THE NEW SHADOW
THE NEW SHADOW
3. THE START OF THE SEASON
The phone vibrated on the bed just as Ilya dropped his keys onto the nightstand. He didn't pick it up right away. First, he took off his jacket and glanced around the apartment. Everything was too organized. Nothing to move. Nothing to fix. He let out a quiet breath through his nose and finally grabbed the phone.
A message.
Did you survive your first day in Ottawa, or are you already looking at flights back?
A small smile tugged at the corner of Ilya's mouth as he walked toward the kitchen.
Still alive. Disappointing, I know.
The reply came immediately.
Thank God. I was already working on a convincing speech about how much I care.
Ilya sat down on the couch, staring at his reflection in the dark window.
Do you miss me?
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Obviously not. Asshole. Stay there if you want.
Then another message followed.
How are you really doing?
Ilya stared at the screen for a few seconds. It wasn't the question. It was the way Shane asked it. He still wasn't used to that. To someone actually caring.
I'm okay.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Though I do miss something I like a lot.
He left it there. No explanation.
And what exactly do you miss?
Ilya tilted his head. Then lay back on the couch.
I don't miss Montreal.
A beat.
But I miss your mouth.
Nothing. For several seconds.
Long enough for him to picture Shane's face. Then:
Fuck you, Ilya...
A low laugh escaped him.
What?
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Nothing. Just fuck you.
Still smiling, Ilya shifted against the cushions.
He typed something.
Deleted it.
Started over.
I have ideas.
Of course you do.
Another message followed immediately.
But not over text.
Coward.
Ilya shook his head, amused.
Be patient. Come here and I'll explain.
This time Shane took a little longer.
Shit. Don't make me wait.
Ilya didn't answer. He didn't need to.
A few minutes later he got up and walked toward the window. Ottawa stretched below him. Cold. Clean. Distant. He rested his forehead lightly against the glass.
I've been thinking about something.
That's never a good sign.
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
Do you think we'd ruin a puppy's life first... or a baby's?
Nothing came back immediately. Then:
Are you serious?
A quiet laugh escaped him.
More or less. Why?
Ilya.
That made him smile.
Relax. I just wanted to see how far you'd take it.
You're an asshole. You know that, right?
A second later:
A puppy. Definitely a puppy.
Ilya leaned one shoulder against the wall.
Coward.
Realist. Someone has to be.
A laugh slipped out.
We wouldn't survive a week without arguing.
Then another message appeared.
Seriously, Ilya. You actually like this idea?
I'd be the one losing sleep, cleaning everything, and doing all the work.
One eyebrow lifted.
Even if Shane couldn't see it.
You and your perfect discipline.
Go to hell.
You never agree with me.
The conversation slowed for a moment. Not awkward. Just heavier somehow. More honest.
Ilya took a deeper breath before typing again.
I need you to come here.
The answer arrived instantly.
Why?
Ilya looked around the apartment.
I'm starting to look at places in a few weeks.
I want to buy something if I'm staying here.
And you need my approval?
He shook his head to himself.
I just need you not to complain afterward.
I want you to tell me, "Ilya, this is a good place to fuck me."
The response came so fast he laughed before reading it.
Why do you always want to fuck me?
A second later:
Yeah, I'll come.
Just so I can tell you they're all terrible.
Ilya grinned.
You're better at that than hockey.
At what?
Getting fucked.
Go to hell.
Come here first.
The screen went quiet again. But the feeling lingered.
He felt it before he typed the next message.
A brief hesitation.
Just one second.
By the way. Svetlana and Sasha are coming next week.
This time the reply didn't come right away.
To Ottawa?
Yeah.
A few moments passed.
And they're staying with you?
Ilya glanced at the screen.
Yeah.
It's not a big deal.
The answer took longer.
Long enough to feel deliberate.
Sure.
A slight frown appeared.
What?
The typing bubble came and went.
Several times.
Finally:
Nothing. Just...
Then another unfinished thought.
Your ex-wife...
Three dots.
Nothing else.
Ilya waited.
Another message appeared.
And the guy you...
It disappeared.
Reappeared.
Disappeared again.
Finally:
Shane. They're my friends.
Nothing came back immediately.
Then:
I'm just asking.
Ilya didn't believe that for a second.
Shane...
The bubble appeared again.
Stayed there.
It's just weird, that's all.
A few seconds later:
Them showing up together.
Ilya's jaw tightened.
Forget it.
The words landed harder than he intended.
He stared at the screen.
Typed something.
Deleted it.
Then finally:
Shane... are you jealous?
The typing bubble appeared.
Stayed there.
Disappeared.
And never came back.
The rink smelled like it always did—cold air, metal, old sweat. Ilya slowed slightly as he stepped through the doors, taking in the movement around him. Players coming and going. Pucks slamming against the boards. Voices that weren't directed at him. Not yet.
A team assistant intercepted him before he got much farther.
—Rozanov, right?
Ilya nodded.
—Yeah.
—Come with me. I'll get you set up. Light practice today... and we're still missing a few guys.
Something in Ilya's expression hardened.
—Missing players?
—A few. Some arrive tomorrow. Couple of rookies too.
Ilya didn't respond. Just watched.
The locker room was half full. Enough to feel noticed. Not enough to feel included. He dropped his bag into an empty stall. Nobody said much. A player a few spots down glanced over and lifted his chin in greeting.
—Ethan Cole.
Ilya nodded back.
—Rozanov.
—Yeah, I know who you are.
No smile. No hostility either. Ethan went back to lacing his skates as if nothing had happened. A small gesture. Enough.
Another player farther down the room spoke without looking directly at him.
—You here for the whole season or just passing through?
Ilya finished adjusting his gear before answering.
—Depends on you.
A couple short laughs followed.
Nothing aggressive.
But not exactly welcoming either.
The coach walked in without making a scene.
—Five minutes. On the ice.
That was all.
On the ice, Ilya's world became simpler. Speed. Angles. Quick decisions. He moved well. Very well. Always under control. Reading plays before they happened. He wasn't playing badly. He just wasn't fully there.
—Rozanov! Ethan shouted from the right.
Ilya turned just in time. Clean reception. Perfect control. Quick return pass while moving. Ethan raised an eyebrow.
—Nice.
Ilya didn't answer. But he noticed.
During a break, he leaned against the boards, breathing evenly.
Without thinking, he pulled out his phone. Opened the conversation.
Shane.
He typed:
Got here.
Not as terrible as I expected.
He stared at it.
Deleted it.
Started over.
The team's weird.
A quiet breath escaped him.
Wish you were here.
He hit send.
Then waited. Nothing. So he put the phone away.
—Everything okay? Ethan asked as he skated over.
Ilya didn't even look at him.
—Yeah.
—You don't really have a "yeah" face right now.
A small breath left Ilya's nose.
—I'm fine.
Ethan studied him for another second. Then nodded.
—Good. Just don't check out.
He jerked his head toward the ice.
—They'll eat you alive here if you do.
Direct. No drama. Ilya finally glanced his way.
—I know.
Practice picked up again. More physical now.
Later he found himself back on the bench. Phone in hand again. Still nothing. Not even read. He started typing. Stopped. Deleted it immediately. Locked the screen. Unlocked it again. Nothing.
—Rozanov.
The coach's voice cut through his thoughts. Ilya looked up.
—Keep it simple. You're thinking too much.
—Yeah, Coach.
He pushed off harder this time. Faster. More aggressive. As if he could skate the frustration out of his system. He couldn't.
Practice ended without ceremony. Players filtered off the ice talking over one another. Laughing. Making plans. Still riding the energy of a new season.
Back in the locker room, the noise returned. Conversations. Jokes.
Voices crossing over each other. Ilya sat down and pulled off his gloves with precise movements. He checked his phone again. Nothing. The dark screen reflected his face. Calm outside. Chaos underneath. He set it on the bench. The screen went dark. And for the first time in a very long time... Ilya didn't know how to handle something he couldn't control.
Back in Montreal, the puck reached Shane's stick late. Or maybe he reached it late. Either way, he lost it.
—Hey.
Someone skated up behind him.
—You good?
Shane looked up. A few people were watching.
—Yeah.
Lie.
He pushed off again. Faster. Harder. Like effort alone could fix it. It couldn't. His phone vibrated on the bench. He didn't check it. He already knew who it was.
—Hollander.
Hayden's voice.
—You're somewhere else today.
A humorless laugh slipped out.
—Yeah.
But he never really came back.
The next morning, Ilya arrived early. Too early. The rink was nearly empty. Half the lights still off. Shane still hadn't replied. Not since that night.
He was twenty-six years old. Had a career most players would kill for. Half the league knew his name. And somehow, he was still staring at an empty screen like some lovesick teenager.
He dropped his bag in the locker room. Didn't even finish changing. Just enough gear to get moving. He needed to skate. Needed to clear his head.
The first pass was clean. The second too. The third drifted a little wide. His brow tightened. Breathe. Try again. Then he heard it.
Different.
Sharper.
Faster.
He turned.
He wasn't alone.
Across the rink, another player was moving at a speed that didn't belong in an empty arena. The puck seemed attached to his stick. Not pushed. Carried. Change of pace. Tight cut. Explosive acceleration.
Ilya stopped moving. Watching. It wasn't just skill. It was complete control.
There was something strange about the way he skated. He didn't look like someone practicing. He looked like someone completely alone in his own world.
The ice sounded different beneath his skates. Cleaner. Lighter. Like the entire rink was adjusting itself to his rhythm.
Nothing wasted. Every turn had purpose. Every change of direction felt planned before it happened. And yet nothing about him looked forced. It was natural. Too natural.
Ilya watched him lean slightly before accelerating again. The confidence. The puck control. The way he absorbed the space around him without rushing.
Young. Definitely young. But he didn't play like someone trying to impress people. He played like someone who already knew exactly who he was.
The player accelerated.
Slipped through two imaginary defenders.
Turned.
Shot.
Goal.
Effortless.
Without realizing it, Ilya skated a little closer.
The player turned again.
Slower this time.
As if he'd felt the eyes on him.
He stopped.
Looked up.
And their eyes met.
No surprise.
No judgment.
Just awareness.
Ilya spoke first.
—You're here early.
The rookie tilted his head slightly.
—Always.
He glided over without breaking rhythm. When he got close enough, he stopped the puck with the smallest touch.
—I'm Rozanov, Ilya said.
The rookie looked at him.
One second.
Two.
—I don't know you.
Straightforward.
No insult.
No attempt to provoke.
Still, something shifted inside Ilya.
Small.
Uncomfortable.
—You play hockey, he answered flatly. You should.
The rookie shrugged.
—I don't follow names.
A beat.
—I follow levels.
That landed.
Ilya took another step closer.
—And what level are you?
The rookie studied him. Like he was actually seeing him for the first time. Then a small smile appeared.
—Higher than you think.
Before Ilya could answer...
The puck was gone.
The rookie had taken it.
No contact.
No warning.
Ilya reacted late.
Turned.
Accelerated.
The rookie was already two moves ahead.
Change of direction.
Cut.
Puck protection.
Ilya tried to close the lane.
Missed.
The rookie spun.
The puck disappeared for a split second.
Then appeared on the other side.
Ilya clenched his jaw.
Accelerated harder.
Now he got contact.
Pressure.
The rookie smiled.
And left him behind.
Not because he was faster.
Because he saw the play first.
Shot.
Goal.
Ilya stopped. Breathing heavier now. Not from the effort. From something else.
The rookie skated back. Calm. Like none of it had mattered.
—Again.
Not a question. Ilya didn't answer. He was already moving. This time he came harder. More physical. Much better.
The rookie noticed. Still beat him. Again. And again. And again. Until Ilya stopped thinking altogether. Started reacting. Too late. The other guy controlled the pace every time.
Eventually he stopped. Barely breathing hard. Ilya stared at him.
—Name.
The rookie rested his stick against the ice.
—João Costa.
A smile.
—Brazil.
As if that explained something.
Ilya said nothing.
João continued.
—My father doesn't lose.
A beat.
—My mother doesn't either.
Another.
—I lose even less.
It didn't sound arrogant.
It sounded learned.
Something he'd grown up hearing.
—or believing.
—I didn't come here to adjust, João said, holding his gaze.
Then:
—I came here to be the best.
The rink felt very quiet all of a sudden. Ilya didn't answer. But something inside him had already shifted. And this time... It had nothing to do with Shane.