THE NEW SHADOW
THE NEW SHADOW
6. WHAT FAMILY MEANS
The phone vibrated on the table. Once. Then again. Yuna looked up from the kitchen, frowning slightly. She didn’t remember leaving it off silent mode. She walked over, picked it up, and saw the screen lit up.
New group.
Name: Family
She blinked in surprise.
A new message appeared.
Ilya:
Okay. This is the family group chat.
To stay in touch… and so I can complain about Shane.
Yuna couldn’t help smiling.
Before she could answer, another message came in.
Shane:
No.
Ilya, stop.
This is a terrible idea.
David:
I don’t see why.
I like it.
Brief pause.
David:
It’s a good excuse to use technology more often.
Yuna:
I think it’s a lovely idea 😊
How are you, son?
Ilya took a few seconds to reply.
Ilya:
Good. Thank you.
Still adjusting to the team.
Season’s starting well.
I like Ottawa… even if I haven’t explored much of it yet.
Three dots appeared.
Shane:
She said “son.”
Not Ilya.
The reply came almost instantly.
Ilya:
Yes.
I’m her son now.
She knows this.
Shane:
Relax.
Don’t get so emotional.
Ilya:
Relax.
You are not that important.
Yuna let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
Yuna:
You two already started…
I love this group.
David:
I just want to make it clear I’m not taking sides.
But if anyone has embarrassing photos of Shane… this is the correct place for them.
Shane:
Dad.
Ilya:
Interesting.
I will start documenting everything.
Shane:
Don’t you dare.
Ilya:
Too late.
A few seconds later, Ilya sent a photo.
Shane, messy-haired, half asleep, wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, staring blankly toward the window.
Ilya:
Exhibit A.
Yuna:
He looks exactly like he did at fifteen.
Shane:
Delete it.
David:
Definitely my son.
Ilya:
I’m considering it.
Shane:
Ilya.
Ilya:
No.
A new message appeared.
Yuna:
And how are you, Ilya?
Beyond hockey.
This time the answer took a little longer.
Ilya:
Good.
Calm.
The team is good… the captain is solid.
Everything feels… organized.
Pause.
Ilya:
And Shane has not been completely unbearable.
So far.
Shane:
Thanks, I guess.
Yuna:
That sounds like progress.
David:
That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’re ever getting.
Ilya:
Do not get used to it.
A brief silence settled over the chat.
Then Ilya typed again.
Ilya:
We are thinking about adopting a pet.
Three dots.
Then almost immediately:
Yuna:
Really?
David:
That’s actually a big decision.
Shane:
You did not need to say that here.
Ilya:
Of course I did.
Yuna:
What kind of pet?
Ilya:
Something small.
Quiet.
David:
Well, that eliminates Shane as an option.
Shane:
Very funny.
Ilya:
Confirmed.
Yuna:
I love that idea…
It’s nice to take care of something together.
Small silence.
Shane:
We’re looking at options.
Ilya:
I already chose.
Shane:
No.
You have not chosen anything.
Ilya:
Yes.
Shane:
No.
Ilya:
Yes.
David:
This is already going badly.
Yuna:
😂
A few seconds later, Ilya sent another picture.
This time it was a street in Ottawa at sunset. Lights glowing. The cold visible in the air.
Ilya:
Ottawa.
Yuna:
It’s beautiful…
David:
Looks cold.
Ilya:
It is.
Pause.
Ilya:
But it’s good.
Shane reacted with a simple 👍.
Meanwhile, back in Montreal. Hollander was running half a step ahead. Hayden beside him, not pushing him, not slowing him down either. The pace stayed steady. His attention didn’t. His phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Shane kept glancing down at it.
—What are you looking at so much?” Hayden asked without stopping his run.
Shane took a second to react.
—Nothing.
—Uh huh.
A couple more steps.
—Family pictures and messages,” Shane finally admitted.
Hayden let out a short laugh.
—Compromising material?
—Shut up.
—So yes.
Shane shook his head, still holding the phone.
—You’re gonna break your neck if you keep doing that,” Hayden added.
Shane looked forward again and slipped the phone away.
—Yeah.
But the smile never fully left his face.
—You still run the same way,” Hayden said without looking at him. “Like somebody’s chasing you.”
A quiet laugh escaped Shane through his nose.
—Or like I’m trying to catch something.
—No,” Hayden replied calmly. “That would look different.”
The sound of their shoes hitting the pavement filled the silence between them for a few more seconds.
—How’s everything going?” Hayden asked.
—Good.
—Good… good?
—Yeah.
—That’s a shitty answer.
Shane turned his head slightly.
—What, you want a full report or something?
—I want you to stop talking to me like I’m a reporter.
That pulled a brief smile out of him.
—Everything’s… in order.
—Uh huh.
They turned the corner. The wind hit them head-on this time. Hayden slowed down a little. Shane copied him without thinking.
—Hey…” Hayden said casually. “Have you been to Ottawa lately?”
Shane froze. Literally. His stride slipped for half a second, but it was enough. His brain clicked instantly. How does he know? There’s no way. There shouldn’t be a way.
—What?” he answered too quickly.
Hayden didn’t look at him. Kept jogging calmly.
—Ottawa,” he repeated. “Did I ask something weird or…?”
—No,” Shane said, trying to regulate his breathing. “Just… why?”
—Nothing. Just curious.
Shane swallowed.
—No…” he said, hesitating. “I mean… not much.”
Terrible answer.
And he knew it.
Hayden let out a soft short laugh.
—You’re awful at lying.
Shane didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence got heavier.
—Hey,” Hayden said, slowing down even more until he was almost jogging in place. “Relax.”
Shane stopped too and finally looked at him.
—I don’t care what you do with your life.
Direct. No hesitation.
—If you’re happy… then I’m happy too.
Shane blinked, not knowing what to do with that.
—We’re not friends,” Hayden continued. “We’re brothers.”
Brief pause.
—Nothing’s gonna change between us.
The air between them shifted. Cleaner. Heavier too.
—So…” Hayden added with a small shrug, “you can trust me.”
Shane stared at him.
—I’m not stupid,” Hayden finally said, holding his gaze now. “I know how to connect dots, weirdo.”
And that was when everything hit him. Hard. Svetlana. The conversation. The name. Shane. Jane. The way she’d looked at him. The way she’d understood everything without anyone saying it out loud. And now… Hayden. Same pattern. Ilya. Lily. Shane felt the blood drain from his face.
—You don’t have to tell me anything,” Hayden continued, softer now. “If you don’t want to.”
The distant sound of a car passing by.
—But don’t lie to me,” he added.
Shane exhaled slowly.
—I don’t even know what to say,” he admitted finally.
—Then don’t say anything.
Simple. No pressure.
—Just… stop acting like you’re alone in this.
Shane lowered his eyes for a second. Then slowly looked back up. Hayden bumped his shoulder lightly.
—Besides,” he said as he picked the pace back up again, “it’s about time you stopped making stupid decisions.”
A short laugh escaped Shane.
—I’m not promising anything.
—You never do.
They looked at each other for barely a second. Then started running again.
A few days later, a couple blocks from Mount Royal Park in the same city, the restaurant had that strange balance between discreet and visible. Outdoor tables. Constant movement. The kind of place where nobody looks too closely… but everybody notices. Shane was already there. Ilya arrived without rushing. Sat across from him like it was nothing.
—Good choice,” he said, glancing around.
—I know.
The waiter approached.
—Good afternoon. Anything to drink to start?
—Ginger ale,” Shane said.
—Water,” Ilya added.
The waiter wrote it down… then hesitated. Looked again.
—Sorry… are you Ilya Rozanov?
—Yeah.
Then he looked at Shane. And understood.
—Oh…” he let out softly. “I thought you guys didn’t…”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. Shane leaned back slightly.
—Not everything is what it looks like.
Ilya turned the glass slowly between his fingers.
—We’re working on something together.
—Really?
—Just starting,” Shane added.
The waiter smiled, surprised.
—Wow… didn’t expect that.
—Nobody does,” Ilya said.
The waiter walked away.
—Alright,” Ilya said.
—What?
—How are we doing this foundation thing? Where do we even start?
Shane laughed quietly.
—Yeah…
He leaned forward a little.
—We need to open a shared bank account first.
—Corporate… or personal?” Ilya asked.
—Could be either. Depends how you want to handle it.
Ilya thought for a second.
—We could open a marriage account.
Shane looked at him—
and laughed.
—Fuck off.
—It’s efficient.
—Sure.
—Everything shared.
Shane shook his head, smiling.
—You’re insane.
—Functional.
They looked at each other a second longer than necessary. Then Shane continued:
—Something simple… maybe a clothing line.
—And whatever comes in… goes straight there.
Ilya nodded.
—That part, yes.
—But it has to be real.
—It is. We’re not playing around. That’s why we’re here.
Small pause.
—Who are we helping?” Ilya asked.
—That’s the first thing we need to figure out.
—Then we start there.
Shane smiled.
A few tables away, someone lifted a phone. Then another. Then a third.
They weren't reporters. They weren't photographers. Just people. People having lunch. Enjoying their afternoon. Recognizing faces. Shane noticed it first. A girl pretending to check her messages while discreetly aiming her camera toward them. Two tables farther back, a man did exactly the same thing. Ilya kept talking like nothing was happening.
—So first we decide who it's for, then we figure out the structure.
—Yeah.
Shane took a sip of water.
—People are taking pictures of us.
—I know.
Ilya didn't even look up.
—Since when?
—Since I got here.
A small laugh escaped Shane.
—And you weren't gonna tell me?
—You just noticed.
—Fair point.
It should have felt awkward. But it didn't.
Strangely enough, neither of them moved. Neither tried to hide. Neither asked for a different table. Because that was exactly why they were there. Not to attract attention. But not to avoid it either.
—This is gonna be online in less than an hour, Shane muttered.
—Probably.
—People are gonna come up with theories.
—Definitely.
—Some really stupid ones.
—Most of them.
Now they were both smiling. A strange kind of calm settled between them. As if, for once, neither of them was chasing something. Or running from something. They were simply sitting there. Existing. Together.
—You know what's weird? Shane asked.
—What?
—When I was a rookie, I thought veteran players had everything figured out.
A laugh escaped Ilya.
—Rookie mistake.
—I know that now.
—Nobody has everything figured out.
—Not even you?
—Especially not me.
That made Shane laugh.
A real one.
—Liar.
—No.
—You've got an incredible career.
—Uh-huh.
—And you still buy cereal because the box has a cute drawing on it.
Ilya looked at him.
—It was a bear.
—Exactly.
—It was a good bear.
—You spent eight dollars because of a bear.
—Worth it.
Shane shook his head. Still smiling. For a moment he forgot about the cameras. The pictures. The attention. Everything. And simply watched him. His hands. The way he talked. The ease with which he took up space without trying to. Nine years. And there were still things he was discovering.
—What?
Ilya asked.
Shane looked away.
—Nothing.
—You were staring at me.
—Don't be an idiot.
—You were.
—No.
—Yeah.
Shane shook his head. And for some reason... it felt more like a date than anything they'd ever done before.
There was still daylight coming through the windows when they got back to Shane's apartment. Montreal felt quiet. For once. No interviews. No teammates. No cameras. Just them. Shane dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter.
—Now what?
Ilya took off his jacket.
—Food.
—Ilya Rozanov, we ate just a while ago.
—Shane Hollander, I'm hungry again. What do you want me to do?
A smile tugged at Shane's mouth.
—You're cooking?
—I'm going to try.
—That worries me.
—Me too.
Ilya opened the fridge. Looked inside. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing had changed.
—We barely have anything.
—We have potatoes.
—And cheese.
—And gravy.
—And a suspicious-looking lettuce.
Shane burst out laughing.
—Don't be dramatic.
—That lettuce is fighting for its life.
—It's still good.
—That's exactly what someone trying to poison me would say.
In the end, they decided to improvise a poutine and a salad. Not because they knew how to make either one. Because they looked simple. Huge mistake.
Twenty minutes later, they were already arguing. Not a real argument. One of those pointless ones. The kind that didn't matter.
—I told you to cut the potatoes smaller.
—I did cut them small.
—That's not small.
—Since when are you a potato expert?
—Since you're clearly not one.
Shane shot him a look.
Ilya returned it.
Both of them ended up laughing.
Again. Just like they'd been doing all afternoon. They divided the work.
Ilya handled the potatoes.
Shane handled the salad.
Though "handled" was being generous. Neither of them seemed to know what they were doing.
—How much goes in here?
—I don't know.
—Then why did you hand it to me?
—Because you were closer.
—Excellent system.
At one point they both reached for the same bowl. Their hands brushed. Nothing dramatic. Just a touch. But both of them froze for a second. One second longer than something so simple deserved. Then they carried on. As if nothing had happened. And still... something lingered in the air.
Shane looked down at the cutting board. Trying to focus. Not very successfully. Because every time he looked up, he found Ilya. Moving around the kitchen. Looking for ingredients. Opening the wrong drawers. Swearing in Russian whenever he couldn't find something.
What an idiot, he thought. And God, was he ridiculously in love with him.
—What?
Ilya asked from across the kitchen.
Shane blinked.
—Nothing.
—Focus on the potatoes.
—Focus on your salad.
Then—
—Shit.
The knife slipped.
Nothing serious.
But enough.
Shane pulled his hand back immediately.
A thin red line appeared across one finger.
—What did you do?
Ilya reacted instantly.
Dropped everything.
Absolutely everything.
—I'm fine.
—Let me see.
—Ilya.
—Shane.
He was already standing in front of him.
Taking his hand.
Examining the cut as if it were far worse than it actually was.
—It's a scratch.
—It's still an injury.
—I'll survive.
—I know.
And yet he still went for the first-aid kit. Shane watched him search for alcohol wipes. Bandages. A Band-Aid. All that attention focused on something barely bleeding. And suddenly... the finger stopped mattering. Because Ilya was holding his hand. Because he was concentrating. Because he was taking care of him. And Shane couldn't even remember if it hurt anymore. Probably not. Or maybe it did. He just stopped noticing.
—I don't need all of this.
—Yes, you do.
—No.
—Yes.
—Ilya.
—Shane.
The look he got was enough. He wasn't going to win. He never won those arguments. A minute later he had a Band-Aid on his finger. And a glove over that.
—This is ridiculous.
—It's hygiene.
—I'm cutting lettuce.
—Exactly.
—Can I take it off?
—No.
—I'm fine.
—Stop being stubborn.
—I'm not stubborn.
—You're wearing a glove.
—Because you made me.
—And you're keeping it on.
Shane shook his head. But the smile was already there. The same one that always appeared. The one he could never hide. Whenever Ilya did things like this. Whenever he took care of him without asking. Whenever he decided something was important and the rest of the world could argue all it wanted.
The kitchen returned to chaos. The potatoes almost burned. The gravy came out weird. The salad somehow ended up with ingredients neither of them remembered buying. Eventually... dinner was ready. They sat across from each other. Tried the first bite. Then another. And another. Until Shane suddenly started laughing. Out of nowhere.
—What?
Ilya asked.
—This is terrible.
—It's not that bad.
—It's awful.
—I've eaten worse.
—That doesn't help.
Now both of them were laughing.
The tension.
The exhaustion.
The pressure.
All of it felt farther away.
Much farther away.
Shane reached a hand across the table. Ilya took it without thinking. Natural. Automatic. Like breathing. Their fingers intertwined. And for a moment neither of them said anything. They didn't need to. Because some days love looked spectacular. And other days... it looked like a messy kitchen. A mediocre salad. A ridiculous glove. And a hand you didn't want to let go of.
And somehow... those were the best days.
Later that night, they were already in bed. The TV was still on. Low volume. Some sports show playing in the background. Ilya lay stretched out against the pillows, relaxed. Shane rested his head on his chest while Ilya lazily ran his fingers through his hair.
Shane was completely still. Like that was exactly where he was supposed to be. Just quiet. Just safety. Ilya absentmindedly brushed a hand down his arm.
—You're heavy.
—You complain about everything.
—You're the one who complains more.
A small smile pulled at Ilya's mouth, memories drifting through his head. All those moments alone together. All the times Shane had completely fallen apart under his touch. Then the voice on the television changed.
—...and one of the new faces everyone is talking about this season—
Both of them looked up. A commercial. And there he was. João. Confident. Comfortable. Like he'd already been there for years. Shane narrowed his eyes. He recognized him immediately.
—That guy...
Ilya didn't answer right away.
—You know him?
Shane hesitated.
—At the gala.
His eyes stayed on the screen.
—He ignored me.
One of Ilya's eyebrows lifted.
—You?
—Yeah.
—And?
A dry laugh escaped Shane.
—Nothing.
—Sure.
Ilya didn't take his eyes off him.
—It bothered you.
—No.
A perfect lie. Ilya let it go. At least outwardly. But he didn't buy it for a second. His attention shifted back to the TV.
—He plays with me.
Then he added casually:
—We shared a room recently.
Something changed.
Not much.
But enough.
—What? Shane asked.
—Yeah.
Ilya shrugged.
—We talked a little.
Shane stayed quiet.
—He's weird, Ilya added.
—Weird how?
—I don't know.
He watched João on the screen.
—He's full of surprises.
A second later he shook his head.
—Weird.
Then again:
—Really weird.
The commercial kept playing. But Shane wasn't watching anymore.
—What else?
Ilya took a second before answering.
—Nothing else.
—Nothing?
—No.
The room settled into an odd kind of quiet.
—What'd you talk about?
Ilya turned his head slightly.
—Hollander...
—What?
—Let it go.
Shane didn't move. He was still resting on Ilya's chest. But not quite as comfortably as before.
Ilya watched him for a moment. He didn't say it. Didn't need to. It was obvious he wasn't buying it.
—We just talked.
—Nothing interesting.
—Normal stuff?
—Yeah.
—Like hockey?
—Yeah.
—Just hockey?
A quiet breath left Ilya's nose.
—What do you want me to say?
Shane hesitated.
—I don't know.
His voice dropped.
—I guess I wanna know what you think of him.
That got Ilya's attention.
—Already told you.
—He's weird.
—Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything.
—Means enough.
—No, it doesn't.
Shane lifted his head so he could look directly at him.
—Do you like him?
Ilya held his gaze.
A second longer than necessary.
—I don't know him.
—But you talked to him.
—And?
—And you shared a room with him.
Ilya's eyes narrowed slightly.
—And?
There was an edge there now.
Not aggressive.
Just clear.
Shane felt it immediately.
Still—
—Nothing.
The answer wasn't convincing.
Not even to himself.
Ilya studied him for another second.
—Hollander.
Short.
Flat.
Not loud.
Just enough.
Shane settled back onto his chest.
The conversation should have ended there.
For a little while, it did.
Then—
—Why?
Shane looked up again.
—What?
—Why all the questions?
This time the answer didn't come right away. Because he didn't really have one. Not a good one, anyway.
—I don't know.
And for the first time since João's face had appeared on the screen... he was completely honest.
Ilya looked at him for a moment. Then slowly shook his head. Like he didn't understand what was happening either. So, he let it go. But Shane kept hearing the name in the back of his mind. João. Nothing more. Just a name. And somehow... it stayed there. Eventually Shane stopped asking questions. Ilya didn't bring him up again. But neither of them fell asleep as quickly as they expected.