Chapter Thirty-Six #2
“Not enough.”
Tessa accepted that.
“The trade-deadline coverage?”
“I reported it the same way I would have otherwise. I did not know anything privately about management’s plans. Matvei did not know either.”
“His contract?”
“We have not discussed negotiations beyond what he has said publicly. He wants to stay in Halifax. I know that personally and publicly.”
“The hip was the only information you withheld?”
“The only information relevant to coverage.”
Elaine’s expression hardened.
“That answer is doing a lot of work.”
Tessa exhaled.
“I knew he was receiving treatment and completing rehabilitation. I knew the team expected him to be close to healthy for the playoffs. I did not know anything else about roster decisions, trades, contracts or team business that was not available through reporting.”
Elaine looked down at the parade story.
“Did the relationship affect what you wrote?”
Tessa had spent months insisting to herself that it had not.
The honest answer required more care.
“It affected how I thought about some assignments.”
“That means yes.”
“It did not change facts. I wrote his bad games. I questioned his performance and whether he had earned the crease. I did not protect him from criticism.”
“You changed the goalie assignment.”
“Because I believed the original conclusion would be misleading without context I could not publish.”
“You had that belief because of the relationship.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
No technical distinction could remove it.
Elaine picked up a pen but did not write.
“Did you ever recuse yourself from a story?”
“No.”
“Did you ever suggest someone else should handle an interview with him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because doing that without explaining why would have created more questions.”
“You chose secrecy over managing the conflict.”
“Yes.”
“And now you want the Tides beat.”
“Yes.”
Elaine’s eyes narrowed.
“Because it gets you away from him professionally.”
“Not only because of that.”
“But partly.”
“Yes.”
Tessa refused to soften the answer.
Elaine deserved the truth now, even if it arrived months late.
“The Tides beat would remove the direct conflict,” Tessa said. “That matters. It would allow us to have a relationship without placing the paper in this position.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
“But you expect me to believe you are applying for the work.”
“I am.”
“Convince me.”
The demand came quickly.
Tessa sat straighter.
“The Tides job is not a consolation prize. I am not applying because I failed on the Convoy beat or because women’s hockey is an easier place to put a reporter with a conflict.”
Elaine said nothing.
Tessa continued.
“I grew up watching women’s hockey with my mother. I covered the university team when I was a student, and I loved it. I forgot how much until the expansion announcement.”
“You wrote several good stories.”
“I wanted to write them. Nobody had to assign me the Claire Dunning profile at that length. I kept finding more questions because the franchise was being built in front of us.”
Elaine turned the pen between her fingers.
“The NHL was always the goal,” Tessa said. “I treated it as the highest point because that is how hockey journalism works. Junior, minor league, NHL. You move up.”
“And now?”
“I still think covering the NHL is one of the biggest jobs in sports journalism. I just don’t think it is the only version of the peak.”
The phrase sounded less certain aloud than it had inside her head.
Tessa kept going.
“The Tides will be a major professional team. The salary range, travel budget and dedicated position tell me the Tribune is serious about treating them that way. I want to cover the first roster, first camp and first game. I want to build sources before anyone knows which players will define the franchise.”
Elaine’s expression softened only enough to become unreadable.
“Frank talked to you.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That the best part of covering the Convoy was the beginning. Every story was the first time something happened.”
“Frank has become sentimental in retirement.”
“He denied missing the press box while sitting in his old chair.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He did not tell me to apply.”
“Good.”
“He made me understand the job differently.”
Elaine placed the pen down.
“And if Belov did not exist?”
Tessa had asked herself the same question.
She knew the answer now.
“I would still be interested.”
“Would you leave the Convoy beat?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not convincing.”
“It is honest.”
Elaine waited.
“If Matvei did not exist, the choice would still be difficult,” Tessa said. “The Convoy just won the Cup. Viktor is returning for one last season. Joona has to follow the postseason. There is the title defense, free agency and Matvei’s extension.”
She paused at his name.
“But the Tides work would still matter to me. I would still want it.”
“If the relationship ended tomorrow?”
“I would still apply.”
That answer came easily.
Elaine studied her face.
Tessa did not look away.
“The relationship makes the move more practical,” she said. “It does not create the professional interest.”
Elaine tapped one finger against the desk.
“You understand what this looks like.”
“Yes.”
“You begin dating a player in secret, fail to disclose it, encounter an assignment you cannot handle cleanly and then apply to another beat once the season ends.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds less like a career choice and more like an escape route.”
“I know.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
Elaine’s eyes remained on her.
Tessa felt the need to fill the silence and stopped herself.
She had already explained.
Anything else would become persuasion rather than truth.
Finally, Elaine asked, “Why now?”
“The season is over.”
“You could have told me in January.”
“I should have.”
“February.”
“Yes.”
“March, when the conflict became impossible to ignore.”
“Yes.”
“Before the playoffs.”
“Yes.”
Elaine’s voice sharpened with each answer.
“Instead, you waited until after the championship, after the largest stories of the year and after a new job appeared that could solve the problem.”
Tessa’s stomach tightened.
“I was afraid.”
“That is not a professional justification.”
“No.”
“What were you afraid of?”
“Losing the beat.”
“You might.”
The answer came without cruelty.
It still struck hard.
Tessa nodded.
“I was afraid of losing my reputation. I had just taken over for Frank. I thought if I disclosed the relationship after a few months, everyone would decide I had not been capable of doing the job without becoming personally involved.”
“Becoming personally involved is part of what they would evaluate.”
“I know.”
“You were also afraid of losing Belov.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask you to keep it secret?”
“No.”
Elaine seemed surprised.
“He understood why I believed we needed to. He never asked me to stay on the beat or leave it. When I told him about the Tides position, he refused to tell me what to do because he did not want me making a career decision for him.”
“That was more responsible than either of you were in January.”
“Yes.”
Tessa did not defend him.
Elaine had earned the anger.
“What does he know about this meeting?” she asked.
“That I was meeting with you to discuss the job and disclose the relationship.”
“He knows you are telling me today.”
“Yes.”
“Did you agree on what you would say?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to minimize anything?”
“No.”
“Would he confirm the timeline?”
“Yes.”
Elaine looked toward the blinds.
The newsroom remained hidden, but movement showed through the narrow gaps.
“Does anyone have photographs?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You traveled separately?”
“Yes.”
“Public places?”
“One restaurant. He rented it out for my birthday.”
Elaine closed her eyes briefly.
“He rented out a restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“Of course he did.”
Despite everything, the response nearly made Tessa smile.
She stopped it.
“We have spent most of our time at his house or mine,” Tessa said. “We were careful.”
“Careful enough to sustain the secret. Not careful enough to avoid the conflict.”
“No.”
Tessa waited.
“Tell me about the season,” Elaine said.
The change in direction surprised her.
“What?”
“You said you wanted to reflect on it. So tell me. Not the relationship. The work.”
Tessa considered the question.
Elaine had asked a version of it when assigning the long season feature, but this was different. She was not asking what happened to the team.
She was asking what happened to Tessa.
“I spent the first month trying to prove I could replace Frank,” she said.
Elaine’s mouth shifted.
“I noticed.”
“I measured every interview against what I thought he would have asked. Every story against what he might have known already.”
“Frank had thirty-nine years of sources.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
“Knowing did not stop me from feeling behind.”
Elaine leaned back.
“When did that change?”
“Gradually. Joona making the team. Viktor’s injury. Reporting around Matvei when he would not talk to me.”
“You eventually got him to talk.”
The sentence carried another meaning now.
Tessa accepted it.
“I learned the room,” she said. “I learned McDonough’s moods and when Pat was answering a question without actually giving me anything. I learned which players would tell me the truth if I waited.”
“And which ones you would fall in love with.”
The line was dry rather than cruel.
Tessa looked down.
“Yes.”
Elaine exhaled and rubbed one hand against her forehead.
“I am trying very hard not to make this conversation only about being angry.”
“You can be angry.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“I trusted you.”
The words hurt more than any threat to the job.
Tessa looked back at her.
Elaine continued.
“I sent you alone to Helsinki. I let you shape the Convoy coverage because I believed you understood where the lines were.”
“I did understand.”
“You crossed them anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Then hid it.”
“Yes.”
Elaine looked toward the wall behind Tessa.
“When you called about the goalie story, I thought you were becoming timid. I worried the pressure of the beat had made you afraid to use your voice.”
Tessa’s chest tightened.
“You should have told me there was a conflict,” Elaine said.
“I know.”