Chapter Twelve #2
When the English-language reporters stepped forward, his posture changed only slightly.
His eyes found Tessa immediately.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
“You sleep?”
“Eventually.”
She turned on her recorder. “How did it feel walking into this building as a Finland player?”
Joona glanced toward the rink visible through the concourse opening.
“Different.”
“In what way?”
“I come here many times. Watch national team, watch club games. When I am kid, players walk this way and I wait behind glass.” He touched the crest on his jacket. “Now I have Finland bag. My name in room.”
He looked down at it for a moment.
“It feel like dream, but I am awake.”
The sentence was simple and perfect.
Tessa resisted the urge to look at the other reporters to see whether they understood how useful it was.
“Were your parents here when you arrived?”
“Yes. Whole family wants airport. I say no, because too many people.”
“How many people do you have coming tomorrow?”
Joona began counting silently.
“Twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three?”
“Maybe more. Friends find tickets.”
“Does that create pressure?”
“Yes.”
The honesty drew several glances.
Joona shrugged.
“Good pressure. I want play good for Finland. I want play good for them. But Russia game is big without family.”
“Have you talked to Matvei about facing him?”
“Many times.”
“What does he say?”
“Russia wins.”
“And what do you say?”
“He is old and slow.”
Laughter moved through the group.
Joona leaned closer to the recorders.
“Do not tell him.”
“Too late,” one of the Finnish reporters said.
Joona grinned.
Canada had no Convoy players on its roster.
Elaine wanted coverage anyway.
The availability drew the largest crowd of the day, with national broadcasters positioned in the first rows and reporters from across the country gathered around players expected to carry the tournament’s biggest television audience.
Tessa spoke with two forwards about the challenge of creating chemistry in one practice and a defenseman Halifax would face after the break. The questions came more naturally than they would have three months earlier.
These were still famous players. Their names appeared in commercials and on jerseys across the country. But the distance between watching someone play and asking him a question had narrowed considerably since Tessa’s first day at Atlantic Centre.
Some players were thoughtful.
Some were polished.
Some could speak for three minutes without producing a sentence that meant anything.
That part felt reassuringly familiar.
Tessa collected enough for a Canadian notebook and sent several quotes to Elaine from her phone.
Need Russia color too, Elaine replied.
Tessa checked the time.
Russia’s availability had started five minutes earlier.
She gathered her things and crossed the arena quickly enough that her credential bounced against the front of her coat with every step.
Matvei sat at the far end of Russia’s media room with three microphones positioned in front of him.
He wore a red team jacket zipped to the base of his throat.
The national crest changed something about the way he carried himself.
Not pride exactly, though that was part of it.
Formality. Awareness. As though wearing Russia’s colors required a version of him that existed separately from the one Tessa knew in Halifax.
He was answering a question in Russian.
Tessa stopped near the back of the group.
His voice moved faster than she had ever heard it. His hands moved with it, one palm resting against the table before lifting to emphasize a point. A reporter interrupted him. Matvei interrupted back. Several people laughed.
Then he did too.
Openly.
The sound carried across the room.
Tessa thought of Viktor describing him as impossible to shut up when he liked someone. She had always understood there was another version of Matvei hidden behind the careful English and hostility toward recorders.
Now she could see it.
He did not have to pause before answering. He did not examine every phrase for danger. Humor reached his mouth before caution could interfere.
The Russian questions ended gradually. Several reporters moved toward other players, creating space for the smaller group of English-language media.
Matvei saw Tessa before she reached the table.
His eyes moved first to the credential, then to her face.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
“You look tired.”
It was not the greeting she had imagined.
“I’m delighted to see you too.”
Something flickered in his expression.
“You fly yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Sleep?”
“On the plane.”
“Good?”
“Surprisingly.”
He nodded as though her ability to sleep had been a relevant concern.
Tessa turned on her recorder.
“What has the first day with this group been like?”
“Fast. We meet, practice, play tomorrow. No time.”
“Does playing with so many people you normally face change the way you see them?”
“No. They are still annoying.”
A Russian reporter nearby laughed.
Tessa asked about Russia’s defensive structure and the difficulty of building communication quickly. Matvei explained that most of the concepts were familiar, but the details around screens, puck retrievals and defensive switches differed from Halifax.
“Are you starting tomorrow?”
Matvei looked toward Russia’s communications representative.
“They announce soon.”
“So you know.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Yes.”
Tessa wrote it down.
“Are you looking forward to facing Joona?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you that you’re old and slow?”
Matvei’s expression changed immediately.
Laughter moved through the surrounding reporters.
“He says this?”
“He told us not to tell you.”
“He is stupid.”
“Is he wrong?”
Matvei leaned closer to the microphones.
“Ask after game.”
The answer carried enough challenge that Tessa felt it somewhere beneath her ribs.
She lowered her gaze to the notebook before he could notice.
“Did anyone from home come to Helsinki?”
“No.”
“Your old goalie coach?”
“Tomorrow.”
“For the rest of the tournament?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean to have him here?”
Matvei’s eyes moved toward the recorder.
Tessa almost withdrew the question.
Then he answered.
“He sees every game anyway. Now he complains in person.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Yes,” he added. “It means something.”
Tessa nodded. “Thank you.”
She switched off the recorder.
Matvei looked at the dark screen.
“You stop?”
“I have enough.”
“You do not ask if Russia wins?”
“I assumed you’d say yes.”
“We win.”
“See?”
He smiled fully.
The change came so quickly that Tessa forgot to look away.
Nina had been right in the most inconvenient possible way. Matvei was more attractive when he smiled, not because it softened him but because the expression revealed how much energy he usually spent withholding.
His smile faded more slowly than usual.
For one stretched second, the voices around them seemed farther away.
Then Russia’s communications representative announced the end of availability.
Chairs moved. Reporters gathered cameras and recorders.
Tessa stepped back.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Matvei stood.
“Yes.”
The red jacket made his shoulders look even broader than they did in Halifax.
Tessa turned before the observation reached her face.
Christmas Eve began in darkness.
Tessa woke shortly after seven and opened the curtains to find the street below lit by storefronts and holiday decorations rather than daylight. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the sidewalks and the roofs of parked cars.
Across the street, Russia’s hotel remained mostly dark.
One window near the corner glowed behind partially closed curtains.
Tessa watched for half a second before feeling ridiculous and moving away.
She spent the morning writing from the hotel desk. Finland’s hometown pressure. Russia’s experience. Joona’s family attendance. Matvei’s confirmation that his old coach would join him later in the tournament.
At noon, she dressed for the arena.
Thermal shirt beneath the sweater.
Wool socks.
Scarf.
Gloves.
The navy coat.
It was enough.
The cold reached her as soon as she stepped outside, but the arena was less than ten minutes away by tram. She arrived warm enough to feel vindicated and sent Nina no update because doing so would imply the coat remained a matter under discussion.
The opening ceremony began at two-thirty.
By then, winter daylight had already started fading beyond the arena windows. Blue and white lights moved over the ice while the video board showed Finland’s hockey history, from grainy images of early national teams to recent championship celebrations.
The home crowd reacted to every familiar face.
Finnish flags covered entire sections. Smaller groups of Russian supporters gathered behind one net, their chants rising during pauses in the ceremony.
When Finland entered, the sound became physical.
Tessa watched Joona skate beneath the lights. He looked toward the section where his family sat and lifted one hand before joining the team along the blue line.
Russia came out second.
Matvei led them.
He circled the crease, pushed his mask onto his head and looked around the arena. The Finnish crowd booed with enthusiasm rather than hatred. Russian fans answered with chants of their own.
Matvei smiled.
Of course he did.
The cold. The noise. The hostility. He seemed most comfortable when the world gave him something to resist.
Tessa opened the shell of her game story.
Finland started quickly.
Joona nearly scored on his first shift, carrying the puck through the left circle and sending a shot toward Matvei’s glove. Matvei caught it cleanly and held it until the whistle.
Joona continued toward the crease and said something.
Matvei answered.
Joona laughed as the official moved him away.
The game settled into the pace the NHL had promised when it created the tournament. Every line contained players capable of changing the result immediately, and the lack of familiarity created small breakdowns that became dangerous chances before either team could recover.
Russia scored first on a two-on-one.
Finland tied it late in the opening period, sending the home crowd into another wave of sound.