THE NEW SHADOW

7. THE ROOKIE

The sound of the puck against the stick echoed sharp and constant through the rink.

—Up, up!” one of the coaches shouted from the bench.

The ice was fast that morning. Faster than usual. Rozanov noticed it from the very first shift. But it wasn’t the ice. It was him. Costa.

He moved differently now. Looser. More confident. Like he wasn’t trying to prove anything anymore… like he already knew exactly where he stood.

Rozanov watched him in silence through several shifts. He wasn’t marking him obviously. Wasn’t chasing him. But he was there. Measuring him.

Costa received the puck in the neutral zone, spun on himself with ridiculous ease, and left two defensemen behind like they were standing still.

Rozanov reacted late. Rare for him. They collided for the first time that shift. Body against body. The hit was clean. Hard. Costa didn’t fall. If anything, the opposite. He smiled. Not a big smile. Not mocking. Small. Certain. Like that exact moment was what he’d been waiting for. Rozanov clenched his jaw.

—Again,” he muttered under his breath.

The next attempt was more direct. Rozanov pinned him against the boards, cutting off the angle with precision. But Costa twisted at the last second, protecting the puck with his hip, absorbing the contact, and got out. Again.

Rozanov stayed in the play half a second longer than necessary. Annoyed. Not because of the point. Because of the feeling.

Practice continued, but it wasn’t just practice anymore. Not for Rozanov. It was something else now.

The ice was already starting to empty out. Some players headed toward the locker room while others stayed a few extra minutes taking loose shots. Ilya was one of the last ones there. Not because he needed it. Because he didn’t want to think. The puck hit the post and bounced far away.

—That’s not like you.

Ilya didn’t turn immediately.

He recognized the voice. The captain approached slowly, stopping a few feet away without invading his space.

—You’re staying in plays half  second too long,” he added. “Again.”

Ilya picked another puck off the ice.

—I’m fine.

Shot. This time it went in. The captain didn’t react.

—I didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied calmly. “I said that’s not like you.”

Ilya rested the stick against the ice.

—Just a bad day.

—No,” the captain corrected gently. “A bad day doesn’t look like this.”

Small pause.

—This has been a few days now.

Ilya clenched his jaw. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t admit it either. The captain stepped a little closer, lowering his voice slightly.

—You’ve got more talent than what you’re showing right now.

No harshness. No raised tone. Somehow worse that way.

—And I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he continued, “but it’s noticeable.”

Ilya exhaled through his nose.

—Nothing’s going on.

Automatic. Defensive. The captain watched him for a second too long. Reading him.

—Look,” he said finally. “I don’t need you to tell me.”

Easy calm in his voice.

—But if there’s something… whatever it is… and you need support—

He gestured lightly toward the hallway.

—we talk about it. In private.

Direct. Clear. No pressure… but no room to dodge either. Ilya lowered his eyes for a second. Thought too much. Then shook his head lightly.

—I’m fine.

The captain didn’t react right away. Just held his gaze. Like he knew it wasn’t true. But he didn’t push.

—Alright,” he said finally. “But don’t get lost in it.”

Careful now.

—We need you focused.

Ilya nodded once.

—Yeah.

The captain tapped his stick twice against the ice and started walking toward the exit. Ilya stayed there. Still. Staring down at the ice. Thinking about too many things at once. And unwilling to admit any of them. Finally, he picked up his helmet. And left.

Steam slowly began filling the showers. Ilya walked in without looking at anyone. Pulled his shirt off in one quick motion and dropped it into the locker. He was breathing heavier than usual, even though he wasn’t exhausted. Not exactly. Just… loaded.

Water hammered against the tiled walls. Some of the guys were already inside. João too. Ilya didn’t look for him. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

He stepped beneath one of the empty showers, letting the hot water hit the back of his neck directly. Closed his eyes for a second. There was silence. Or the closest thing that place could offer. Then he turned his head slightly. And saw him. João stood a few feet away with his back turned. Calm. Natural. Like the space belonged to him just as much as the ice did.

The water ran slowly down his skin, tracing every line without exaggerating any of them. Nothing out of place. Nothing forced. He simply… fit.

Ilya held the look one second too long. Just one second. But it was enough. His body reacted before he could process it. Immediate. Violent. Those nine reasons came alive instantly. Completely involuntary. Ilya clenched his jaw.

—No— The thought came sharp and immediate.

He dropped his gaze at once, like someone could’ve noticed, even though nobody was paying attention. The sound of the water hadn’t changed. Neither had the voices. Everything stayed the same. Except him.

He shifted slightly, turning his back, trying to focus on something else. Anything else. But it was already there. That discomfort. That different kind of heat. That reaction that either had no explanation… or worse, had one he didn’t want to name.

Ilya dragged a hand down his face and took a deep breath. Control.

That was the only thing he knew. Control. Without looking up again, he stepped back. Then another. And left. Fast. Without saying anything. Without looking at anyone.

The cold air of the locker room hit his wet skin immediately. He walked to his locker, yanked the door open harder than necessary, and grabbed a towel without really thinking about it. Dry. Precise. Like nothing had happened. But underneath… he wasn’t calm. And he knew it.

A week later, the arena was full. This wasn’t practice anymore. This was different. Bright lights. Constant noise. Voices pouring down from the stands like a wave that never fully broke. It was an official game.

The championship had already started… and you could feel it.

The puck dropped. The game exploded into motion. Rozanov stepped onto the ice with a clear head, focused… or at least he thought he was. Because Costa was there again. Fast. Precise. Uncomfortable.

They collided in the first period. Stick against stick. Shoulder against shoulder. Neither gave an inch.

—Come on,” Ilya muttered, more to himself than to him.

Costa didn’t answer. But he looked at him. That same expression. Certain. Measured. The game continued.

It happened in the second period. A shout. Loud. Clear. Different from the rest.

—João!

Rozanov turned his head instinctively. He wasn’t the only one. But Costa reacted differently. He stopped for half a second… and looked toward the stands. Then he saw them. And changed. Not in the way he played. In his expression. Costa noticed immediately. Followed his line of sight. And there they were. His family.

Closer to the ice than he expected. His mother stood with a restrained but steady smile. His father serious, watching every movement carefully. An older woman—his grandmother—sat beside them with a soft, proud expression, like she’d already lived through moments like this many times before. And beside her… his sister. Tall. Effortlessly elegant. But what truly stood out was the way she carried herself. Light. Warm. Present. She smiled easily, naturally. A smile that didn’t ask for anything… but gave everything. She lifted her hand, waving enthusiastically. Costa answered from the ice, lifting his stick slightly. And smiled.

Rozanov skated closer during the next shift, close enough to speak.

—Your family?” he asked directly, eyes still facing forward.

Costa let out a small laugh, still looking toward the stands.

—Yeah…” he answered. “I didn’t know they were coming.”

Light pause.

—Caught me by surprise.

Another softer pause.

—But I’m happy.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to. Rozanov glanced at him briefly. Then returned to the game. But something already felt different.

The match stayed intense. Hits. Speed. Fast line changes. But every so often… Costa looked up into the stands. And every single time, somebody was already looking back at him.

The game ended in noise and applause. Nothing unusual for a championship match. But for Rozanov… it was.

A little later, far from the ice, in one of the quieter inner hallways of the arena, more private, more removed from the noise… Ilya saw them again. He didn’t fully approach. Stayed at a respectful distance. But close enough. João was there with them.

—Oi, meu amor…” the older woman said, opening her arms.

The conversation continued in Portuguese.

His grandmother hugged him with deep tenderness, holding him a second longer than necessary.

—You look stronger,” she told him, touching his face carefully.

Then his mother stepped forward, wrapping both arms around him.

—We’re so proud of you.

His father didn’t say much. But the hand on João’s shoulder was firm. Present. Enough. And his sister… she didn’t walk. She ran. Threw herself at him with a laugh that filled the entire hallway.

—You look incredible!

João caught her effortlessly, lifting her slightly off the ground.

—You still exaggerate,” he answered between laughs.

—Never,” she replied, pulling back only enough to look at him properly.

Her energy was impossible to ignore. Her light. That was it. A presence that didn’t compete… it accompanied.

Several bags rested on one of the nearby benches. Gifts. Wrapped carefully. Some simple, others more elaborate.

—You didn’t have to do this,” João said, shaking his head even while smiling.

—Of course we did,” his mother answered. “It’s always necessary.”

Ilya watched silently. He didn’t understand the words this time. Not really. But he didn’t need to. What existed there wasn’t in the language. It was in the way they looked at each other. The way they touched him. The way João… let his guard down. Completely. Without effort. Without defense.

Ilya felt something strange. Not uncomfortable like before. Different. Deeper. Something he couldn’t name in that moment. A faint pressure in his chest. A feeling… unfamiliar. Because it wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was something else. Something he’d never had.

He stayed there a few seconds longer. Watching. Learning. Without wanting to interrupt. Then he lowered his gaze. And left. Quietly. But carrying something away with him. Something that… wasn’t going to be easy to ignore.

Practices continued. Official games arrived without warning. More travel. More training. More dedication. More rivalry.

On a weekday evening, the arena was already almost empty. The echo of footsteps had replaced the noise that, hours earlier, had filled every corner. The lights were still on. But colder now. More distant.

Rozanov left late. He wasn’t in a hurry. He walked calmly through the hallways, his mind still heavy with everything he’d seen. Everything he’d felt. Things he couldn’t even name himself. He pushed open the door toward the parking lot. The night air hit his face. Silence. Or almost.

—Hey.

Ilya turned slightly.

Costa stood a few feet away beside his car, leaning over a large box that was clearly giving him more trouble than he expected.

—Do you mind?” João asked, gesturing toward the box. “Didn’t think it’d be this heavy.”

Ilya didn’t answer immediately. He just walked toward him.

—Where to?

—The trunk.

Ilya grabbed one side without another word. Heavy. Heavier than it looked. They lifted it together, adjusting their grip naturally, without really needing to coordinate. In silence.

The box landed inside the trunk with a dull thud. João let out a breath with a small laugh.

—Thanks.

Ilya lowered his eyes slightly. They stayed there for a moment.

Doing nothing. Not leaving.

The parking lot was almost empty. Just a couple cars farther away.

—They came from far away,” João said finally, leaning against the car. “Didn’t tell me anything.”

Ilya glanced sideways at him.

—Was obvious.

João smiled faintly.

—Yeah… they’re like that.

Pause.

—They never fail me.

Ilya lowered his gaze for a second, resting one hand on the edge of the trunk.

Silence again. But different this time. Heavier.

—You have a beautiful connection with your family,” Ilya said suddenly, without embellishment.

João looked at him. Really looked at him this time. Deeper.

—They’re the most important thing I have,” he answered without hesitation. “Everything I do… is for them.”

Brief pause.

—I would die for them.

It didn’t sound exaggerated. It sounded real.

Silence returned. And this time it stayed longer. They looked at each other without knowing exactly what to say. Without needing to fill it. Ilya felt something tighten in his chest. He lifted his gaze.

His eyes were shining slightly. He didn’t completely hide it. João noticed.

—And you?” he asked calmly after a moment. “Your family… where do they live?”

Ilya swallowed.

—Russia.

The answer came short. Flat. But it wasn't enough.

João didn't push. He simply waited.

And somehow, that was what opened the door.

Ilya swallowed again.

—My father died.

The words came out before he could stop them.

Like a wound he'd never really finished dealing with.

João said nothing.

Didn't rush him.

And maybe that was why Ilya kept going.

—A few months ago.

His eyes dropped to the ground.

Suddenly, the parking lot felt too quiet.

—I wasn't there when it happened.

The confession hung in the air between them.

Ilya clenched his jaw.

A familiar pressure settled in his chest.

One he'd spent a long time avoiding.

—And my brother...

He gave a small shake of his head.

—We don't talk.

The conversation drifted into another stretch of quiet. But this one didn't feel peaceful. It felt dangerous. Because for the first time since arriving in Ottawa, he was talking about something that had nothing to do with hockey. Nothing to do with the ice. Or interviews. Or the version of himself everyone thought they knew. This was something real. An open scar.

Ilya lowered his eyes to the pavement. And for a second, he regretted it. Not what he'd said. Who he'd said it to. Someone he barely knew. Someone who had no reason to know any of it. He gave a slight shake of his head, as if trying to push the thought away.

—I don't know why I'm telling you this.

The admission slipped out almost under his breath. More to himself than to João. His lips pulled into a brief smile. Without humor. Without warmth. Just discomfort. The kind that hits when you realize you've lowered a wall you've spent years building. And it's already too late to put it back up.

João glanced down for a second, choosing his words carefully.

—When I was seventeen...

he began.

—I got hurt.

Ilya looked up.

—My knee.

João slid his hands into his pockets.

—The doctors said I might never play the same way again.

There was no drama in his voice.

Just memory.

—My dad didn't say a word that day.

He looked out across the empty parking lot.

—He just sat with me.

For a while.

—And stayed.

Ilya held his gaze.

—He didn't talk.

—Didn't give advice.

—Nothing.

A small breath escaped João.

—But he didn't leave.

The space between them softened. Not empty. Not awkward. Shared. For the first time, there was no tension. No competition. Just presence. João gently lowered the trunk.

—Thanks for helping me.

Ilya nodded.

—Yeah.

João opened the driver's door, then paused before getting in.

—See you tomorrow.

Ilya looked at him.

—Yeah.

João climbed into the car. The engine came to life. The headlights lit the parking lot for a moment before disappearing into the night. Ilya stayed where he was. Alone. Watching the spot where João had been standing. Feeling something different in his chest. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. But not simple either. Something that didn't have a name yet. And wasn't going to disappear anytime soon.