THE NEW SHADOW
THE NEW SHADOW
12. NO ONE SAW IT COMING
The family group chat never really rested. And Ilya loved that. More than he expected to. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a family again. A mother. A father. People he laughed with naturally. People he genuinely enjoyed. People who somehow made him feel exactly what he had spent years without:
like he belonged somewhere.
Shane:
Mom, Dad…
what do you think about this?
Yuna:
About what?
David:
What happened?
Shane:
Scott Hunter is getting married.
Yuna:
Seriously?
David:
Good for him.
Shane:
He sent us an invitation.
Yuna:
That’s so lovely!
Shane:
To me and Ilya.
Pause.
Yuna:
Well… that makes sense.
Shane:
Not really.
David:
Why not?
Shane:
He barely invited anyone else.
Ilya:
Shane… I already told you.
The dinosaur already knows about us.
Shane:
Absolutely not. Stop saying stupid things.
Ilya:
Yes.
Shane:
No.
Ilya:
Remember the gala.
Ilya:
The way he talked to us.
The way he looked at us.
Shane:
…
Ilya:
He knows.
Yuna:
Where’s the wedding?
Shane:
Punta Cana.
David:
Where’s that?
Ilya:
Caribbean.
Shane:
Yeah.
Ilya:
They sent the invitation early.
David:
Makes sense.
Yuna:
It’s going to be beautiful. Enjoy it, my loves.
Shane:
Yeah…
Pause.
Yuna:
I found this in an old photo album.
The picture appeared.
Shane.
Tiny.
Way too tiny.
Completely naked.
Exactly as God brought him into the world.
Carefree.
Smiling like nothing in life could ever hurt him.
Ilya:
Wow.
This explains many things.
Shane:
No.
Ilya, don’t even try it.
Yuna:
ILYA.
David:
No commenting.
Ilya:
I didn’t say anything.
Shane:
But you’re going to.
Ilya:
I’m considering my options.
Shane:
Don’t consider anything.
Ilya:
Then I remain silent.
Ilya:
For now.
Shane:
I hate you.
Ilya:
Not new information.
Ilya:
Actually…
I have one similar.
Shane:
…
Ilya:
From Russia.
Ilya:
When I’ll get home, I’ll take picture and send it.
Shane:
Ilya, don’t even fucking think about it.
Ilya:
Why not?
Shane:
Because my parents are not seeing you naked. Absolutely not.
Ilya:
What’s problem?
We are family, no?
Shane:
NO.
Not even remotely.
Ilya:
Shane, I always do what you say.
But this time, I refuse.
Ilya:
Also I was almost a baby.
Nothing wrong with it.
Shane:
Listen to me carefully.
If you do something that stupid, I’m blocking you from this group permanently and forbidding my parents from ever adding you again in this lifetime.
Shane:
So choose wisely.
Ilya:
Why you treat me so badly?
Ilya:
I just want show my childhood too.
Things I am not ashamed of.
Shane:
Oh my God.
Stop talking before I remove you right now.
Yuna:
Honestly… this is very entertaining 😂
David:
I agree.
Ilya, you have our authorization.
Shane:
Please stop encouraging him.
This psycho is absolutely capable of doing it.
Ilya:
See?
Your parents already love me more.
Shane:
I hate this group.
The next day brought another notification from the family group chat. Shane opened it without thinking. The photo was still there. Him. Way too small. Way too exposed. Completely naked. His jaw tightened.
—Fuck…” he muttered under his breath.
He felt embarrassed. Annoyed. And somehow, against all logic… still dangerously close to laughing. Ilya had not helped at all. He reread the messages. And somehow felt worse.
Days kept moving. Games. Practices. Flights. The season never slowed down. Rozanov and Costa had started understanding each other better on the ice. Eventually, they both accepted the obvious: they were on the same team. And if they wanted to destroy everyone else… they had to play together.
One random morning, the hotel lobby was already half awake. Coffee in cardboard cups. Backpacks abandoned across couches. A couple players arguing about something nobody else was listening to.
—Who the hell agreed to this so early?” Mark Jensen groaned, stretching like being alive physically hurt him.
—You did,” Ethan Kovac replied with a crooked grin. “There’s evidence.”
—That was yesterday. Yesterday’s me was not mentally stable.
—According to you, none of your versions are.
A few laughs.
Another player walked by carrying coffee, barely conscious.
—Hey, anybody seen my cap?” Liam asked, looking around.
—It’s literally on your head.
—…oh.
More laughter. Ilya came downstairs without rushing. Already dressed. Already ready. Effortlessly put together. He didn’t greet anyone directly, but gave a couple nods on the way through. Enough. Outside, the team bus waited by the curb. Big. Comfortable. Nothing flashy… just functional.
—Move, move,” somebody called from the door. “If you don’t get on now, I’m leaving without all of you.”
—Please do us that favor.
They climbed in without order. Like always. Some headed for the back. Others claimed front seats. One dropped into the nearest seat available and immediately stopped functioning as a human being. Ilya picked a window seat near the middle. Set his coffee in the cup holder. Looked outside. The city still existed somewhere between silence and movement.
—Hey,” somebody shouted from the back, “are we actually getting food today or is this just another photo opportunity?”
—If there’s no food, I’m leaving,” someone else replied. “I didn’t come here to model.”
—You were born to model.
—And you were born to talk too much.
The engine started. A few guys were still half asleep. Others already buried in their phones. Somebody turned music on quietly in the back. The coach climbed in last. Stayed standing a few seconds with one hand gripping the seat in front of him.
—Alright,” he said without raising his voice much. “I’m not making this long.”
Some players stopped talking. Others absolutely did not.
—Today’s simple. A little time away from the ice.
His eyes moved around the bus.
—You earned it.
Brief silence.
—Mid-season catches up to the body. The head too.
Small shrug.
—So, enjoy yourselves. Eat well. Rest if you can. And don’t do anything stupid.”
—Too late for that,” someone muttered.
The coach barely smiled.
—Yeah. I noticed.
A few laughs.
—Enjoy the day,” he added. “Tomorrow we go back to suffering.”
Then he sat down. That was it. The bus kept moving. Ilya hadn’t said much. Didn’t need to. He stared out the window, coffee in hand, listening without really listening. The noise of the team. The jokes. The music humming softly in the background. Everything… normal. And for some reason, that normality felt enough. For now.
The rooftop didn’t try to impress anyone… and somehow still did.
It was one of those places built specifically for young athletes:
modern chairs, low tables, hanging plants wrapped around black metal structures, and an open view of the city stretching endlessly into the distance. No excessive decor. No aggressive music. Just a soft DJ set somewhere in the background, floating between relaxed house and lazy Sunday beats.
Late brunch. Coffee. Juice. A few mimosas. Easy laughter. Conversations with no real weight behind them. They had taken advantage of the unexpected heat wave, dressing lighter than anyone normally would that time of year.
The Ottawa team had taken over almost an entire corner.
—I swear to God, if that shot had gone in, I was ready to retire immediately,” Mark Jensen laughed while cutting into his omelet.
—Retire?” Ethan Kovac snorted. “You can barely skate backward.”
—Shut up, rookie,” Liam Carter interrupted, lifting his glass. “I’m the only one here allowed to talk about retirement.”
—You?” somebody shot back from across the table. “Take hockey away and you’d literally forget how to function.”
Laughter exploded again.
Costa sat there relaxed, leaning against the back of his chair, shirt slightly open at the collar, dark sunglasses barely hiding the fact that he was paying attention to absolutely everything. He wasn’t dominating the conversation. Didn’t need to. Ilya, meanwhile, stayed quieter. Watching. Always watching. This wasn’t naturally his environment. But he understood dynamics. And he understood hierarchy. And João—
without trying—
already had one.
—Wait,” Ryan Becker suddenly said, leaning forward. “Hold on. Hold on.”
He pointed his fork toward João.
—Is that you?
João raised one eyebrow slightly.
—Depends. What exactly are we talking about?
—The video,” Ryan insisted. “That fucking video from the dance competition. Don’t tell me that’s not you.”
Small silence. A few players looked between each other. João let out a short laugh, almost resigned already.
—Yeah. It’s me.
—I knew it!” Ryan slapped the table. “I fucking knew it!”
—What video?” somebody else asked.
—No way none of you have seen it,” Ryan said while pulling out his phone. “This guy—” he pointed dramatically at João, “went on some dance competition show a few years ago and— no. No. You need to see this.”
João shook his head slowly like he already regretted existing.
—It was a ridiculous contest,” he muttered. “I had nothing better to do.”
—And you won?” Liam asked immediately.
João shrugged.
—Yeah.
—Of course, you did,” Ethan muttered. “Look at him.”
The laughter came back, but different this time. More curious. More attentive. Ilya said nothing. But he looked up. And stayed there. Watching.
—No but seriously,” Ryan insisted, “do you actually dance like that or was it beginner’s luck?”
João tilted his head slightly, amused.
—Not luck.
—Then what?
João took a slow sip of his mimosa before answering.
—Genetics.
Brief pause.
—Brazil is Brazil.
A Brazilian who can’t dance…
isn’t Brazilian.
Someone whistled loudly.
—Okay, that sounded way too smooth,” Mark laughed. “But I still don’t believe you.”
—I do,” Liam muttered. “This guy doesn’t talk just to talk.”
—Well I want proof,” Ryan declared, raising a hand. “Hey!”
He waved over the waiter.
—Play a Brazilian music. Something good though. No soft bullshit.”
The waiter nodded, entertained already.
—Any specific song?
Ryan pointed at João.
—You choose, superstar.”
João let air escape through his nose.
Shook his head.
—You’re all gonna regret this.
—I seriously doubt it,” Ethan replied. “Honestly, I think you’re about to save the entire day.”
The DJ didn’t take long. The rhythm shifted. Volume rising. Dirtier. Heavier. More physical. The bass hit first, then the beat dropped.
“Rebola Bola — MC René.”
And the atmosphere changed instantly. This wasn’t music you listened to. It was music you felt in your body.
—Oh shit…” somebody breathed.
João didn’t react immediately.
He stayed still one second longer… like he was recognizing the rhythm.
Then he stepped forward.
He didn’t start with his arms.
Didn’t start with spins.
He started lower.
His feet.
Grounded.
Firm.
Left foot planted solid against the floor…
right foot barely sliding across the surface, marking the tempo.
Then came the movement.
Slow at first.
His hips.
Controlled.
Precise.
Following the bass like it lived inside him.
Not exaggerated.
Not performative.
Natural.
Way too natural.
—No fucking way…” Ethan whispered under his breath.
João bent his knees slightly, lowering his center of gravity.
Closer to the floor.
Closer to the rhythm.
And then he did it.
Left foot completely grounded while his right heel lifted—only the back of it, toes still pressed against the floor.
Side to side.
Sharp.
Rhythmic.
His hips still moving with it.
Never losing control.
Never missing the beat.
Ilya didn’t blink.
Not once.
The movement kept growing.
His torso joined in.
A slow wave climbing upward from his hips toward his chest like restrained heat rolling through his body.
Impossible to ignore.
—HEY!” Mark shouted, standing abruptly. “WHERE THE HELL DID THIS COME FROM?!”
Laughter exploded.
Some players were already on their feet.
Hitting the table to the beat.
And João…
kept going.
He lowered himself further.
Almost crouching for a second without breaking the flow.
Rose again.
Turned.
And during that turn—
without rushing,
without making a cheap spectacle out of it—
he undid one button of his shirt.
Then another.
—OH FUCK OFF!” somebody yelled.
—LET’S GO, BRAZIL!” another shouted.
A couple women at a nearby table had fully turned around by now.
Clapping.
Laughing.
Screaming.
One pressed a hand dramatically against her chest.
—WHO IS THAT?!
The noise spread outward.
Other tables turned.
People standing.
Phones already in the air.
The entire rooftop… stopped.
One athlete walked over laughing with cash in his hand, half joking and half serious, trying to tuck bills into João’s waistband.
João only smiled briefly.
Never losing rhythm.
Because he wasn’t performing.
Wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
He was simply…
in his element.
Ilya leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.
Hands clasped in front of his mouth.
Watching him intensely.
Analyzing.
But something inside him no longer fit correctly.
This isn’t normal.
It wasn’t only the talent.
Wasn’t only the forty-one goals.
It was something else.
Something more primitive.
Freer.
More dangerous.
The music kept hitting hard.
And João controlled it completely.
Like the entire space belonged to him.
Like everyone else there…
only existed to watch.
His right hand moved lazily side to side like he was directing the entire room without effort.
A couple people finally managed to get close enough.
—Hey bro, can I—?” one already had his phone out.
João leaned slightly toward him without fully stopping.
Signed quickly.
Smiled.
But it didn’t last long.
One of the venue security staff stepped in discreetly but firmly.
—Sorry, guys. Private event.
No drama.
No conflict.
Just order restored.
The song hit its end.
One final bass drop.
João spun once more—
and stopped.
Exactly one second.
Then—
applause.
Whistles.
Shouting.
João walked back to his seat like absolutely nothing had happened.
Picked up his drink.
Took a sip.
—Happy now?” he asked calmly.
The noise didn't die down. If anything, it got louder. Laughter. Comments. João's name bouncing around the rooftop as if it couldn't be avoided.
—Forty-one, brother... forty-one!
—And it's only February. Just imagine how he'll finish the season...
—No, but that dance... that's not normal.
—And he makes it look so easy, like it's nothing.
The applause took several more seconds to fade. Someone whistled again. Someone else raised a glass in João's direction. He only shook his head with a quiet laugh, grabbed his shirt from the back of a chair, and casually slung it over his shoulder, his breathing still slightly uneven. It was as if nothing had happened. As if bringing an entire rooftop to a standstill for three minutes was just another ordinary part of his day.
Ilya didn't clap. He didn't look away either. He watched João return to the table, answer another joke, accept a friendly slap on the back, smile with that effortless ease that never seemed to cost him anything. There was something strange about the picture. Something he couldn't quite make sense of. João never seemed to demand attention. Attention simply made room for him. Ilya lowered his eyes to his drink. He slowly turned the glass between his fingers. The ice tapped softly against the crystal. He couldn't have explained why he'd gone so quiet. He only had the unsettling feeling that he'd just witnessed something... something that went far beyond a dance. When he looked up again, João was already laughing about something else. Natural. Light. As if the world had never asked him for permission to be who he was. Ilya held onto his glass for another moment. Then he took a drink. The vodka burned. But it wasn't the alcohol that tightened his throat.
The air outside felt different. Colder. Cleaner. He walked toward the edge of the rooftop terrace and rested both hands against the railing. The city stretched endlessly in front of him, organized, distant, indifferent. He took a deep breath. Once. Then again. Didn’t help.
What the fuck is happening to me?
It wasn’t jealousy.
Wasn’t anger.
It was something else.
Something more uncomfortable.
Harder to name.
I love Shane.
That wasn’t in question.
Never had been.
And still—
the image came back on its own.
The locker room.
The steam from the showers.
João’s body from behind.
Water sliding slowly down his back.
And him… staring longer than he should have.
His jaw tightened.
Why did I keep looking?
The abs.
The line of his waist.
The way he moved without even realizing it.
And worse—
the reaction.
His body reacting before his mind could catch up.
Ilya closed his eyes briefly. Annoyed. At himself. It doesn’t make sense. That guy had everything. Talent. Discipline. Charisma. A family that adored him like he’d been born wearing some invisible all-access bracelet. No effort. No cracks. And that… irritated him. More than he wanted to admit.
—Rozanov.
The voice arrived calm. Uninvasive.
—Pretty view, huh?
Ilya didn’t turn immediately.
Recognized the voice before seeing him.
—Thought you’d stay inside,” he said dryly at last. “Listening to everybody worship you.”
João walked closer without hurry. Set his phone and drink down on one of the nearby high tables. Leaned lightly against it, looking out at the city too.
—I didn’t ask for that,” he replied simply.
Ilya let out a short humorless laugh.
—But you like it.
João shook his head.
—Not really.
Small pause.
—That video… I honestly didn’t even know anybody would ever find it again.
Ilya glanced sideways at him.
—Wasn’t it famous?
—The show was,” João answered. “At the time.”
Small shrug.
—Not like this though.
Another breath.
—It was years ago. I thought it had stayed back there.
Pause.
—But you know how social media is.
Somebody finds one thing… and suddenly everything explodes.
Ilya looked forward again. But his mind wasn’t there anymore. The word stuck. Explodes. He thought about headlines. Rumors. Looks. What would happen if somebody, if somebody said something they shouldn’t. Russia. His father. His last name. A tight knot formed sharply in his chest.
—Hey,” João said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Ilya looked over.
—Are you always this quiet… or only when somebody dances better than you?
Ilya stared at him a second.
And somehow—
against all logic—
smiled slightly.
—I don’t dance.
—That explains many things.
The silence returned. But now it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.
The phone vibrated again on the table. Brief flash of light. Then another. Ilya had noticed it before. At the table. Between conversations. Every few minutes.
—Answer it,” he said bluntly.
João shook his head.
—It’s the same thing.
Another vibration.
—What does “the same thing” mean?” Ilya pressed.
João hesitated briefly. Looked down at the screen. Then exhaled softly.
—It’s my birthday today.
Ilya turned immediately.
—What?
João lifted his head slightly, almost embarrassed.
—My friends… my family in Brazil… everybody keeps calling.
Small shrug.
—It gets a little… intense.
Ilya watched him for another second. Processing.
—Today? Seriously?
João made a small gesture.
—Yeah.
Ilya picked up his glass.
Raised it slightly.
—Well then. Cheers.
João mirrored the motion. Their glasses clinked softly.
—Happy birthday,” Ilya added more quietly.
They drank.
—So what’s the plan?” Ilya asked afterward.
João shook his head.
—No plan.
Ilya frowned.
—What do you mean no plan?
—Nothing,” João repeated. “My family’s not here.”
Pause.
—And I didn’t make plans.
Ilya looked at him almost incredulously.
—How old are you turning?
—Twenty-three.
Ilya let out a dry laugh.
—Fuck off.
He shook his head.
—You only turn twenty-three once.
João didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at him.
—We should do something,” Ilya insisted. “A bar, a club… whatever.”
João shook his head immediately.
—Not really my thing.
Ilya narrowed his eyes slightly. Interpreting. He’s rejecting me. Silence. One second. Evaluating whether to insist… or let it go. And then—
—What about my apartment?
Ilya turned toward him. João wasn’t looking directly at him. Still watching the city.
—I have wine,” he continued.
Small pause.
—And good vodka.
Russian vodka.
Another brief silence.
—I think you’d like it.
The silence between them deepened. But Ilya studied him more carefully now. There was no pressure. No obvious intention. But there was something. Something he still didn’t fully understand. Why yes? He could say no. Probably should say no. And yet—
—Not a bad idea,” he said finally.
João nodded lightly. Like he wasn’t expecting anything more than that. And in that moment, Ilya couldn’t explain why… but he already knew he’d made a decision.