THE NEW SHADOW
THE NEW SHADOW
14. THIS SHOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED
Finally, Ottawa and Montreal faced each other.
The sharp sound of the puck cutting across the ice set the rhythm of the game, but Shane wasn’t hearing it. Not really. His world had narrowed down to three things: the ice, his breathing…
and João Costa.
—Hollander! —someone shouted from the bench.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t look. Barely even saw the pass coming toward him. He controlled it on instinct, pivoted, accelerated forward—but he wasn’t reading the play anymore. He was searching for something. Or someone.
Costa appeared in front of him like he’d been waiting there the whole time. The collision came instantly. Shoulder against shoulder. Violent. Clean. The sound cracked against the boards.
—Easy, captain,” Costa murmured under his breath, barely audible, wearing a half-smile that held absolutely no kindness in it.
Hollander didn’t answer. He shoved him again. Harder. The referee looked up immediately. First silent warning.
The puck was already gone, but Shane didn’t care. João noticed that. And didn’t react. He only stepped back slightly, recovered the puck smoothly, and carried it out of the zone like nothing had happened. Total control. Shane clenched his jaw.
Minutes later. Another play. Another collision. This time Hollander didn’t bother pretending. He launched himself straight at him.
Costa’s stick flew briefly into the air when Shane lifted it hard, but the Brazilian recovered instantly, regaining control with a precision that was almost infuriating.
—That all you got?” Costa muttered without even looking directly at him.
Clean provocation. Measured. Calculated.
Shane went after him again. Faster this time. More aggressive. The hit came late. Too late. The whistle sliced through the arena.
—Hollander, two minutes!
The referee didn’t hesitate. Shane didn’t argue either. He just stared at João. Coldly. Like he wanted to punch straight through him.
Costa held the eye contact for one second… then simply turned away. That was worse.
On the bench, the coach didn’t even try hiding his frustration.
—What the hell is wrong with you tonight?
Hollander didn’t answer. He pulled his helmet off briefly, dragged a hand through his damp hair, then shoved it back on.
—Focus or I’m pulling you out of this game,” the coach snapped.
No response. But the moment he got back on the ice… nothing changed.
Rozanov was watching all of it from the other side. And he hated it. Because he knew exactly what this was. This wasn’t game frustration. Wasn’t pressure. It was personal. Very personal.
Third period. The atmosphere had already turned heavy. Score tight. Ottawa up by one. Hollander crossed paths with Costa again in the offensive zone. This time Shane didn’t wait. He went straight for the body. The impact slammed João hard against the glass. The crowd reacted immediately.
—HEY!
Costa turned, balanced perfectly on his skates. And then—yeah. This time he stepped closer. Too close.
—If you want to fight me, say it to my face,” he said quietly, holding his gaze directly. “You don’t need excuses.”
That was it.
Hollander dropped his stick. Gloves hit the ice. Loud. Inevitable.
—LET’S GO! —someone screamed from the stands.
Costa didn’t move. Not even an inch. He just looked at him calmly. Like it wasn’t worth it. And that, that was what finally pushed Shane over the edge.
—Shane! Ilya’s voice cut sharply through the moment.
Loud. Authoritative. Not just another shout. Hollander hesitated. Only for a second. But it was enough. The linesmen were already there, separating them, shoving them backward. The moment broke apart. The tension didn’t.
The rest of the game became an extension of the same thing. Hollander playing on the edge. Arriving late. Forcing every hit. While Costa… played better. Cleaner. Sharper. More effective. Like none of it touched him. Final seconds. Ottawa recovered the puck. Fast transition. João led the rush. Cross-ice pass. Goal. The sound of the net snapping shut felt definitive. That ended it.
Final whistle. Ottawa victory. Hollander ripped his helmet off immediately. Nobody near him celebrated. He didn’t look at his teammates. Just breathed heavily, trying to control himself. Or trying to.
—Hollander.
The voice caught him before he could leave the ice. Ilya. Close. Too close.
—We need to talk.
Direct. No softening. Shane let out a short humorless laugh.
—No,” he answered. “We have nothing to talk about.”
He didn’t even look at him. Walked right past him like he wasn’t there. Ilya took half a step after him.
—Shane, wait.
No response.
—Yesterday…” Ilya started. “I didn’t call because I stayed talking to João. A Brazilian company wants to take both of us to Brazil, they wanted us for—”
Shane stopped dead in his tracks. Turned around. Finally looked at him. But not the way he used to.
—And what the fuck does that have to do with anything?” he cut in sharply.
Ilya opened his mouth, trying to explain.
—I’m just telling you that’s why I got home late and didn’t—
—Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.
Dry silence. No yelling. Somehow worse because of it. This time Ilya didn’t follow him. Costa happened to be passing nearby when—
—Are you always like this?” Ilya asked, calm in the way that wasn’t actually calm.
João lifted his gaze just enough to meet his expression.
—Like what?
—Like everything’s a game while everyone else is trying not to cross certain lines.”
Brief silence. Not awkward. Heavy. João let out a short humorless laugh.
—If you don’t want to cross them, then don’t.”
The answer came too cleanly. Too directly.
Ilya stepped closer.
—It’s not about wanting to.”
—Then it’s about control,” João cut in, this time without softening his tone.
And that was when something shifted. Because now he didn’t sound relaxed anymore. Didn’t sound light. He sounded personal. Ilya noticed. And didn’t back down.
—Not everybody needs to play that game,” he answered firmly.
João held his gaze longer than usual. And this time… didn’t look away.
—It’s not a game,” he said finally.
Lower. More honest than he meant it to sound. The silence afterward felt different. Heavier. More truthful. João looked away first. And that… wasn’t normal for him. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.
—Forget it,” he muttered, almost like he wanted to shut down something he himself had opened.
But it was already too late. Because for the first time… he hadn’t sounded like someone completely in control.
The streets were already quiet when Rozanov walked outside. The echo of the game still rattled through his body, but not because of hockey anymore. Something else. More uncomfortable. More persistent. He pulled out his phone. Stared at the screen for a few seconds. Then called.
—…Ilya?
The voice came sleepy. Soft.
—Are you awake?
—I am now,” she answered, shifting beneath the blankets. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Ilya leaned back against the wall. Exhaled slowly.
—I don’t even know what time it is there… sorry. I lost control tonight.
—It’s okay,” she said more awake now. “Tell me.”
Silence. Not brief. Not comfortable.
—Shane’s angry with me,” he admitted finally.
—What happened?
Ilya stared ahead like he could replay the entire thing in front of him.
—Yesterday… we’d agreed I’d text him when I got home. I always do.”
He paused.
—But I didn’t.
Svetlana stayed quiet. Let him continue.
—I stayed talking to João at his apartment after brunch with the team,” Ilya continued. “It was his birthday, actually. But the thing is… a Brazilian company wants to bring both of us to Brazil for some magazine campaign. Sponsorship stuff… I don’t know. We stayed talking about it. Looking over details…”
He frowned slightly.
—It got late.
Pause.
—And when I got home… I just didn’t text him.”
He lowered his eyes.
—I forgot.
Another pause. Smaller this time.
—Or maybe I just didn’t think it mattered.
Svetlana adjusted herself against the pillows.
—And today? Did you two talk?
Ilya let out a dry humorless laugh.
—Today was a disaster. Ottawa played Montreal. He was there. Angry. Completely out of control.”
He paced a couple slow steps.
—He wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t talk to me. Played like he wanted to break somebody’s face…”
Pause.
—João Costa’s specifically.
He inhaled deeply.
—And yeah… I know why.”
Silence.
—He’s jealous.
Svetlana didn’t react immediately.
—And what do you think about that?
Ilya lifted one shoulder slightly.
—I think he’s overreacting.
But it didn’t sound convincing.
—Why?
The question came gently. No judgment. Ilya took his time answering.
—Because nothing happened,” he said. “Literally nothing. We just… talked. And yeah, it was interesting, but…”
He shook his head.
—There’s nothing there.
He stopped.
—And he’s acting like…”
Didn’t finish.
Svetlana spoke softly.
—Like what?
Ilya clenched his jaw.
—Like I betrayed him.”
Heavy silence.
—Ilya,” she said calmly, “…if you were in his position, how would it look to you?”
Ilya didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ground.
—It’s not the same.
—Explain why.
He sighed.
—Because I know what happened.
—But he doesn’t.
That stopped him. Completely.
—For him,” Svetlana continued, “you promised you’d text him… then you disappeared… and the next day he sees you playing alongside the guy you stayed with late into the night. Not even somewhere public. At his fucking apartment.”
Pause.
—That’s not hard to interpret.
Ilya closed his eyes briefly.
—I didn’t think about it like that.
—I know.
He exhaled.
—This isn’t only jealousy,” she added. “It’s how it made him feel.”
—And how exactly did it make him feel?
—Replaced. And insecure.”
The word hit directly. Ilya swallowed hard.
—And when someone feels that way,” she continued softly, “they stop reacting to what you did… and start reacting to what they think it means.”
Ilya leaned his head back against the wall.
—I didn’t mean to hurt him.
—That doesn’t change how he experienced it.
Another silence. Longer now.
—Now tell me something,” Svetlana added more gently. “And answer honestly.”
Ilya opened his eyes.
—Okay.
—What is João to you?
Ilya hesitated.
—He’s…”
He searched for the words.
—He’s good. Different. He challenges me.”
—Do you like him?
Ilya exhaled slowly.
—Not like that.
—Are you sure?
Ilya thought for a second.
Then shook his head.
—No. I mean… not the way I love Shane…”
He frowned.
—His personality’s different. That’s all.”
—So what’s different?
Ilya lifted his gaze. This time he answered directly.
—I don’t care about him the way I care about Shane.”
There it was.
Svetlana stayed quiet. Let the words settle.
—With João it’s…” Ilya continued more clearly now. “Curiosity. He’s someone new. Different. Competition. Even… interesting, yeah.”
Pause.
—But Shane…”
He stopped again. Searching.
—Shane is something else,” he said finally, quieter. “He’s…”
Frustrated breath.
—I don’t know how to explain it.”
—Then don’t explain it,” she answered. “Describe it.”
Ilya closed his eyes again. This time the answer came easier.
—Shane is… everything he doesn’t look like at first,” he murmured. “He can be boring, stubborn, slow on the ice, and he drives the worst car I’ve ever seen in my life… but when I’m with him, everything calms down. I don’t have to pretend, I don’t have to compete, I don’t have to prove anything. With him, things are easy… even when they’re not. And what we have isn’t just history or habit… it’s real. Even physically, the way we understand each other without needing to say everything. There’s connection with him. Something I never have to force or question. And in the end… even if all of that sounds unimpressive to anyone else… to me, he’s everything.”
Pause.
—Someone who’s already there.
Svetlana smiled softly, even though he couldn’t see it.
—And do you want to lose that?
Ilya opened his eyes immediately.
—No.
No hesitation.
—Then stop minimizing it,” she said gently. “Him too. And what he’s feeling.”
Silence.
—Because what happened…” she continued, “…can absolutely be misunderstood.”
Ilya didn’t argue.
—And you’re not being completely honest with yourself either,” she added. “You like the attention. You like the challenge. You like that someone like João looks at you directly.”
Pause.
—But that’s not love.
Ilya lowered his gaze.
—What you feel for Shane is.”
Long, deep silence.
—I don’t want to lose him,” Ilya admitted finally.
His voice sounded different now.
—Not because of this. Not because of something stupid. I don’t even know if João likes men…”
A dry laugh escaped him.
—And look at me… complicating everything anyway.
—Then stop complicating it,” she answered simply.
Ilya nodded even though she couldn’t see him.
—You’re right.
—Always.
Small pause.
—Thank you.
—Always, Ilya.
The call ended. But this time… there was no confusion left. Only a clear decision.
Later that night, Hollander’s apartment sat in artificial calm. The TV flickered across the room, washing everything in shifting blue and white light. The volume low. Some random show playing in the background… completely irrelevant. Shane was sprawled across the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent. An open pizza box sat on the table in front of him. One slice in his hand. Another forgotten beside it. The remote in the other hand, flipping through channels without actually watching anything.
His phone vibrated.
Lily.
Shane looked at it.
Didn’t answer.
The screen went dark again.
It buzzed once more.
Lily.
Shane clenched his jaw.
Looked away.
Let it ring.
Until it stopped.
Silence again.
TV noise.
Blue light.
Then the phone buzzed again. Shane sighed irritably.
—Jesus…
He grabbed the phone reluctantly, already ready to ignore it again.
But it wasn’t Lily this time.
Rose Landry.
Shane froze for a second, surprised. Then answered.
—Hey…
—Hi…” Rose’s voice came through soft and warm, but tired underneath. “Bad time?”
Shane sat up slightly.
—No… no, not at all. Everything okay?
Small pause.
—I’m in Montreal.
—Seriously?
—Yeah…” a faint laugh. “I had dinner plans… but I guess not anymore.”
Shane frowned.
—What happened?
Rose exhaled softly.
—Nothing dramatic. He just… never showed up.
No anger. No scene. Just contained disappointment. Somehow that made it feel more real.
—I’m sorry,” Shane said honestly.
—It’s okay,” she replied quietly. “I just… didn’t want to go straight back to the hotel.”
Pause.
—And I thought of you.
Shane glanced around the apartment. The pizza. The slight mess. The empty night.
—Do you want to come over?” he asked finally.
Rose hesitated briefly.
—You sure?
—Yeah.
Pause.
—I’m home. You know you’re always welcome here.
—Okay… give me a few minutes.
The call ended.
Shane set the phone back down on the table and stared ahead for a moment, thinking.
He walked into the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Water crashed down hard and steady. He stood there motionless beneath it, letting it run over his face. Ilya. The fight. João. The look in his eyes. The game.
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”
Shane closed his eyes.
—Fuck…
His hands pressed against the shower wall.
He stayed there longer than necessary. Replaying everything. Trying to find a way to fix it. To rewind it. To say something different.
Nothing worked. Until he remembered. Rose.
His eyes opened immediately.
—Shit.
He shut the water off and dressed quickly, barely thinking about what he was putting on. Just moving.
The doorbell rang. Shane opened the door. Rose was standing there. And smiled.
—Hiiii…
—Heeeey…
Neither of them thought about it. They just hugged. Tight. Natural.
—I missed you,” Shane admitted instantly.
Rose closed her eyes for one second.
—I missed you more.
They pulled apart slowly. But not completely.
They walked inside. The TV light still shifted softly across the apartment walls. Shadows. Reflections. The pizza still open. The smell still hanging in the air.
—Wow…” Rose murmured, looking around. “Nothing’s changed.”
—Not much.
—I like it.
They sat down. Closer than before. More comfortable now.
Shane grabbed a slice of pizza and handed another to Rose.
—Still attentive as ever.
—Okay, now tell me what happened.
Rose sighed softly. Picked up her glass and turned it slowly between her fingers.
—I think I picked the wrong man again.
She said it quietly. But it carried weight.
—What did he do?” Shane asked.
Rose stared ahead.
—Everything felt good… or at least I thought it did.
Pause.
—We talked all the time… he was attentive… present…”
She lowered her gaze.
—And then suddenly… he disappeared.
Exhale.
—Can I ask who it is?” Shane asked gently.
Rose hesitated. Then smiled faintly.
—Yeah… why not?
Small pause.
—Robert Carls.
Shane’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He recognized the name instantly. Canadian actor. Big deal. Young. Famous. Beautiful.
—Wow…
—Yeah…” Rose laughed softly. “Sounds better than it actually was.”
Awkward silence.
—Anyway…” she added. “Enough about me.”
She looked at him carefully.
—How are you?
That changed everything.
Shane lowered his eyes. Swallowed.
—I don’t know.
Silence.
—I don’t know if I’m okay or not.
Rose didn’t interrupt.
—I think…” he continued quietly, “I fucked up.”
He looked up again. His eyes slightly glassy now.
—I got jealous.
Rose watched him calmly.
—Of someone important?
Shane exhaled and looked toward the television.
By pure coincidence, João appeared on-screen. A commercial. Expensive brand. Perfect smile. Confident. Present.
Shane let out a dry laugh.
—There he is.
Rose followed his gaze.
—Him?
Shane shook his head.
—He’s part of the problem… I think.”
Pause.
—Or maybe not.
He dragged a hand down his face.
—Honestly… it was me.
Nervous now.
—I think I overreacted.
Rose nodded slowly.
—That happens when someone really matters to you.
Shane’s restless hand moved without thinking. His glass tipped accidentally. Liquid spilled across Rose’s shirt.
—Shit, sorry—
Shane reacted immediately.
—Wait—
He rushed to grab a towel.
When he came back… Rose had already taken her shirt off naturally, without thinking much about it.
—Didn’t want it to stain more,” she explained casually.
Shane stepped closer and handed her the towel. Too close.
And then—
the doorknob turned.
The apartment door opened. Ilya walked in. Stopped. And in that exact moment… his mind went completely blank.
He didn’t process details. Context. Logic.
Only the image.
Shane.
Standing close to Rose.
Rose shirtless.
Dim lighting.
Apparent intimacy.
Enough.
—What the fuck are you doing, Hollander?
Shane stood up immediately.
—Ilya—wait—
But Ilya was already backing away.
Pain.
Anger.
Disappointment.
All mixed together.
—It’s not what it looks like—
Ilya shook his head sharply.
—Of course, it is.
And he left.
—ILYA!
Shane ran after him instantly, trying to catch him. Trying to explain.
The hallway was empty.
—ILYA!
Nothing.
He called him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
He couldn’t reach him.
Eventually Shane came back inside. Pale. Breathing too fast. Completely lost. Rose watched him silently.
—Give him a minute,” she said softly. “He needs to breathe.”
Shane shook his head immediately.
—No… I need to fix this—
—And you will,” she replied gently. “But not like this.”
Tense silence.
—So Ilya Rozanov was the mystery guy?” she asked quietly.
Shane closed his eyes briefly.
—I can’t keep lying anymore. I feel like this whole thing’s spinning out of control. More and more people know. I don’t even know what to think anymore. Or what to say. I just know I’m fucking terrified.”
Pause.
—And now…”
His voice broke slightly.
—I think I’m going to lose him.
Rose looked at him with the same warmth still untouched.
—If he loves you… you haven’t lost him. He’ll give you a chance to explain. Nothing happened between us here.”
Shane didn’t answer. But inside his head… he could already see Ilya leaving. For good. And that, that was what truly scared him.