Chapter Nine #3
Matvei remained stretched across the crease, glove held above the ice. The Ottawa forward stared toward the ceiling. Halifax’s defenseman slammed one hand against the top of Matvei’s mask.
When Matvei stood, the crowd began chanting.
“BEL-OV.”
The first chant came from behind the net.
“BEL-OV.”
Then the lower bowl joined.
“BEL-OV.”
The sound spread upward until the entire arena seemed to move with it.
Matvei skated slowly toward the corner while the official prepared for the faceoff. He told himself not to listen.
He heard every syllable.
He remembered the same crowd one year earlier, quieter but crueler. The groans when a harmless shot came toward him. The sarcastic cheers after routine saves. The boos as he left the ice after allowing five goals.
Last year, he had heard them too.
The chant continued through the stoppage.
Matvei adjusted the strap of his glove and returned to his crease.
Ottawa pulled its goaltender with two minutes remaining. Halifax survived one final scramble before Viktor cleared the puck toward the empty net.
It crossed the line with twenty-three seconds left.
The horn sounded soon afterward.
Halifax 3. Ottawa 1.
Matvei stayed in the crease for an extra second as his teammates came toward him. Joona reached him first, followed by Viktor and the defensemen. Someone struck the top of his helmet hard enough to shift the mask.
The crowd remained on its feet.
Matvei looked around the building.
For the first time in months, it felt like his rink again.
McDonough waited until the players had settled before entering the locker room.
An equipment staffer followed him carrying two pucks.
The coach held up the first.
“First NHL point for Salonen.”
The room erupted as McDonough tossed the puck toward Joona. The rookie caught it against his chest and immediately looked embarrassed by the attention.
McDonough held up the second puck.
“And first win of the season.”
He tossed it toward Matvei.
Matvei caught it one-handed.
“I have many wins,” he said.
“Then give it back.”
Matvei closed his hand around it.
McDonough smiled briefly before turning serious again. “That looked like us. Good details, good discipline when the game got ugly and our goalie made the saves we needed. Enjoy it for the next ten minutes. Then we get ready for the next one.”
He started toward the coaches’ office, then stopped beside Matvei’s stall.
“Good job, kid.”
The words were quiet enough that only Matvei and Cole heard them.
McDonough continued out of the room without waiting for a response.
Cole leaned against the neighboring stall. “Kid?”
“He is old.”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“To him, everyone is kid.”
Cole nodded toward the puck in Matvei’s hand. “You keeping that?”
“No.”
“Then give it to me.”
Matvei placed it inside his stall.
“No.”
The media entered several minutes later.
Matvei heard the crowd before he saw them. Camera operators arranged themselves near the stall while reporters filled the space behind them, extending recorders over one another.
The first questions came exactly as expected.
“How important was it to start the season this way after last year?”
“It is important to win every game.”
“Did tonight feel like proof that you’re back?”
Matvei looked toward the reporter. “Back from where?”
A few people laughed.
The reporter tried again. “Back to being the goaltender you were before last season.”
“It is one game.”
“Were you trying to send a message tonight?”
“To Ottawa?”
“To everyone.”
“I stop puck. That is message.”
More laughter.
Matvei had not intended to be funny.
The questions continued. His health. His confidence. The third-period save. The atmosphere against Ottawa.
He answered as much as necessary.
From the outside of the scrum, Tessa waited.
Matvei noticed her before she lifted the recorder.
She wore the same navy coat from morning skate, though she had removed it and folded it over one arm. Her hair remained tied back, but several strands had escaped near her face during the game.
She did not fight for space.
She listened while the others asked what the win meant and whether the crowd’s response had provided redemption. The questions became different versions of the same idea, each one asking Matvei to explain the previous season through a single October night.
Eventually, the television cameras moved away.
Tessa stepped closer.
“When the crowd started chanting your name late in the third,” she said, “did you let yourself hear it?”
The question was quieter than the others.
Matvei looked at her.
“Yes.”
Tessa waited.
Not with the expectant silence most reporters used to demand more. She simply watched him, allowing the answer to remain as small as he intended.
Matvei looked down at the tape still wrapped around his wrist.
“Last year, I heard them too.”
When he raised his eyes again, her expression had changed.
She understood.
Matvei saw the follow-up question form in her mind. What had the crowd sounded like last year? Had the boos followed him through the summer? Did hearing his name now make the previous season easier to leave behind?
She asked none of them.
“Thank you,” she said.
Then she stepped away.
Matvei watched her move toward Joona’s stall, where the rookie had begun another interview about his first NHL points. Tessa waited near the edge of that scrum too, listening before deciding what remained worth asking.
Matvei realized that her silence was not uncertainty.
It was a choice.
The building was nearly empty when Matvei left the training room more than an hour later.
The locker room had been cleaned, the music turned off and the reporters gone. Cole had left after promising to buy Joona dinner for his first points, though Matvei suspected Viktor would turn the meal into a full team gathering before they reached the restaurant.
Matvei had declined.
He wanted quiet.
His legs ached from the game and the postgame recovery work. The exhaustion felt good, deeper than practice and more satisfying. He slung the bag over one shoulder and started toward the players’ parking garage.
Halfway down the corridor, he realized he had left the game puck inside his stall.
Matvei considered leaving it there until morning.
Instead, he turned back.
The locker room remained empty. He found the puck where he had placed it, beside the folded newspaper he had never removed from the bag’s top compartment.
He slipped the puck inside with it.
On his way out again, Matvei took the longer route through the bench corridor. The main arena lights had been turned off, leaving the ice illuminated by the dim glow used by the maintenance crew. Rows of empty seats rose into darkness on either side.
He stopped near the tunnel.
Above center ice, one section of the press level remained lit. Matvei could see a single person seated at a desk.
Tessa.
She leaned toward her laptop with one hand pressed against the side of her face.She typed several lines, stopped to read them and deleted something before beginning again.
Everyone else appeared to have left.
Matvei thought of the way she had watched morning skate. The way she listened through the postgame questions and waited until she had something different to ask. The way she had understood what he meant without forcing him to say more.
She was still there because the work was not finished.
Matvei knew the feeling.
He spent hours repeating drills after coaches said they had seen enough. He watched goals until he could identify the exact moment a play had gone wrong. He had stayed in the rink long after teammates left because going home with an unfinished problem felt impossible.
From below, Tessa looked as alone as he often felt.
Matvei remained near the tunnel longer than he intended.
Then Tessa stopped typing and lifted her head toward the empty ice.
He stepped backward before she could see him.
The movement irritated him. He had no reason to hide. She was a reporter working in the press area, and he was a player leaving the arena. Nothing about the moment required an explanation.
Still, he waited until she looked down again before continuing toward the garage.
Outside, the October air had turned cold.
Matvei placed his bag in the truck and climbed behind the wheel. The game puck shifted somewhere inside as he closed the door.
His phone was filled with messages. Congratulations from teammates, former coaches and people he had not spoken to since the previous season. Videos of the glove save. Clips of the crowd chanting his name.
Matvei ignored them.
As he pulled out of the garage, he glanced once toward the arena.
One window near the top of the building remained lit.
He knew exactly who was behind it.