Chapter Thirty-Seven
Elaine called Tessa back into her office on Friday at four-thirty.
Thirty minutes before the internal application window closed.
Tessa had spent most of the day pretending the timing meant nothing.
The Tribune had not removed her from work during its review.
Elaine continued assigning stories, though none required direct contact with Matvei.
Tessa wrote about the Convoy’s unrestricted free agents, the projected salary cap and Viktor’s decision to return for one final season.
Another reporter handled a short item about Matvei becoming eligible for a contract extension.
The written timeline remained inside a folder Elaine carried between meetings.
Human resources requested a second document affirming that Tessa had preserved all messages and had not shared unpublished information with Matvei.
Senior editorial leadership reviewed every story in which he had been a central subject after Helsinki.
Tessa knew because Elaine told her only what she needed to answer questions.
No decision.
No reassurances.
No indication whether the Tides application remained under serious consideration or existed inside the same review as the conflict she had disclosed.
Matvei tried not to ask.
He failed every night.
Matvei: News?
Tessa: No.
Matvei: Elaine talks?
Tessa: Not to me.
Matvei: Bad.
Tessa: It is a process.
Matvei: Bad process.
She never corrected him.
Thursday night, he came to her apartment with groceries and made dinner while Tessa worked at the table.
Their relationship had not become public merely because Elaine knew.
The Tribune had asked her not to discuss the situation while the review remained active, and Tessa interpreted that broadly enough to include not arriving at restaurants on Matvei’s arm before anyone decided whether she still had a job.
The secrecy felt different now.
Temporary.
Administrative rather than emotional.
Still exhausting.
Matvei accepted it with less patience than she did.
He had spent the season allowing Tessa to set the rules because her career faced the greater risk. Now that she had disclosed everything, he viewed every additional day as a delay without purpose.
“When they decide?” he asked while stirring something on her stove Thursday night.
“I don’t know.”
Tessa looked over the laptop.
Matvei stood in her kitchen wearing black athletic shorts and a gray T-shirt, broad shoulders making the narrow space look even smaller. He had spent the afternoon at Atlantic Centre completing end-of-season medical testing and collecting the final items from his stall.
The championship had not released him from obligations as quickly as he expected.
Nothing did.
“You need ask,” he said.
“I am not demanding a resolution from the people deciding whether I exercised bad enough judgment to be fired.”
“You did work good.”
“I also hid a conflict.”
“You tell now.”
“Months late.”
Matvei frowned toward the pan.
He still disliked any framing that placed blame entirely on her. Tessa had stopped allowing him to argue otherwise. He had been part of the relationship, but the professional responsibility belonged to her.
“The answer will come when it comes,” she said.
“Bad answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
Matvei turned off the burner with more force than necessary.
Tessa closed the laptop.
“Are you angry with me?”
“No.”
“Elaine?”
“Yes.”
“She has every right to be angry.”
“Still.”
“You do not need to defend me from consequences I earned.”
Matvei looked toward her.
“I defend always.”
The words warmed her despite the frustration.
Tessa stood and crossed the small kitchen.
“You can defend me after we know what we are dealing with.”
“I do now.”
“I know.”
She wrapped both arms around his waist.
Matvei remained still for several seconds, then placed one hand against the back of her head.
“I do not like they decide,” he said.
“Neither do I.”
“Your job.”
“Yes.”
“Our life.”
The second part sounded larger.
Tessa lifted her face toward him.
“Not all of it.”
“Big.”
“Yes.”
She understood what he meant.
The Tribune’s decision would shape more than her next assignment. It would determine whether they could attend the team’s end-of-year cookout together on Saturday, something Viktor had invited Matvei to before the parade.
The original invitation had been directed toward players, staff and their families.
Matvei showed it to Tessa that night.
Bring partners and kids. Noon.
He pointed toward the word partners.
“You.”
The idea frightened her enough that she dismissed it immediately.
She had never attended a team event without a recorder. Never entered a player’s home as the partner of someone she covered. Even if the Tribune moved her to the Tides, everyone at the cookout would know she spent the previous season inside their dressing room asking questions.
They might understand.
They might not.
Matvei had looked at her and asked, “You come?”
Tessa said she would decide after the paper did.
Now Saturday waited less than two days away.
The meeting invitation arrived Friday afternoon while Tessa revised a salary-cap chart.
Elaine Mercer: 4:30 p.m.
No subject.
No description.
Tessa opened it three times as though details might appear through repetition.
At four-eighteen, she walked toward the office.
Elaine had lowered the blinds.
That was not reassuring.
Tessa entered and closed the door behind her.
Elaine sat at the desk with the same folder containing Tessa’s timeline. A second folder lay beneath it. A woman from human resources occupied the chair near the window, tablet resting against one knee.
Tessa recognized her from orientation.
They had not spoken since.
“Sit,” Elaine said.
Tessa lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk.
Her pulse felt visible.
Elaine folded both hands above the folder.
“We completed the initial review.”
The word initial created immediate dread.
Tessa waited.
“We found no evidence that you altered a quote, shared unpublished material, suppressed factual reporting or allowed Belov to review coverage before publication.”
The first breath entered slowly.
Elaine continued before Tessa could interpret that as relief.
“We did find that the undisclosed relationship affected your handling of the March goaltending assignment.”
“Yes.”
“The published story itself was accurate and supportable from public information. We are not issuing a correction.”
Tessa’s shoulders lowered slightly.
“We are also not adding a retroactive editor’s note,” Elaine said. “The relationship was not public, and the story did not contain reporting obtained through it. Drawing attention to the conflict now would risk creating questions about a piece we found no factual reason to correct.”
Tessa nodded.
“That does not mean the situation was acceptable.”
“I understand.”
“You failed to disclose a personal relationship with a central subject on your beat. When the conflict became material to an assignment, you used carefully constructed answers to keep your editor from understanding why.”
Tessa looked down briefly.
“Yes.”
Elaine’s voice remained measured.
“You will receive a written reprimand. It will remain in your personnel file.”
The human-resources representative placed a document on the desk and moved it toward Tessa.
The heading contained her name.
Tessa did not read beyond the first paragraph yet.
“You are also immediately removed from any editorial responsibility involving Matvei Belov,” Elaine continued. “That includes reporting, assigning, editing or participating in coverage decisions where he is a central subject.”
The condition sounded obvious.
Permanent.
Tessa nodded again.
“If you remain in sports, you are required to disclose any future conflict before it affects coverage. Not after. Not when you believe the timing is less damaging.”
“I will.”
Elaine looked toward the human-resources representative, who took over.
“The paper’s expectation is that your personal relationship will not provide access to confidential team or league information. You are not permitted to use information learned through the relationship in reporting without first disclosing the circumstances to your editor and receiving guidance.”
“I understand.”
“If you become aware of material information through Mr. Belov that overlaps with coverage, you must notify your supervising editor even if the information cannot be published.”
The hip.
The sentence closed the remaining gap.
Tessa nodded.
“I will.”
The representative touched the tablet screen.
“Failure to comply with these requirements may result in further discipline, up to and including termination.”
“I understand.”
Elaine waited until the formal language ended.
Then opened the second folder.
Tessa’s application sat on top.
The first page contained her cover letter.
Her pulse changed again.
“We reviewed the Tides applicants separately,” Elaine said. “We received three internal applications. All qualified in different ways.”
Tessa held both hands tightly together in her lap.
“You had the strongest professional hockey experience. You also had the most direct reporting experience with the Tides organization and its early development.”
Elaine glanced toward the cover letter.
“Your proposal for covering the first season was the most complete.”
The room narrowed.
“We spoke with Claire Dunning as part of general planning for the beat,” Elaine continued. “Not about specific candidates. She mentioned your previous coverage without being asked and said your questions reflected an understanding of what the organization is trying to build.”
Tessa had not expected that.
She looked toward the application.
Elaine closed the folder.
“We are offering you the Halifax Tides beat.”
The words arrived more quietly than Tessa imagined they would.
For one second, she did not move.
The job.
The first roster.
The first training camp.
The first game.
All of it became real inside Elaine’s office while a written reprimand sat beneath Tessa’s hand.
“You’re serious,” she said.
Elaine’s eyebrows rose.
“I do not usually schedule human resources for jokes.”