THE NEW SHADOW

5. A DIFFERENT KIND OF WELCOME

The locker room was full. Not loud exactly… but alive. Conversations overlapping. Random bursts of laughter. The dry sound of sticks knocking against each other as players leaned them against the wall. Some players were already changing. Others had just arrived, dropping their bags onto the floor with heavy thuds. The smell was the same as always. Ice. Sweat. Damp fabric.

—Did you watch the game last night?” someone asked while pulling off his shirt.

—Yeah… that goal in the last minute was insane.

—Pure luck.

—Nah. That wasn’t luck.

Further down the room, someone adjusted the blades on his skates with precise movements. Another tapped his helmet lightly against his leg, checking the fit. A puck rolled across the floor and hit one of the benches.

—Hey, watch it,” someone said without much real annoyance behind it.

The jerseys hung open. Names stretched across the backs. Tight seams ready for the ice. Everything felt… in motion. Like the team was slowly starting to fit together. Little by little. Ilya was there. In the middle of it. Not participating much. Watching. And then… he saw him.

Costa stood in front of his locker shirtless. There was no intention behind it. He wasn’t showing off. He simply wasn’t in a hurry. His body spoke for itself. Lean. Defined. Precise. Every line looked earned through discipline… not luck.

Rozanov wasn’t staring. Or at least he wasn’t trying to. But at some point, he turned his head. One second. Enough. Fuck. There was no lust in it. No desire. Just one immediate conclusion: That guy does not allow himself to fail. Ilya looked away.

Costa finished dressing without noticing any of it.

The ice welcomed them with clean cold air. It wasn’t an official game. But it wasn’t just practice either. And from the beginning… João didn’t do anything extraordinary. He skated. Passed the puck. Positioned himself correctly. Nothing more. But he was watching everything. His team. The opposing side. The openings. The mistakes. Ilya.

Rozanov was playing well. Naturally. Without forcing anything. Without exaggerating. When he needed to accelerate, he did. When he needed to move the puck, he moved it.

The captain, meanwhile, was something else entirely. Order. Rhythm. Direction. He didn’t stand out above everyone else… but he made everyone else function better. The entire team felt aligned because of him. He didn’t yell. Didn’t dominate the room.

But he was part of every correct decision. And it showed.

—That’s the new guy, right?

—Yeah… the Brazilian.

—He’s a rookie…

—Rookie? Bullshit.

—Look at the way he moves…

—Way too clean for a rookie.

—Doesn’t even look like he’s trying.

Rozanov heard all of it. Said nothing. Costa never forced anything… but he was always exactly where he needed to be. Always.

The first goal wasn’t his. Neither was the second. Rozanov had already done his part. So had the captain. The game felt stable. Predictable. And then, during one of the shifts, Costa let himself fall. It wasn’t a real fall. It was intentional. He slid across the ice on his back without resistance, without momentum. For one second, the world stopped. The noise disappeared. And his mind… filled up.

A classroom. Cold. Messy. Strange. Heavy air. Everyone staring at him.

—Say your name.

Silence.

His tongue felt clumsy.

—…João.

Mispronounced.

Half swallowed.

—Joe?

Soft laughter.

—No… João.

—Jou?

—Jo-ao?

—What even is that?

A voice from the back, quieter…

sharper:

—Sounds like a pig… joink, joink…

The laughter exploded.

Not one isolated laugh.

Several.

At once.

Repeating.

—Joink… joink…

Someone hit the desk. Another copied it. The teacher didn’t intervene. Not immediately. And João… just stood there. Didn’t correct them. Didn’t try again. Didn’t defend himself. He felt the heat climbing up his neck. His throat tightening. And something else. Something he didn’t understand back then… but that stayed carved into him anyway.

The ice returned. The noise came back. Voices. The game. The present. Costa blinked. Then pushed himself back up.

Final minutes. The score was even. But now… he wasn’t observing anymore.

The first play felt different. Not faster. More decided. He cut in, slipped past the first contact, and found space where there shouldn’t have been any. Goal. No celebration.

—Did you see that?

—No, wait—

—That’s the rookie?

—No fucking way…

The second one. Caught the puck. Turned. Released. Goal.

—How old is that guy?

—Twenty-two?

—He doesn’t play like he’s twenty-two…

—Not even close.

Now everyone was watching him. Everyone. Rozanov felt something uncomfortable twist inside him. Not jealousy. Not irritation. Pressure.

Third.

—He’s reading everything…

—He’s reading us…

Fourth.

—He’s not reacting… he’s anticipating.

Fifth.

The rhythm of the game had completely changed.

Sixth.

Silence.

Seventh.

This time, nobody said anything. Not a single word. Just looks. Teammates. Coaches. Even a few opponents. João stood still for a few seconds. The cold air burned lightly in his lungs. It wasn't exhaustion. Not exactly. He looked at the scoreboard. Then at the ice. Then at the stands. Everything was still there. And yet, for a moment, none of it felt real.

He had spent so long trying to fit in that he'd almost forgotten when he'd stopped trying. The first few months came back to him.

Conversations that ended before they even started. Words getting stuck in his throat. That constant feeling of being one step behind everyone else. Not because he wasn't good enough. Just because he didn't belong. Or at least, that's what he believed back then.

A laugh broke out somewhere near the bench. Someone shouted his name. This time, they got it right. João lowered his eyes for a second. Just one. And smiled. Small. Almost shy. Like part of him still couldn't believe they were calling for him.

The final whistle blew. And Costa stopped skating like nothing had happened.

The atmosphere didn’t break afterward. But it never went back to normal either. Back in the locker room, the conversations continued. The laughter too. Someone even turned the music up louder than necessary, like maybe it could cover whatever was already hanging in the air.

Costa leaned lightly against the wall, water bottle still in his hand.

He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular. Or at least that’s what it seemed like. But his gaze lingered a few seconds too long… in exactly the wrong direction. He exhaled slowly. It wasn’t discomfort. Not exactly. It was something else. Something that didn’t fully fit with the image he’d built of himself since arriving there. He ran his tongue lightly across his lower lip, like he was trying to organize a thought he couldn’t fully shape yet.

—Relax,” he murmured to himself under his breath.

But it didn’t sound convincing. For the first time all day… Costa wasn’t fully in control of what he was feeling. And more than any stare or comment, that was what truly unsettled him.

That night, the restaurant wasn’t loud. It was… contained. Warm lighting. Glasses glowing softly under the light. Conversations kept low. A long table, perfectly arranged, reserved only for them.

The entire team.

The coach.

The captain.

The players.

The first dinner.

The official welcome.

—Did you guys watch the Toronto game last night?” one of them asked, leaning back in his chair.

—Yeah… they’re gonna be a problem this year.

—They always are.

—No, but now they’re faster. The pace changed.

—What about Montreal?” another asked. “Still playing the same way?”

—More physical.

—Yeah, but they lose structure when you pressure them.

—That works for us,” someone added. “If we keep possession, we break them apart easily.”

—Hey, what was yesterday’s final score again?” someone asked from the other side of the table.

—Five-three.

—Who got the last goal?

—The rookie. That new defenseman.

—Not bad.

—For his first game… really not bad.

—Still need to see them on the road,” another player commented. “That’s where a lot of guys fall apart.”

—Yeah… the travel wears on you.

—Especially when the trips stack up.

—That’s why we need to start strong,” someone said, raising his glass. “Get points right away.”

—Exactly. We can’t throw games away.

Soft laughter.

Glasses clinking.

—Hey, who ordered this?” someone said while looking at his plate. “This isn’t athlete food.”

—Shut up and eat.

—Then don’t complain at practice tomorrow.

The conversations kept flowing. Natural. Easy. No tension. No awkward pauses. And not once… did anyone mention his name.

João sat almost at the center of the table. He didn’t talk much. Only answered when someone spoke to him. Short. Precise. Enough. Ilya, meanwhile, sat more toward the side. Not uncomfortable because of where he was sitting. Uncomfortable because of the atmosphere itself.

—We’ve got a good group this year,” the coach said, lifting his glass slightly. “And some interesting new pieces.”

Brief pause.

His eyes shifted toward Costa.

—Especially you. Good game today.

João lifted his head.

—Thank you.

Nothing more.

The captain stepped in.

—It’s not easy to come in like that, keep up with the team’s rhythm… and still make a difference.

Direct look.

—Well done.

Another player from the opposite side of the table added:

—Man… what you did today wasn’t normal.

Soft laughter.

—Seriously. That wasn’t normal.

—How old are you?” someone else asked.

—Twenty-two.

—Yeah… you don’t play like you’re twenty-two.

Small laughs. Comments. Interest. Rozanov slowly turned the glass between his fingers. Without joining in. Without contributing. Just listening.

—This season’s gonna be interesting,” the coach added.

And this time, the look was broader. More general. But it was already too late. The point had already been made. Nobody had mentioned his name. Ilya set his fork down on the plate. Not hard. But deliberately.

—I’m getting some air.

Nobody stopped him.

Ilya rested his forearms against the railing. The cold air hit his face. He took a deep breath.

City lights stretched across the distance. Indifferent. As if they had no idea who he was.

Ilya closed his eyes. For a moment, he thought about Montreal. Not the city. The life. The hallways he could walk through with his eyes closed. The faces. The places where he never had to introduce himself. Because everybody already knew who he was.

For years, he'd occupied a certain space. Not because he chased it. It had simply been there. The threat. The star. The name that kept coming up over and over again. And now everything was different. New city. New team. New faces. For the first time in a very long time... he felt like a stranger in his own life.

It wasn't fear.

It wasn't insecurity.

It was something simpler.

Something more human.

The feeling of arriving somewhere new and realizing nobody there had lived through the stories that made you who you are.

Ilya opened his eyes.

The city was still there.

The cold too.

And for the first time since arriving in Ottawa... he missed something other than Shane. He missed feeling at home.

The air outside was cold. Clean. Silent. The perfect contrast. Ilya pulled out his phone.

Typed:

Are you awake?

Three dots.

Reply:

Depends. You want me to open the door for you or did you lose your keys again?

A quiet breath escaped him.

Nothing like that. This dinner is boring.

Pause.

Even more boring than you.

The reply came quickly.

Ah, but you like boring. That’s why you like me.

Ilya lifted an eyebrow slightly.

Don’t get excited. It’s not that easy switching teams.
I don’t miss the old one. I’m just adjusting to this one.
Think about the fact that we’re gonna be closer now. That should give you strength.

Ilya glanced back inside through the glass.

Laughter. Movement. João talking to someone calmly.

I can picture you there looking unfriendly as hell.

A faint smile appeared on Ilya’s face.

That’s why I came outside to breathe. Too much noise in there.
If you were here, I’d make you burgers like the ones from last time.

Pause.

Eight again?

No. This time I’m making half. You already taught me how to count.

Ilya leaned his back against the railing.

I’m going to sleep. Early practice tomorrow, Shane replied.

Ilya looked out over the city.

Sleep. But if you dream…

Brief pause.

…dream about me.

The answer came almost instantly.

Don’t even think about it.

Ilya lowered the phone. The cold didn’t feel the same anymore. Inside, dinner continued. But something inside him had settled. Not completely. But enough. He straightened up, slipped the phone away, and walked back inside.

Back to the table. The atmosphere was still the same. Soft laughter. Conversations overlapping. Half-filled wine glasses. Nobody noticed he’d been gone. Or at least… nobody mentioned it.

Rozanov took his seat without saying anything. Adjusted the chair slightly. Looked at his plate. Then at the glass. A wine bottle sat in the middle of the table. Open. Half empty. Ilya didn’t touch it. Had no intention to. And then, without warning, João stood up. No noise. No interruption. He simply grabbed the bottle. Poured into his own glass first. Automatic gesture. And then, without directly looking at him… filled Ilya’s glass too. Precise. Unforced.

The bottle returned to the table. João sat back down like nothing had happened. Ilya didn’t react immediately. He looked at the glass. Then at João. No eye contact. Nothing in his expression explained it. They hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t gotten close.

So then… why?

Ilya said nothing.

But for the first time that entire night… he wasn’t observing the room anymore. He was thinking about him.

The season started. Without pause. Practices turned into games. And games into constant travel. New cities. Different teams. The same pressure. Ottawa stopped preparing. They started competing.

—Keys,” someone from the staff said. “You’re sharing.”

Ilya took his without looking.

Until he heard:

—Rozanov… with Costa.

Small pause. He said nothing. Ilya hadn’t expected that. Not because of the hockey. Not because of the skill. Because of the room.

The hotel room was spacious. Two beds. Dim lighting. Everything orderly. They walked in without speaking. João dropped his bag onto the bed. Opened it. Took out his clothes. Folded them neatly. Everything clean. Measured. Precise. Ilya watched him from the corner of his eye. Then grabbed his towel.

—I’m taking a shower.

—Sure.

The water fell steadily. Ilya closed his eyes longer than necessary.

And for a moment… he wasn’t there anymore.

The noise of the locker room disappeared. So, did the cold. In its place came something familiar. A quiet room. Shared breathing. Closeness without words. Shane staring at him. The freckles across his face. That smile… impossible to ignore. The way he looked at him without saying anything. Like nothing needed explaining.

Ilya swallowed lightly and opened his eyes again. The water still running. But the feeling… hadn’t completely left.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, João had already organized everything. Nothing out of place.

—You always this organized?” Ilya asked while drying his hair.

João looked up.

—Helps me think.

Ilya lowered his gaze.

Didn’t say anything else.

João’s phone vibrated. He looked at the screen. And something changed. Very subtly.

—Do you mind if I answer?

—No.

João sat down on the edge of the bed and accepted the video call.

—Oi, vó… tudo bem?

—Oi, meu filho! Tudo bem, graças a Deus. E você, como é que tá?

Ilya didn’t understand the language. At least not completely. But he understood the tone. The way João’s voice changed. That caught his attention. He glanced at his own phone. Hesitated for exactly one second. Then picked it up. Opened a real-time translation app. Words started appearing on the screen. Broken apart sometimes. Not always perfect. But clear enough.

Ilya wasn’t listening out of morbid curiosity. It was… curiosity. He wanted to understand his rival on the ice a little better. And without realizing it, he started reading.

—I’m good… I miss you guys. Hey, how was the trip? Everything okay?

—Yes, my son. Everything peaceful, thank God. Little tiring, you know?… but I arrived safely.

—You didn’t even come pick me up at the airport,” his grandmother joked.

—Pucha, abuela… I really wanted to. Seriously.

—I know, my son. You’ve got your own things going on over there.

—But I wanted to be with you guys… sit down, talk… just be close.

—And you will,” his mother interrupted. “We’ll still see each other before she goes back.”

—Of course,” his father added. “We’ll figure something out.”

—I hope so… I really want to. And I want that food only you know how to make.

—Look at that… already thinking about food,” his grandmother laughed.

—Always, abuela. The one with beans, with the little farofa… the way you make it…

—Of course, I’ll make it for you.

—You only think about eating,” his sister said, laughing.

—Somebody has to keep the priorities straight,” João replied.

(laughter)

—Hey, and the team?” his father asked. “They treating you well?”

—Yeah… people are calm with me. I’m still adjusting, but it’s going well.

—That’s what matters,” his mother said. “Take it slow.”

—And are you taking care of yourself? Eating properly?” his father added.

—Yeah, dad. Relax.

—He loses weight fast,” his sister commented.

—You always say that,” João replied, shaking his head.

(laughter)

—And you, abuela? You like it there?

—Yes, my son. What gives me peace is that the church is very close. I already went… it’s beautiful. I felt peaceful there.

—That’s good…

—And you too, okay? When you have a little time… go visit the temple. It’s good for you.

—Yeah, abuela… of course. Even if I don’t go, I pray every day.

—Oh, really?” his mother asked.

—Yeah… I always ask God to protect you guys. All of you.

—Ay, my son…” his grandmother said affectionately. “May God always bless you.”

—Amén. Que Dios los bendiga a ustedes también… de verdad.

—We love you very much, okay?” his mother said.

—A lot,” his sister added.

—Stay strong over there,” his father finished.

—I love you guys too. A lot.

—Take care, my son.

—You too, abuela.

—Kiss.

—Kiss.

The call ended. João stayed there for a second, staring at the dark screen, a small smile still lingering on his face. Ilya didn’t say anything immediately. He wasn’t arrogant. Wasn’t cold. He was… something else.

—Your family…” Ilya finally said. “They live here?”

João looked up.

—Yeah.

He exhaled.

—For years now.

—You moved young?

—Twelve… maybe thirteen.

Ilya paid a little more attention now.

—Must’ve been hard.

João looked at him for another second.

This time he didn’t avoid the conversation.

—Yeah.

Pause.

—Language was the worst part.

A quiet laugh escaped Ilya through his nose.

—I understand that. I feel same way.

João rested his forearms against his legs.

—At first… I barely talked at all.

—And now?

João shrugged lightly.

—Now I talk… enough.

Ilya looked at him.

—You speak well. And your Spanish is really good. You don’t even have accent. I never perfected mine.

João shook his head slightly.

—It took time.

He breathed in.

—And you?” João asked. “Did you always play in Russia?”

Ilya hesitated for a second.

—Yeah.

Pause.

—Then… I moved.

João lowered his gaze slightly.

—Feels weird at first.

—Yeah.

They looked at each other for a second.

No tension.

—I’m guessing your grandmother cooks better than any restaurant here,” Ilya said suddenly.

João laughed.

A real laugh.

—Yeah. No doubt. She’s the best cook in the world.

—Probably.

João lifted an eyebrow.

—You understand Portuguese?

Ilya paused.

—Enough.

João looked at him for a second too long.

Then shook his head with a faint smile.

—Mentira,” he said in Portuguese.

A low laugh escaped Ilya.

—Maybe.

Silence. But now… lighter.

João stood up and turned off the light on his side of the room.

—Good night.

—Good night.

Ilya leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t the same anymore. João wasn’t just the rookie now. Wasn’t just the guy who’d scored seven goals. He was something else. Ilya closed his eyes. And for the first time since arriving there… he wasn’t thinking about competing. He was thinking about understanding him.