lower bowl.
“Thank you,” he said.
No joke.
No prepared ending.
Only that.
Tessa felt the words more than she expected.
She had spent the season intimidated by McDonough’s short answers, his impatience and the Boston accent that seemed to sharpen every disagreement.
She had also watched him protect players publicly, wait for Matvei through the injury and trust Viktor with overtime shifts his body had no logical reason to survive.
Softness existed inside him.
He only preferred no one mention it.
Matvei’s name came next.
The crowd started before he reached the microphone.
He wore a dark suit without a tie, the same kind of outfit he chose for the birthday dinner, though this one carried a championship pin near the lapel. His mother watched from her chair. Katya lifted her phone to record.
Matvei stood behind the podium.
The chant continued.
“Be-lov.”
He waited.
The crowd did not stop.
Matvei looked toward Viktor for help.
Viktor lifted both hands and encouraged the sound instead.
Matvei shook his head.
Finally, he leaned toward the microphone.
“Hello.”
The crowd erupted again.
Joona clapped hard enough to make the playoff MVP trophy shift on the table beside him.
Matvei looked down.
Tessa knew public speaking frightened him more than breakaways.
She raised the recorder.
“When I come Halifax, I am nineteen,” Matvei said.
The building quieted.
“I know little English. I know nobody.”
He looked toward his mother and sister.
“My mother is far. My sister is young. I think maybe I play here one year. Maybe two.”
His hands rested flat against the podium.
“Then I stay.”
The sentence echoed through the arena.
“Halifax sees me grow. Sometimes good.”
His mouth shifted.
“Sometimes bad.”
A few fans shouted disagreement.
Matvei waited.
“Last year is very hard. This year, you still chant my name.”
The crowd began again.
He lowered his head briefly.
Tessa saw his shoulders rise with one breath.
“When I make last save, I do not think about Cup. I think only puck.”