THE NEW SHADOW

13. THE QUESTION

Ilya didn’t knock twice. Just once. Precise. The door opened almost immediately. João appeared wearing the same shirt, the first button undone now, hair slightly messy… like he was no longer in public mode.

—Thought you weren’t coming,” he said with a faint smile.

Ilya lifted the box slightly.

—Didn’t have time to get anything better.

João looked at the cake. And for one second… said nothing.

—Thank you,” he murmured softly.

Then stepped aside.

—Come in.

The apartment was quiet. Not cold. Comfortably quiet. Warm lighting. Everything perfectly organized. A few framed pictures on the wall… family photos. Ilya noticed them without meaning to. A smiling woman—his mother. A more serious-looking man. A beautiful younger girl… who looked a lot like him.

—Your family?” Ilya asked before thinking about it.

João nodded from the kitchen.

—Yeah.

—Doesn’t surprise me. You all seem close.

João didn’t answer immediately.

—We are.

Ilya nodded. Didn’t add anything else.

—Vodka?” João asked while pulling out two glasses.

—Obviously.

—Not too much,” João added. “I’d rather not ruin your career over something stupid.”

A soft laugh escaped Ilya as he walked toward the windows. The view looked different from up there. Higher. More private.

—I didn’t drive,” he replied.

João glanced over.

—No?

—Uber,” Ilya said, leaning lightly against the glass.

—You offered vodka. I’m not throwing everything away over that.

João nodded slightly, approving.

He poured the drinks. Walked over. For one second… their hands almost brushed while passing the glass. Both noticed. Neither mentioned it. They sat down.

—Are you always this…” Ilya looked around the apartment again, “…organized?”

João smiled faintly.

—Does it bother you?

—No,” Ilya replied. “Just… not what I expected.”

—And what exactly were you expecting?

Ilya shrugged.

—I don’t know. Less perfect.

João let out a quiet laugh.

—That’s only what you see.

They fell silent for a moment.

—Connect your phone,” João said, motioning toward the speaker.

—Put something on.

—It’s fine like this.

—No.

João looked directly at him. Not aggressive. Not pushing. But firm.

—I’d rather hear what you like.

—It’s your birthday.

—Exactly.

Small pause.

—That’d be a good gift.

Ilya held his gaze a second longer than necessary.

—You’re weird.

—I know.

Ilya laughed quietly. Then connected his phone. The music changed. Slower now. Deeper. The atmosphere tightened around them.

—You always celebrate birthdays like this?” Ilya asked.

João shook his head.

—I don’t really celebrate.

—Never?

—I don’t like attention,” João answered.

His eyes drifted briefly toward the city lights.

—It becomes… too much.

Ilya watched him carefully.

—Doesn’t look like it.

—It’s different when you don’t choose it.

Their eyes met again. A little too long.

The food arrived faster than Ilya expected. Nothing sophisticated. Nothing ceremonial. João had ordered simple things—a couple appetizers, pasta to share, warm bread, a small board with cheeses, olives, and snacks Ilya didn’t immediately recognize, but everything was arranged carefully, like even ordinary things needed intention around him.

—Don’t look at me like that,” João said after noticing his expression. “I can cook fine, but I refuse to wash dishes on my birthday.”

A nasal laugh slipped out of Ilya.

—Smart decision.

—Thank you. I try to make at least one good decision a year.

Ilya shook his head, amused, while sitting back down.

The music kept playing softly in the background. Outside, the city glowed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the apartment somehow felt smaller and smaller. Not because of the space. Because of something else. The attention. The way silence between sentences no longer felt awkward. João poured him more vodka.

—I’m spoiling you too much,” Ilya murmured, lifting his glass slightly.

—It’s my birthday. I get to decide.

—That sounds dangerous. Don’t get used to it.

João smiled. Not a big smile. Worse. One of those smaller ones. Contained. Almost private. The kind that stayed longer because it never fully disappeared. They ate quietly at first. No rush. No pressure to fill every second with conversation. Ilya tried a bite of the pasta and looked at him.

—Okay. This is actually good.

—Just good?

—Don’t ruin the moment.

—I think it’s important to acknowledge you could’ve celebrated my birthday with someone less difficult.

A short laugh escaped Ilya.

—You could’ve invited somebody easier, then.

—I could have,” João replied before taking a sip.

Pause.

—Didn’t want to.

The sentence settled softly between them. Not direct. Not heavy. And still, Ilya looked up. João was already watching him. Not like on the ice. Not like at brunch. Not like a rival. He was looking at him for real.

Ilya held the eye contact one second longer than was safe before lowering his gaze toward the plate.

—You have a strange way of talking,” he muttered.

João tilted his head slightly.

—Is that a Russian thing or specifically a you thing?

—Both.

João laughed softly.

—Good. Then I still have time to learn how to decode you.

—Good luck with that.

—I’ve never been terrible with challenges.

—Yeah,” Ilya replied dryly this time, “I noticed.”

Pause.

—On the ice. Dancing. Standing around like you were designed in a laboratory somewhere. João actually laughed this time. A real laugh. Clean. Surprised.

—“Designed in a laboratory”?

Ilya shrugged while drinking.

—You know exactly what I mean.

—I really don’t. But I’d love to keep hearing it.

—Don’t get excited.

—Too late.

Another small silence settled between them.

João leaned back slightly farther in his chair, studying him with barely hidden curiosity.

—Are you always like this with everyone?

—Like what?

—Like you’re defending yourself even when nobody’s attacking you.

Ilya set his glass down. The question didn’t annoy him. It disarmed him slightly.

—You’re not what I thought,” Ilya admitted after a moment, quieter now.

João tilted his head.

—And what exactly did you think?

Ilya wiped his fingers with a napkin before answering.
—More arrogant. More… unbearable.

—And now?

Ilya looked at him. He could’ve dodged it. Could’ve joked. Didn’t.

—Now I think you’re worse.

João laughed under his breath.

—That doesn’t sound encouraging.

—It wasn’t supposed to.

—Why worse?

Ilya rotated the glass slowly between his fingers. Thought about staying quiet. About letting it pass. But the alcohol, the music, the night, or maybe João himself,  had lowered his guard more than usual.

—Because I thought you were just talent, ego, and luck.

João stayed quiet. Let him continue. Ilya lifted his eyes again.

—Turns out you’re nice too.

Something in João’s smile shifted. Softer now. More genuine.

—Wow.

He lowered his gaze briefly toward the table.

—That actually sounds like a birthday gift.

—Don’t get used to that either.

—Too late again.

Ilya shook his head, but he wasn’t really fighting the smile anymore.

There was something absurdly easy about this conversation. Something that unsettled him more than obvious tension ever could. Because nothing needed to be forced. No fake interest. No image to maintain. He was simply there. Sitting with him. Eating. Drinking. Talking about small stupid things that would’ve meant nothing anywhere else. They talked about ridiculous things. Ugly cities with good hockey teams. Foods that absolutely shouldn’t exist in a professional athlete’s diet. Embarrassing songs they both secretly knew and pretended to hate. Superstitions before games.

And slowly, almost without realizing it, they stopped talking about hockey entirely.

João asked him about the worst apartment he’d ever lived in. Ilya told him, through clipped sentences and dry gestures, about one place where the heating died during winter and the upstairs neighbor apparently dragged furniture around at three in the morning every night. João laughed so hard he had to set his drink down.

—Don’t laugh. It was traumatic.

—The way you tell stories makes it so much better.

—You’re easy to entertain.

—And you’re a much better storyteller than you pretend to be.

—I don’t pretend anything.

—Exactly,” João replied, watching him with that same half-smile again. “That’s your trick.”

Ilya frowned, but couldn’t hold it. The laugh escaped anyway. Then João started talking about Brazil. Not like a postcard. Not like he was selling something. Like someone remembering a place that genuinely belonged to him. Music in the streets. People inserting themselves into your life without permission. Birthdays that weren’t just birthdays but excuses to fill an entire house, cook too much food, make noise, and force you to feel surrounded by people who loved you.

—It’s harder to be alone there without somebody noticing,” he said quietly before taking another sip.

—For better or worse.

Ilya watched him. Lowered his gaze toward the table briefly. When he looked up again, João was still there. Watching him. Not rushing him. Not demanding anything. Just present. Ilya reached toward the board for a piece of bread at the exact same moment João did. Their fingers brushed. Barely. A tiny touch. Ridiculously small. And still, both of them stopped. Just one second.

João pulled away first.

—Sorry.

—It’s fine.

But it wasn’t fine. Because Ilya still felt the touch lingering longer than it should have. Because João lowered his eyes too, like he’d felt it as well. Because suddenly neither of them seemed in such a hurry to keep eating.

The music continued to fill the room. The city was still out there. But inside... something had changed. Something in the air.
—You know what's the most irritating thing about you? —Ilya asked after a while.
João raised an eyebrow.
—I'd love to hear this.
—Everything comes easy to you.
João let out a quiet breath through his nose.
—That's not true.

—You score. You dance. You look like you belong on the cover of a magazine without even trying. You're nice when anyone would expect you to be unbearable. You've got a family that adores you. And on top of that, you turn twenty-three today.
João studied him more carefully.

—That sounded... kind of personal.

Ilya shrugged, a little uncomfortable with himself.
João didn't answer right away. He looked down at his glass, slowly turning it between his fingers. The ice clicked softly against the crystal.

—That's what people think.
A skeptical smile crossed Ilya's face.
—Isn't it true?
João slowly shook his head.
—It's easier to believe that.
His eyes stayed on the glass.
—When someone scores a big goal... nobody asks how many they missed before that.
Ilya listened without interrupting.
João looked up again.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
—Or how many hours they spent training alone while everyone else was already home.
The music kept playing softly, almost as if it were waiting too.
—Talent is real, —Ilya said at last. —You can't learn everything.

João rested his elbows on the table. He took a moment before answering.

—Yeah.
His fingers traced the rim of his glass.
—But sometimes the word talent is just a polite way of ignoring someone's hard work.

Ilya held his drink without taking another sip. He hadn't expected that answer. A small, almost embarrassed laugh escaped João.

—Sorry.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
—That subject gets to me sometimes.
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
—Does it bother you?
—A little.
João glanced toward the window.
—Not because I think I'm better than anyone else.
He drew a slow breath.
—But because there were a lot of people standing beside me when nobody was watching.
—My family.
—My coaches.
—My friends.
—They're part of every goal I score too.
—But people only see...
—...the guy celebrating.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
João looked back at him. A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
—Exactly.
Ilya took another sip of vodka.
—I guess we do the same thing.
—To who?
—Everyone.
—We watch five minutes of someone's life... and think we know the whole story.

The conversation drifted into a thoughtful quiet. It hadn't gone badly. But neither of them was in quite the same place they'd started.

—Well... —Ilya said quietly. —You don't seem like someone who breaks easily.
—You don't either.

The answer came instantly. Too instantly. Their eyes met again. No teasing this time. No looking away. Ilya felt something unfamiliar settle inside him. Not exactly peace. More like relief. As if, for a little while, he could put everything down. As if he didn't have to be the same Ilya everyone expected. He didn't have to think about hockey. Or secrets. Or what he should or shouldn't do. He could just... be there. Sitting across from another man who, for some reason, didn't seem ready for the night to end either. That's when Ilya realized something unsettling. He hadn't thought about time in a long while. And for him... that was unusual.

—This birthday turned out a lot better than I expected, —he said, finally breaking the moment.
João smiled.
—Is that another Russian compliment?
—Don't push it.
—I'm trying not to, but you're making it easy.

Ilya shook his head, the hint of a smile still there. Then, just as the atmosphere had softened enough to become dangerous... A phone vibrated on the table. Face down.

Ilya let out a slow breath.

—One second.
He stood up, walked a few steps away, and answered.
—What's wrong?
—What's wrong? —Shane shot back, his voice already tense. —You tell me what's wrong.
Ilya frowned.
—What are you talking about?
—The video.
—What video?
—Don't play dumb. —Shane's voice rose. —The damn video on that rooftop. You're standing next to him. Really close to him.
Ilya went still.
—Where did you see that?
—On TikTok, —Shane answered. —Where are you?
—Shane—
—No. Answer me.
His voice tightened.
—Are you two close? Do you talk more than you let on? Since when?
Ilya glanced toward João.
—I can't talk right now.
—Yes, you can. —Shane's voice trembled. —Why can't you?
Ilya clenched his jaw.
—I'm with him.
Nothing came back right away.
—With who?
—With João.
The line went quiet again.
Heavier this time.
—Where?
Ilya hesitated.
Only for a second.
—At his apartment.
—What?
—It's his birthday, —Ilya said quickly. —He was by himself.
—You're alone with him?
—Yeah.
Shane's breathing changed.
—Ilya...
His voice dropped.
—This isn't okay.
—It's not what you think.
—Then what am I supposed to think? —Shane shot back. —You never told me you were going. You never told me you'd gotten this close. Every time I ask about him, you dodge the subject.
Ilya closed his eyes for a second.
—I'll call you later.
—No. We're talking now.
—Shane—
—Do you like him? —The question came out all at once.
Ilya's eyes opened.
—What?
—Do you like him?
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Impossible to ignore.
—You're talking nonsense.
—Then tell me what you're doing there.
Ilya drew a slow breath.
—I'll call you later.
—Ilya, don't—
He ended the call.
For a moment, he simply stood there, trying to steady his breathing.
When he walked back, João looked up at him.
—Everything okay?
Ilya nodded.
—Yeah... sorry.
He picked up his glass and took a drink.
—The bathroom?
João pointed down the hall.
—Right there.

Last call:

Jane.

Something about it didn’t fit.

He opened the messages.

Hearts.

“Miss you.”

“Did you get there okay?”

“Call me when you can.”

His breathing tightened slightly.

He opened another chat.

A group called Family.

Scrolled.

Photos.

Ilya.

Shane.

Together.

One of Shane asleep shirtless, facedown against a pillow.

Another with Ilya wrapped around him from behind.

Another—

a kiss.

There was no doubt anymore.

João swallowed hard.

Opened the gallery.

More.

Too many.

Intimate moments.

Real ones.

Private.

He’s with him.

And it wasn’t casual.

Wasn’t temporary.

It was…

a serious relationship.

João stood perfectly still, the phone resting in his hands.
He didn't swipe the screen again.
He'd already seen enough.
His mind started doing something he couldn't stop.
The parking lot.
The times Ilya had mentioned Shane without ever really lingering on his name.
The phone call just a few minutes ago.
The silence on the other end.
The way Ilya had dodged certain questions...
and how quickly he'd defended the invitation.
On their own, none of it had meant anything.
Now... it all belonged to the same story.
João took a slow breath.
It wasn't that he'd uncovered something impossible.
It was worse.

He'd uncovered something that had been right in front of him all along... and he'd simply never known how to see it.

João didn't move. Not right away. He remained standing beside the table, staring at the phone as if it didn't belong to him. As if what he'd just seen couldn't possibly be real. It doesn't make sense. But it did. And somehow... that was worse.

The images refused to leave.
They weren't blurry.
They weren't open to interpretation.
They were clear.
Painfully clear.
Ilya Rozanov...
and Shane Hollander.
Not in public.
Not as rumors.
In private.
Real.

João dragged a hand slowly down his face, like maybe the gesture itself could organize his thoughts. But there was nothing to organize. Because for the first time in a very long time… he didn’t have an answer. He always had one. For everything. On the ice. In interviews. Arguments. At home. He knew when to speak. When to stay quiet. When to push. When to pull away. He knew how to read people. How to stay ahead of them. Always one step ahead. And now, nothing.

His mind wasn’t ahead.

Wasn’t behind.

Wasn’t moving at all.

Just…

blank.

What do I even do with this?

The question appeared—

and no answer came with it.

He remembered the gala.

The exact moment he’d crossed paths with Shane.

Of course, he’d noticed him.

Of course.

He knew who Shane Hollander was.

Not exactly forgettable.

He’d seen the game.

The presence.

The personality.

And he’d noticed something in Ilya’s tone that night too.

Something tiny.

Something he’d chosen to ignore at the time.

Because it hadn’t fit.

And João didn’t waste energy on things that didn’t fit.

But now—

everything fit too perfectly.

Too perfectly.

Air escaped slowly through his nose.

Dry.

He’s with him.

Not a theory.

Not a possibility.

A fact.

And worse—

emotionally involved.

Really involved.

The photos didn’t lie.

The messages didn’t lie.

João planted both hands against the table.

Lowered his head briefly.

And that was when he felt it.

Not jealousy.

Not exactly.

Something more uncomfortable.

Something he couldn’t name.

Like a silent internal hit.

Because another question arrived immediately after.

A far more dangerous one.

Why do I care?

That was the one that truly unsettled him.

Because it made no logical sense.

Had no context.

And still…

it stayed there.

Persistent.

The water stopped running. João lifted his head immediately. Too fast. He forced himself to move. To do something. He placed the phone back exactly where it had been. Picked up his drink. Leaned casually against the table. Normal posture. Normal breathing. Everything normal. Except none of it was. He had no idea what to say now. No idea how to look at him. No idea what to do with what he had just discovered, or with what, without realizing it, he’d started feeling.

The bathroom door opened. And for the first time in a long time… João Costa wasn’t ready.

—Everything okay?

—Yeah.

But something wasn’t the same anymore.

Ilya felt it instantly.

—Can I ask you something?

João looked at him carefully.

—Yeah.

Ilya stepped a little closer.

—How the hell did you learn to dance like that?

A quiet laugh escaped João.

—I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ilya admitted.

His voice lowered slightly.

—So precise… so natural…

The music started softly in the background. Slow. Warm. A rhythm that didn’t push forward, it wrapped around you.

“A Gira — Trio Ternura.”

João didn’t look at him immediately. First, he let the rhythm settle into him. Into his shoulders. His breathing. The way he stood. One step. Then another. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing forced. The movement felt different now. Lower. Smoother. More… felt than calculated.

Ilya watched silently. And something about it didn’t make sense to him. He couldn’t tell if he was supposed to follow the music, or João himself.

—Come here,” João said softly, extending his hand.

Ilya shook his head immediately, nervous smile barely forming.
—No.

—Yes.

—I don’t dance.

—We’re changing that tonight.

Ilya exhaled slowly.

—This is a terrible idea.

—Probably.

One second.

Then—

Ilya took his hand. Automatic. Almost unconscious. João didn’t grip tighter. Didn’t force him closer. Just guided him gently.

—Listen first,” João murmured.

Closer now.

—Not to me. To the music.

Ilya tried. But he didn’t know where to focus. The rhythm felt different. Not rigid. Not exact. Alive.

—Stop thinking so much,” João added quietly.

Even closer.

—Just let yourself follow it.

A short laugh escaped Ilya.

—That’s not really how I work.

—Tonight it is.

And then it started. One step right. Another left. João guided him without rushing. Without controlling. And something happened. Ilya’s body responded. Not perfectly. But naturally. Like his body understood something his mind didn’t.

—That’s it,” João whispered. “Don’t fight it.”

Ilya frowned slightly, confused now. Because he didn’t know what exactly he was following.

The rhythm?

The steps?

Him?

Everything blurred together.

And then João took his hands.

—Here.

He guided them gently down to his waist. Ilya hesitated briefly, but didn’t pull away. João lifted his own hands slowly. Resting them against Ilya’s shoulders. Near his neck. The distance disappeared. And with that… everything changed.

The rhythm slowed. Closer now. More intimate. Ilya stopped trying to understand it. And started feeling it instead. The movement flowed naturally between them. Side to side. And then João spun him. One smooth turn balanced on a single foot. Ilya reacted late but managed to stay upright. And when he faced him again, he looked genuinely startled.

—What the hell was that…?

João smiled faintly.

—Trust your body.

Ilya exhaled slowly, still trying to process it.

Because this—

wasn’t him.

He had never danced like this in his life.

Not with a woman.

Not with anyone.

Not even with Shane.

And that hit him differently.

Because then—

what exactly was this?

The music?

The moment?

João?

He didn’t know.

But he didn’t want it to stop.

It felt…

good.

Strangely good.

Safe.

Like for one second, he didn’t have to control everything.

João noticed.

And slowed the rhythm even more.

Closer.

More intimate.

—That’s it,” he murmured softly. “You’ve got it now.”

A low laugh escaped Ilya.

—I have no idea what I’m doing.

—You don’t need to.

Just the rhythm. Just the closeness. Just that electric feeling neither of them knew how to name. Ilya tilted his head slightly. Moved closer without fully realizing it.

—This is dangerous.

João held his gaze steadily.

—I like dangerous things.

And that, that hit Ilya directly in the chest. Because it wasn’t only the dancing anymore. It was all of it.

The music continued another few seconds… but neither of them was listening now. The movement faded naturally on its own. And when they finally separated, Ilya could still feel the rhythm, not in his feet anymore. In his chest. The music still played. But it no longer mattered. Time didn’t matter either. Only this moment.  This closeness. This absurd electricity neither of the had planned for, or knew how to stop.

João looked at him differently now. Not like a rival. Not even like curiosity anymore. Something else. Something he’d spent too long trying not to understand, and now it stood directly in front of him. Ilya felt it too. And that unsettled him even more.

Eventually, they stepped apart. One step back. Ilya lowered his eyes briefly. Breathed. Still feeling… strange. Warm. Exposed. João watched him quietly. And for the first time since Ilya had walked out of that bathroom, he felt completely full.

—Ilya.

Ilya lifted his head.

—Would you come to Brazil with me?

The silence came immediately.

—What?

—Brazil.

Ilya blinked, trying to process.

—I don’t understand.

João walked toward the table and picked up his drink, but didn’t drink.

—Before you came tonight… I got a call.

Ilya stayed silent.

—A big brand. From Brazil.

Pause.

—They want me on the cover of their magazine.

Ilya raised an eyebrow slightly.

—And?

João looked directly at him.

—I said yes.

Silence.

—But with one condition.

Something tightened strangely in Ilya’s chest.

—What condition?

João didn’t hesitate.

—That you came with me.

The air seemed to stop moving.

—What?

—That both of us appear in it.

Ilya stared at him completely thrown off balance.

—But… they want you.

—Yeah.

—Then why would you—?

João held his gaze steadily.

—Because I want to.

Silence.

—And they agreed.

Ilya didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mind wasn’t catching up. Brazil. João. Him. All together. Too much. João stepped closer again.

—Would you come with me?

And there—

Ilya Rozanov had no answer.