Summary:

There’s still a big part of him that wants all the same things he used to. The hockey, those other interests, the simplicity of the smaller circle. But there’s a twinge of something else now beside it when he considers it for too long, a bruise he can’t place the origins of. He’d been able to put somewhat of a name to it, after Rose.

He only wishes he hadn’t filled in the rest of the blanks staring down at a grainy photograph of Svetlana Vetrova in a convenience store parking lot in Boston, a bag hanging off of her manicured finger just transparent enough to make out the logo of a First Response as she’d ducked into a sleek, black sports car, driving away with Shane's best worst would-have-been and, presumably, Ilya Rozanov's baby.

Shane feels no particular way about this turn of events. He really, honestly, mostly is somewhat close to believing that, too. It's progress.