Chapter Text
It had felt like a pretty big deal when Shane had managed to sign such a lucrative deal with CCM. He’d only just been drafted and was already landing major brand partnerships. He felt good about it. More than good—he felt smug. He was supposed to be a beta, and betas never did as well with sponsorships as alphas did. It was nice to get a head start on the rest of his draft class.
Unfortunately, CCM had also signed the same asshole first-overall alpha: Ilya Rozanov.
It irked Shane immensely that he had to share his first major milestone with Rozanov. He wanted the spotlight to himself, not split with a brooding Russian who barely spoke English.
The rink was a massive production, swallowed by towering studio lights and heavy black drapes. Once they were both in full gear, taking turns under the flashes, Shane couldn't sit still. He took casual, slow laps around the ice, surreptitiously studying his rival from across the rink.
Rozanov looked irritatingly mature for nineteen. He was broader, sharper, and filled out his pads with a heavy, masculine presence that Shane's body simply hadn't managed yet. By comparison, Shane still had a hint of soft baby fat around his jawline. Even though they were nearly the same height, he looked downright slight next to the alpha. Alpha hormones, Shane thought bitterly, digging his skates into the ice. Genetic cheating.
Shane wiped the sweat from his brow but it wouldn’t stop pouring. The crew had been adjusting the lights for about ten minutes now and Shane had felt like he was baking in his pads and gear. Usually a few laps around the rink and he felt steadier and more clear headed. Right then though, his body had begun to feel heavy and slow.
The director called him over to do some shots together. They were supposed to be dramatic, all high intensity and raw hostility. It was the rivalry thing, Shane supposed. Montreal versus Boston. Second pick versus First pick. Beta versus Alpha.
“Alright guys, I need you to lock onto each other. I want emotion! Hatred! Give me—”
The director didn’t manage to finish because as soon as Shane and Rozanov locked eyes, they both burst into a fit of giggles. The director rubbed his eyes.
“Okay, let’s try again.”
This time Shane managed to hold it together until he saw Rozanov’s lip twitch, and then it was over for both of them again. By take nineteen, they couldn’t even bend over the puck before dissolving into fits of laughter.
“Sorry, sorry,” Rozanov said, his deep voice warbling. “That one was my fault.”
Shane could see the sweat beading on Rozanov's upper lip, his hair dark with moistutre was plastered to his forehead. Shane knew he couldn’t look much better; the air on the ice was unbearably hot.
Rozanov leaned close to set up for the next take, and suddenly, the world shifted.
It was a scent. As a beta, Shane had never been privy to the secret language that existed between Alphas and Omegas, so to him, it was just an overwhelming smell. It was musky and earthy, thick with a hint of something raw and organic. The sheer potency of it made Shane’s knees wobble, a sudden, heavy heat pooling deep in his stomach.
“Hey, Shane? You doing okay?” one of the crew members called out. Shane had never caught their name.
“Ah, yeah. Sure,” Shane forced out, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Sorry, it’s just really hot in here.”
The director nodded, a grim set to his mouth.
“Yeah,” he sighed, dragging out the word. “Let’s just wrap it there, guys. We got some usable material.”
*
Untying his gear took three times as long as it usually did, mostly because the air in the locker room was thick with that bizarre, heavy smell from the ice. It hung in the back of his throat, distracting him. His fingers flatly refused to cooperate, shaking and clumsy against the skate laces. It was deeply, profoundly annoying. He had an order for this. He’d stripped down in the exact same sequence since he was eleven years old, never straying a single time.
Today, the routine felt foreign. His hands wouldn't listen, trapped in a cloud of that musky, organic scent that seemed to be sticking to his skin. He kept clawing at his chest pads too early and fumbling with his skates too late.
Twice he had to stop to put his head between his knees, the thick smell making his head spin and the world go slanted.
Did he have heatstroke? Four hours under the intense glare of the studio lamps in full gear would probably be enough to set that off. Plus, he’d already chugged four bottles of water and hadn’t needed to piss once. That was enough medical data to deduce that whatever the fuck was happening to his body wasn’t great.
He’d be fine. A cool shower and he’d be fine. He’d be fine. Fine.
Shane felt a fraction better once he’d finally stripped bare, the cool locker room air hitting his skin. He sat on the bench, chest heaving, trying to just breathe and let his head settle. He was vaguely aware of a shower running somewhere in the back, the water oddly loud in the near-empty room.
Then the smell flared up again, stronger this time, rolling over him from the direction of the stalls. Or scent. Shane wasn’t sure anymore; he wasn’t sure if there was even a difference. A smell was just a sensory input, but a scent implied something visceral and biological. This was... it was something else entirely. Shane couldn’t understand whether he liked it or was threatened by it, but along with the phantom taste of freezing rain on his tongue came that same terrifying pull in his gut. Lower this time. Heavy and profound, like an anchor dragging his insides down.
Was it him? Did heatstroke change the chemical makeup of your own sweat?
Lifting an arm, he took a sceptical sniff of his armpit. The pungent smell there was entirely normal. Just regular, post-skate sweat. Not him, then.
Which meant someone else was tracking that suffocating, heavy scent into the room.
He needed to shower. He needed to get clean, get dressed, and get the absolute fuck out of here.
The showers were on the far side of the room, miles away from his stall. They were the usual kind you find in public rinks—old tiles, no dividers, completely and utterly open. Shane swallowed thickly, tasting that heavy scent on his tongue until it got stuck in his throat. Then he remembered Rozanov—the only other person who could possibly be in there—and swallowed again.
Fuck.
Okay.
He felt like Bambi when he finally managed to get his legs under him, his knees shaking until he stabilised enough to stand. Keeping his gaze glued to the floor, he forced himself to walk over, lingering right in the doorway of the shower room. He couldn't quite force his feet to take that extra step inside. The smell was suffocating here, overwhelming. It was as if the steam from the hot water had enhanced the scent, diffusing it heavily into the damp air.
Rozanov turned toward him, a smirk playing on his lips as his dark eyes flickered lazily over Shane’s bare form. “You need invite?”
“Fuck off.” It came out sharper than intended.
Rozanov’s smirk just widened. He shrugged, completely unbothered, and continued soaping under his arms and chest, utterly heedless of his dick swinging freely.
What the fuck.
Shane had shared locker rooms since he was old enough for team sports. This was the first time in his entire life he’d ever found himself irritated by the mere presence of a dick. What had he expected? That Rozanov was going to be shy about being naked? No one ever was—not even Shane. You just got used to naked male bodies in hockey.
Instead of dissecting his sudden, bizarre hang-up, Shane marched to the furthest corner away from Rozanov and turned on the water.
But he couldn’t stop glancing at the alpha. It kept happening repeatedly, completely without his permission. Every time he caught himself staring, he quickly snapped his eyes back around to glare at a broken tile in front of him.
Until the next time he looked.
This time, his eyes locked dead onto Rozanov's. The alpha’s eyes were totally blown, his lips parted. Shane suddenly couldn't breathe. That heavy smell that had been plaguing him increased tenfold, exploding through the steam. The feeling in his stomach sharpened into such a deep, hollow ache that it stole the air right from his lungs. His ass tingled—a deep, entirely new, and almost pleasant sensation—connecting to the ache in his stomach to create a bridge of liquid, agonising need.
Rozanov gestured down toward his own groin. Shane's eyes followed, and he was horrified to notice that the alpha was rapidly filling out, growing hard right before his eyes.
The fuck you Shane wanted to scream died instantly on his tongue. Suddenly, he just wanted to lick him, to bite him, to taste him. He wanted to slide right up against that wet skin, wrap himself completely around the alpha, and bury himself beneath his touch. He wanted him. He needed him.
As if pulled by an invisible string, his legs carried him straight over to Rozanov. The Russian's large arms came up around Shane's bare waist, holding him almost reverently. Shane didn't even fight it. He buried his nose directly into the crook of Rozanov’s neck and whimpered.
*
What Shane remembered about what happened next was less a recollection and more a roadmap of sensations, whose only connective tissue was the white-hot fog of heat and pure, unadulterated need.
There was tile under him—shivering cold at first, then suddenly warm. There were hands and mouths, or maybe just one mouth; it was impossible to tell through the haze. He remembered the sharp, salty taste of slick skin, and that delectable, earthy scent that he drank and licked at right from the source.
Then came the pleasure. It was greater than anything he’d ever been able to manipulate from his own body, a massive, driving force. He rode it in relentless waves until it built and built, finally crashing over him in a blinding blur of euphoria—and a searing, sudden pain that split both his ass and his neck.
A complete sense of calm came over him, blanketing him in a warm wash of absolute surrender.
Somebody said his name in calming tone. He remembered turning towards it, unseeing. He remembered a growl at his throat, vibrating through the teeth latched there. He didn’t feel scared or threatened. He felt safe.
Then hands under his arm. He was being moved and he felt like he was being torn apart. He cried out, he lashed out. He wanted to go back.
Cold air on his skin. Movement under him.
*
There was light, but it was soft. The floor was hard and the walls were stark, but none of it mattered because the smell was there. Nothing else—before or after this moment—had ever mattered.
He remembered grabbing a fistful of curls and wrenching them back with rough force to elicit a sharp hiss from their owner.
He remembered pressing his mouth flat against a hot throat, and the raw sound that throat made vibrated against his lips like a direct jolt to his spine.
*
There was a bath.
It was too big for one person and he had been in it with somebody, stretched out and relaxed. He had been held up by the ribs like a child, and the water had gone over his shoulders in a way that made him feel like he was going to be sick with how good it was. He remembered a hand, gentle and large, washing him like Shane was someone worth worshipping.
*
A weight on his back, pressing him down.
He wanted it.
*
Hot. He was so hot.
*
Apple slices, cubes of cheese, something with chicken. Each piece held up to his lips by hands that weren’t his. He ate each bite, offering devout licks to each fingertip, ensuring them free of mess before letting them go.
*
Being turned over and letting it happen. Someone thrusting into his body so hard he felt the structure beneath them shake, until he was sure it would collapse. His own voice emitted sounds and pleas and words it had never even attempted before.
*
Sex. Sex. Sex.
And kissing. So much kissing.
*
Being helped to the bathroom and feeling no shame. There was simply no room in here for feelings like that.
*
Water at his mouth and a hand on his jaw, and a voice going you drink, drink, no, drink, in a tone that sat somewhere between an order and begging, over and over until he did. A hand shaking against his chin.
*
His mouth against a throat again. Many times. His blunt, human teeth breaking skin, but not in the way he needed to. They had both cried with the sheer frustration and heartbreak of it.
*
Rozanov.
That was who it was.
Blue eyes.
Sharp teeth.
Tenderness.
Rozanov.
Ilya. Ilya.
*
At some point, he’d dragged all the bedding into a pile. He couldn’t remember why, just the fierce urge and the desperate actions of it. A soothing hand on his back when he cried because nothing felt right.
*
Rozanov asleep, curled around the back of him, one hand flat on his stomach. Lips near his ear. Cock still buried inside of him.
*
Rozanov awake and not moving, forehead pressed against the top of his spine, just breathing. His mouth gentle against the knobs of bone there.
*
Rozanov saying something in Russian, very quietly, over and over, though Shane didn't understand a single word of it.
*
Rozanov.
*
Rozanov cleaning him with a damp cloth, eyes full of ferocious devotion. Shane reaching up to touch the moles on his face.
*
Rozanov.
*
Shane couldn't tell you if the heat slowly ebbed away, clarity becoming a slow bleed back into his mind, or if it was more like the sudden flicking of a switch. All he knew was that he'd awoke from a sleep so deep and heavy it felt more like a coma, and everything was different.
He stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling, feeling so exhausted that the effort it took to peel his eyelids open seemingly used up the last of his energy. His mouth and lips were so dry they hurt. He tried to gather some saliva, but found he couldn't.
There was a shifting next to him. When Shane turned his head to look, a searing, red-hot pain shot straight through his neck, making him gasp audibly.
The figure next to him sat up quickly at the sound, and Shane met the eyes of Ilya Rozanov.
There was no other way to describe Rozanov at that moment; he was thoroughly wrecked. He had bite marks and bruises everywhere, with angry red scratches tracking down his arms and around his shoulders. It looked like someone had used his neck as a chew toy, if the evidence of multiple teeth indentations was anything to go by. His hair was stuck down with grease in places, and standing on end in others.
Rozanov locked his eyes onto Shane, a pure, ragged desperation in them. "Hollander," he choked out, his voice cracked and broken.
Just then, Shane's neck throbbed again. He reached up to soothe whatever was paining him, only for his fingertips to brush against ragged, torn flesh.
"What—" It was all Shane could muster before he dissolved into a dry, violent coughing fit.
Rozanov wrenched him upright, pressing a bottle of water directly to his lips. The cool liquid felt euphoric sliding down his lacerated throat.
When he finished the bottle, Shane looked back at the alpha, only to find Rozanov staring at him. The Russian looked utterly terrified.
"What—," Shane tried again, his throat scratching. "What happened? I don't..." He looked around the unfamiliar room, finally noticing they were on the floor away from the bed, tangled in a massive, chaotic pile of blankets. "Where are we?"
"What do you... remember?" The hesitance in Rozanov's voice was something Shane never, in his entire life, thought he would hear from the first-overall pick.
"N—nothing. Well..." There were images. Sensations. Flickers of moments. None of them made sense. "Almost nothing. I—I don't understand."
Rozanov looked like he was about to throw up. Saying nothing, he brought his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead against his arm while his other hand hung limply between his legs.
"Rozanov?"
"Hollander... I..."
"For fuck's sake, Rozanov. You're—fuck, you're scaring me."
Rozanov laughed wetly, one corner of his mouth turning upward. It wasn't a happy smile.
"Rozanov... please..."
Rozanov rubbed his eyes roughly before turning them back to Shane. They shone with unshed tears, and Shane's heart began to pound with sheer, unadulterated panic.
"You... presented."
"Presented?"
"As an omega."
"Fuck."
"You went into heat. I... followed in a... a rut."
Shane said nothing, a freezing coldness spreading through his entire body as his chest constricted. His neck throbbed viciously.
"I bit you," Rozanov whispered. "I'm... I'm sorry."
"...bit? You... we're...?"
"Mated. Yes."
"I'm an... omega."
Rozanov looked away, as if he physically couldn't bear to look directly at Shane anymore. "Yes."
"I'm not an omega."
"Yes, you — I —"
“I’m - I’m a guy, you can’t . . .”
Rozanov shrugged again, his hand came up and moved helplessly in the air.
"I'm a fucking beta, Rozanov! I'm not a fucking... I'm not—" He couldn't speak anymore, voice completely stolen by a heavy, broken sob escaping his chest.
"I'm sorry, Hollander." Rozanov reached a hand out toward him, only to let it drop limply into the empty space between them.
Shane couldn’t breathe. His lungs were too full with tragedy to take in even a whisper of oxygen.
“Hollander - “
He felt trapped, his chest tight.
“Hollander, is okay - “
He couldn’t make his lungs expand anymore than they were, they were stuck.
“Hollander -”
He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he -
“Hollander!” Rozanov’s frightened face was suddenly all Shane could see. He felt large, calloused hands bracketing his face. He tried to wrench in a breath once more but failed.
“Fuck, Hollander. I don’t -” he broke off into a litany in Russian before he pulled Shane’s face into his neck, right up to the chewed up scent gland.
Consumed by Rozanov’s scent, Shane took in a great heaving breath that rocked his entire frame.
Rozanov continued to whisper Russian words into Shane’s hair, a hand rubbing his back. Shane wept with each intake of breath, his fingers dug into Rozanov’s sides in a bruising grip. The alpha rocked him, keeping Shane’s nose pressed right into his neck. Shane trembled violently and Rozanov held him tighter.
It took a while for Shane to calm down. His weeping turned into fractured whimpers which turned into wet sniffs.
Rozanov had fallen silent, but his hands never stopped - they ran through Shane's hair and rubbed his back and pressed him tighter and just anchored him.
When Shane had finally calmed, he lifted his head slightly and noticed the room. Tiled floor with a drain in the corner, a door with a hatch and a bed against one wall lacking sheets and pillows. He looked at the pile of blankets under them and understood where they went.
“What is this?”
Rozanov shrugged one shoulder slightly. “Is nest.”
“Nest?”
“Yes. You made it, maybe three days ago.”
“Why would I -wait.” This time he pulled further away to get a good look. “What do you mean three days? How long . . . fuck, how long have we been here?”
Rozanov shrugged again, eyes looking past Shane to the wall.
“Four.”
“F - four?”
“Hmm. Maybe - maybe five?”
“Oh my god.”
Rozanov didn’t look at him still, his thumb nail scratching at the fabric under his knee. Shane suddenly remembered how naked they both were.
He grabbed a corner of a blanket and hauled it over his lower half. Rozanov raised his eyes, lip twitching.
“I think is too late for that.”
“Fuck you.” Shane pulled the blanket tighter around himself. So many things to process since waking, too many things. Shane’s mind was blank.
His neck throbbed.
“Why are we - where . . “ He cleared his throat and shuffled on his knees a little. It was hard to pick a singular thread to pick at. “Why did you . . . .bite me?”
Rozanov looked like he was going to be sick again. He rubbed at his nose and looked down at his knees.
“Was not - I don’t . . .remember. Was rut.”
“But . .you do remember some things. More than me.”
“Yes. But not everything.”
“Fuck.” Shane raked his fingers roughly through his hair. “Fuck.” Louder this time. “What the fuck are we supposed to do?”
“I do not know.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do? I just got drafted. Can I even . ..fuck. Do they even let mated omegas fucking play hockey? I don’t think - They don't even let omegas play, period.”
Rozanov bent forward and buried his face in his hands and said nothing.
“I was a beta. How the fuck . . .”
Rozanov suddenly lifted his head up, he looked frantic, hand moving through the air as punctuation marks.
“I do not know, okay? I am sorry, so sorry Hollander. But I do not know how. Any of it.”
Shane swallowed thickly, the blanket suddenly feeling like a pathetic shield against the avalanche of reality.
“I can hide it though, right?” he asked, his voice pitching higher as his brain frantically scrambled for a loophole. There had to be a loophole. “Blockers. Suppressants. If I take a high enough dosage, nobody has to—”
“They know,” Rozanov interrupted softly.
Shane froze. “—what?”
“We got caught in shower,” Rozanov said, his eyes still glued to the floor. His voice was flat, empty of its usual heat. “Is protocol. Everyone knows.”
“We... we did it in the showers?” The memory flickered behind Shane's eyes—hot steam, broken tile, the terrifyingly beautiful taste of salt and freezing rain. His face burned, but the embarrassment was instantly swallowed by panic. “How did we even get here?”
“Special taxi, I think.” Rozanov shrugged one heavy shoulder. “Is blur.”
“Oh god.” Shane buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. A special medical transit. Security teams. Incident reports. The league’s governing board. It was all on paper now. It was over.
“Hollander,” Rozanov said. The sudden, sharp weight in the alpha's voice made Shane lower his hands. Rozanov had finally stopped scratching at his knee. He looked right at Shane, his blue eyes entirely clear and terrifyingly deadpan. “There is something - I-” Rozanov snapped his mouth shut and the muscles in his jaw flexed visibly.
“What is it?”
Rozanov opened his mouth but shut it again. His gaze roamed the room, not settling and going nowhere near Shane.
“Rozanov.”
Rozanov opened his mouth again, this time succeeding in producing words.
“I - when they ask. Lawyers, police, anyone - when they ask, you say. . . you say you did not want this. I force you.”
“What? Why - we both - no. What the fuck do you mean?”
The alpha sighed through his nose in a quick push of air, irritated. He gestured to Shane.
“You say I force you. This is better.”
“No. That’s not what happened.”
“You do not know what happened.”
“I know enough. And what would they do with you in jail anyway? I thought - I thought bonds between - “ Shane stopped himself. Shane felt that panic that never left tick up in his gut. “You can’t go to jail if I need you.”
Rozanov gestured to his neck, at the chewed up gland there. “They do things. I don't know. But you will be okay.”
There was silence between them for a while, Shane staring at Rozanov, Rozanov staring at the walls.
Eventually, Shane looked away. He was angry.
“I’m not doing that.”
“You have to.”
“Fuck you, don’t put that on me. Why would you want me to?”
“Because of fucking Russia!” Rozanov was yelling now, finally looking at Shane. “This -” His hand frantically waved between the two of them. “- is not allowed. Two men cannot . . .I do not know what they would do to you. You are not Russian but maybe is different. But maybe not. I don’t - “ He pressed his face into hands and rubbed them roughly up and down. When he emerged, his skin was bright red. “Is better, if I am in prison here. You will be looked after.”
“No,” Shane breathed, shaking his head violently, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he leaned forward.
Rozanov looked away again, his profile turning back into that stony, unreadable mask.
“Over here, is prison. Over there — is something else.”
“No. I—fuck, Rozanov, there has to be more options than you going to fucking jail.”
“Maybe,” the alpha whispered, his thumb catching on a loose thread in the blanket. “Probably not.”
The words probably not echoed coldly around the space between them, freezing the air. Russia loomed like an invisible, giant entity in the corner of the room—a dark and dangerous threat he couldn't even begin to comprehend.
And it wasn’t just Russia. Shane was an omega. A bonded omega.
Everything was lost.
He couldn't play hockey anymore. The one thing he’d wanted since he was a three-year-old kid whose parents had strapped his tiny feet into stiff, oversized skates was entirely gone. The one thing he had worked towards for sixteen relentless years of his life had been erased in a single afternoon. His parents had sacrificed so much to get him to the draft—the early mornings, the travel teams, the endless expenses—and now all of it was completely pointless. He felt the heavy, crushing weight of his betrayal sitting squarely in his chest.
He’d been drafted. He’d finally made it.
And now it was gone.
What the fuck was he supposed to do? What could he do?
He wasn’t sure. He’d paid attention in school, he'd kept up with the standard league bylaws, but absolutely nothing in his life had prepared him for a disaster of this scale. A bonded omega. A male, bonded omega. Was that even legally possible in the eyes of the government? Or had he just become a legal anomaly?
There was a sudden knock on the door, followed by a sharp buzz from the little box next to it. A voice overlaid by a thin layer of radio crackle emitted from the speaker.
“Mr. Rozanov, may we come in?”
The mere thought of another person entering this space ignited a fear so sharp it paralysed him. Shane wanted to scream at them to go away. He wanted to hide beneath the heavy pile of blankets or block the entrance with his bare hands. Most of all, he wanted to curl up under Rozanov’s arms and stay there forever.
He did none of those things. He could do none of those things. His body remained so completely still he wasn't entirely sure he was breathing. His nerves, however, danced, pulsing with the desperate urge to do something—anything.
“Mr. Rozanov? Is Mr. Hollander’s heat over?”
Shane felt a large hand press firmly onto his shoulder before leaving his skin. Rozanov got up, padding across the floor, and pressed the wall button.
“Ye—yes. He is... yes.”
Rozanov shifted his weight, intentionally planting his massive frame directly between Shane and the entrance.
The door clicked open to reveal three betas dressed in crisp white medical scrubs—two women and a man. They entered the room slowly and carefully, moving with the practised ease of professionals who had handled this exact disaster a million times before.
“Mr. Hollander,” the first beta woman said. She was short, with a dark braid coiled against her neck, and she spoke with a quiet, practised softness. “It’s nice to see you back to yourself. How are you feeling?”
Shane couldn’t speak; the words were wedged solidly in his dry throat. He shook his head violently, not even sure what he was trying to communicate anymore.
“We understand. This must be quite overwhelming for you,” she continued, stepping closer. “But we do need to check you over.”
The beta man, who was broader and even taller than Rozanov, turned his eyes toward the alpha. “We will need to separate the two of you for a little while.”
The first word Shane managed to force past his lips was a loud, resounding, “No!”
He bolted upright, completely forgetting the blanket and not caring how naked he still was. He ran straight across the tiles to Rozanov. The alpha didn't turn to look at him, but he immediately adjusted his stance, pressing his back against Shane’s front to lock himself like a shield between the omega and the medical team.
Unperturbed, the second beta woman stepped forward, casually passing over two white robes. “Just for a little while. You’ll be right next door to each other.” She levelled a heavy, unblinking look at the alpha. “Mr. Hollander has been through a lot. It would be in your best interest to cooperate to ensure his well-being.”
It sounded like a threat. Looking at the cold certainty in her eyes, Shane knew it absolutely was.