Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Knotting (Eventually), Oral Sex, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Omega Shane Hollander, Shane Has It Real Rough In This One Due to The Patriarchy, Threatened False Rape Accusations, No one here is behaving particularly well, but again because of the patriarchy, omegaverse is just interesting as a metaphor for gendered systems of power!, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, am I working out some stuff about the current political climate? fair enough to say, Margerat Atwood wrote The Handmaid's Tale; I'm doing this, I have been wisely advised to add that this is not a bleak Atwoodian Dystopia, it's just a meditation on what it's like to navigate the expectations of the world in a body you don't reject but did not choose, aw fuck that still sounds bleak, there's also jokes! and fun soulmate shenanigans!, actually maybe a better description is Shane Hollander Has Hot Girl Problems For Tens of Thousands of Words

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-01 Completed: 2026-06-21 Words: 87,410 Chapters: 9/9

Pencil in the Rest

Summary

Scent patches were mandatory for anyone participating in World Junior's, but a lot of the Russian guys Shane saw in the hotel or around the rink had them loosely attached to their necks or not quite centered over their scent gland. Shane had been on his way to his parents' car when the wind shifted, and he smelled that Rozanov, leaning against the wall and not-at-all-surreptitiously fishing a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket, must have been one of them.

Notes

Chapter 1

Apparently, they didn't wear scent blockers in Russia. Scent patches were mandatory for anyone participating in World Junior's, but a lot of the Russian guys Shane saw in the hotel or around the rink had them loosely attached to their necks or not quite centered over their scent gland. Typical adolescent alpha bullshit, letting little wafts of their scent leak all over the place in sulky resistance. Shane had been on his way to his parents' car when the wind shifted, and he smelled that Rozanov, leaning against the wall and not-at-all-surreptitiously fishing a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket, must have been one of them.

A lot of omegas got very into scents just, like, generally. They'd go to those little kiosks at the mall with the vials of essential oils and test strips and spend hours smelling, layering scents, talking about top notes. For adults, it was often about figuring out the exact scent profile of their mate. For people Shane's age, it was more about becoming well-versed in the language of scents, as if it were still Victorian times, and that made you an eligible claiming prospect or something. Omegas in Shane's class, during the brief period they tried sending him to high school, would say things like, 'I know my mate will smell like bergamot and amber.' It was mostly the popular girls, the ones who knew they'd be omegas since they were kids and were excited about it.

Still, even some of the guys in Shane's recently-presented male omega support group eventually started talking like that. The support group leader was always complimentary about it, saying it meant they were adjusting well to the transition. Shane attended the group for two years before his parents let him stop. The headcount constantly shifted, but at its most crowded, only eight guys were enrolled. It was the only local support group his parents had found, despite Ottawa having a population of over a million people. They were lucky to have it as a resource, and Shane never spoke unless directly called upon.

Shane had absolutely no idea how to describe what Rozanov smelled like when the wind changed. Other than the cigarette, he couldn't begin to break it down into individual notes, but it was familiar in the way things were in dreams. The details of the scent mattered much less to him than his response to it: Shane felt sucker-punched, his knees going a little shaky, his mouth filling with saliva, his hands sweating. He froze in place, helplessly, as he watched Rozanov take a cautious sniff of the air before slowly turning his head to meet Shane's eyes.

This was a social scenario Shane had never anticipated. Most of him wants to bolt, but that would be such a pussy move. There was no time to panic. Shane forced his legs to work, clearing his throat, and walking over with one arm already outstretched for a handshake. "Ilya Rozanov?" Polite. Professional. Any person of any gender would greet someone like that.

He remembered the hours and hours of Rozanov's game tape he had watched on the family computer in the downstairs den - had he known? Had some part of him known? His biology had been betraying him for years; this shouldn't have surprised him, but the disappointment coated his throat. Shane had really been looking forward to playing against this guy. Just one more thing that got snarled up in his designation that should have just been about hockey.

Rozanov looked at his extended hand suspiciously for a beat before he shook it as lightly as possible. Whatever he felt when their hands touched, he kept to himself, face smoothed into blankness. Shane felt an inkling of relief. They were on the same page, maybe. Ignore this. Or maybe Rozanov didn't feel anything at all, which Shane was just not going to have an opinion about right now. Shane had his scent blockers on, he reminded himself. He had been taking suppressants since the morning after he presented. Ilya Rozanov was probably indifferent because he couldn't smell Shane, and that was good. That was exactly what Shane wanted.

"Shane Hollander," Shane said, words too big in his mouth. "You're an awesome player to watch."

"I know who you are," Rozanov said. His voice was deep, and Shane had to frantically swallow a mouthful of spit before the words registered. He felt a brief jolt of shame. Rozanov had finally lit the cigarette and, thank god, the scent was pungent enough to drown out whatever Rozanov was giving off, slightly. Shane could feel sort of like a reasonable person again. Of course Rozanov knew who he was. Shane just hoped his hockey was part of the equation.

"Yeah, well…" Shane said. Sometimes it was a good strategy to get out ahead of it, name being an omega first to put an alpha at ease, but Shane found himself unable to make the right joke at the moment. He leaned against the wall while Rozanov smoked, like it was a casual, normal thing that he came over here, that he had been staring at Rozanov in the first place. He endured his skin thrumming at their proximity for a couple of seconds before pushing himself off and holding out his hand again. Again? Fuck. He was being a freak. "Good luck in the tournament."

Rozanov held his hand a little longer this time, smiling at him, intrigued. Rozanov's hand was huge and callused. Shane honestly wanted to die.

Shane was not an idiot, but no one was an idiot about this kind of thing. No one was actually as dumb as the romantic leads in the Hallmark movies who said things like, "Oh, his smell drives me out of my mind, but it makes me feel like I'm home! What does it mean?" Everyone knew what it meant. His teammates would put those movie posters on the door to his changing room, and Shane would have to roll his eyes and be jovially annoyed, because it was good-natured fun. No one actually thought he was like that. He'd make a big production of crumpling them up and throwing them away. It made the other guys laugh with him, not at him, which was always crucial.

"We won't go easy on you," Rozanov called as Shane started to walk away.

"Great. Then we won't go easy on you," Shane scoffed back. His face felt weird.

Rozanov just shook his head, dismissive. This was more familiar to Shane; the language of challenge. He was going to fucking crush this guy.

Russia beat Canada. It sucked, but it would have sucked worse if Rozanov had gone easy on him. Shane was checked into the boards as much as anybody. It was a strange game. The loss was devastating, but playing against Rozanov was as exhilarating as he had hoped, in a way maybe hockey hadn't been for a while. Rozanov could keep up with him and seemed to see the game the way he did. He was seldom where Shane would expect him to be, but he was often where Shane himself would have been if the positions were reversed. Like they spoke a private language, maybe, but that felt uncomfortably close to a dangerous thought.

Shane used prescription-grade scent blockers on the ice because he sweats a lot, but maybe they failed. Because Rozanov held onto him a little too long in the handshake line and met his gaze again as he said, "See you at the draft." It was taunting, a promise, and Shane's stomach dropped because Rozanov absolutely knew.

****

Later, when Shane was in his mid-twenties, the internet started to pride itself on becoming more enlightened about omegas and the omega experience. It was mostly influencers posting pictures of themselves on the beach or in their kitchens with long, rambling texts about their stories, as far as Shane could understand. He supposed it was a good thing, though, the movement. What struck him the most was the discussions about presenting, how the downsides were increasingly acknowledged.

Reading the thinkpieces, Shane felt a mixture of recognition and resentment, both of which he tamped down tightly. The discourse made him feel a little queasy, dismissive, or angry; he was never sure which. But it was good that people were discussing the negative aspects of presenting. The reality of it had always felt like a dirty secret. Most older stories about presenting as an omega treated it as a beautiful coming-of-age ritual, but presenting fucking hurt, and kids should know that. People should know that.

Shane had been thirteen when he presented, and any signs that it was coming were only visible in hindsight. He remembered it with the immediacy of shock - waking up with sheets soaked in slick and blood, the burn and the nausea as his insides rearranged themselves. Organs growing, others shifting to make space. Shane could feel it. He couldn't name it just then, but he could feel it happening, and fear sank claws into the back of his neck. He screamed, alerting his parents, who arrived just in time to watch him puke all over himself.

Shane remembered his mother in the doorframe, her eyes wide and stunned. "Oh, honey," she whispered as his dad looked over her shoulder, visibly horrified as all Shane's dreams crashed and burned around them. As his body became a stranger, a home for something else.

Then, the moment Shane always returned to, the one that arguably shaped his philosophy for the rest of his life. The reason that, as pushy and overbearing Yuna Hollander could be sometimes in her alpha assumption of authority, Shane would never want to rebel against her or break her heart.

Yuna squared her shoulders and marched across the room. She sat on the bed, the disgusting bed - they'd throw the whole thing out the next day because even the mattress was too far gone - and wrapped her arm around his shoulders as Shane sobbed. She tilted his chin up so their eyes met.

"This changes nothing," Yuna told him. Her tone brooked no argument. "Do you hear me, Shane? This doesn't change a thing." She squeezed his arm tight. "You're still going to get everything you want."

And Shane, a child still - he could understand that a decade and a half later - had believed her.

***

The recruiters had been sniffing around Shane for a few years before he presented, then left in a hurry, then warily circled again as he dominated in Juniors. Yuna quit her job to essentially start a one-woman, one-client, omega rehabilitation PR firm. She had to convince the MLH, and the public by extension, that an omega could blend into the league, that he wouldn't be a distraction or a liability, that his value as a player would more than compensate for the carnival sideshow aspect of him being there in the first place.

Shane, for his part, just had to be the best hockey player of his generation and never say or do anything offensive. He was already confident in his own greatness, and he was never someone who spoke his mind much anyway, so it was clear Yuna had the harder job.

His parents liquidated their retirement savings for a second time. The first was to have him in the first place (it reassured Shane a little that his otherwise extremely conventional middle-class parents were an alpha woman and a beta man, unorthodox before he even showed up. Shane was the result of extensive fertility treatments and, eventually, surrogacy. Wanted, always so wanted.) Now they spent their money on private coaches, physios, boutique endocrinologists, media trainers who grilled Shane for what felt like hundreds of hours of fake interviews - 'Do you feel safe on the ice, Shane? Is it hard to control your attraction to the alphas on your team? Do they take care of you? How many years of hockey do you need to get this out of your system before you settle down?'

"I'm trying to get you to snap," Kelsey, the media trainer, would say sometimes after a particularly vicious question, when Shane would give her a look. She was an omega too, with a delicate gold claiming collar. It was one of the more liberal ones that looked almost like a necklace. Shane thought maybe she understood, even though he also sort of hated her. "Anything I'm saying to you here, people are saying something ten times worse around the dinner table. You need to be ready."

She was good at her job, which meant she was expensive. Shane kept a little notebook of all the things he would buy for his parents when he made it to the MLH: a new house, new cars, jewelry for his mom, who loved to glitter as much as any alpha but pretended she was more practical than that.

He was too busy to think about whatever happened with Rozanov at World Junior's. The nothing that happened. The gap of space around a something, which Shane would not allow to be anything.

Instead, he trained and studied tape and had chaperoned sit-down meetings with managers and assistant commissioners, who were all very impressed with him but couldn't help but have their doubts. Not about Shane! Of course not! No, Shane was a good kid who kept his head down; they could see that. But the alphas in the league, you understand. They're elite athletes, macho, aggressive, dripping with pheromones. Shane might not be safe in a locker room. In a hotel. On the ice.

In Juniors, Shane didn't use the locker rooms. Some of the peewee teams had designated omega changing rooms, divided by primary genders, for the co-ed girls or for the occasional guy who just presented and needed a couple of months to accept it before quitting hockey. By Juniors, though, those spaces were the exclusive domain of the female omega figure skaters who shared the rink, and Shane showered after the rest of his team left and changed in the men's bathroom. Sometimes they'd put an orange cone in front of the bathroom door to let people know it was occupied. Equipment managers would seek him out to tell him they installed heavy-duty locks.

Honestly, Shane didn't have a lot of problems with his teammates as a general rule, even as he moved up the ranks and the mix of alphas and betas on the team shifted to almost exclusively alphas. Partially, his talent was undeniable, and they recognized he was useful, even if some of them resented that. But also that talent made him uniquely unappealing, a little sexless. Being good at sports was not an attractive omegan trait; alphas didn't like it when you were better than them at anything they considered important. So they didn't want to hit on him in earnest, and he was too big to menace sexually, and no alpha wanted to be seen openly bullying an omega in any other way. Add his ethnicity and his quiet focus - Shane kept to himself - and he was treated more like a mascot than anything. A team oddity that added to their sense of identity and gave them an edge.

Opposing team alphas could be assholes, sure. They'd trail stink everywhere to see if he'd swoon and show his belly, and say some heinous shit on the ice. Sometimes he was targeted during play, the game becoming more about dominating him than winning. But that was amateur hour. Shane had been tuning out stuff like that before he even presented, when he was just teased for his eyes. Anyone who wanted to make him submit on the ice was more than welcome to try. Those were the easiest games to win, usually.

He could do this. He told that to anyone who asked. He knew he could do this. All he needed was a shot.

So it kind of almost surprised him to see Rozanov at the draft because Shane had so firmly put him out of his mind. Like okay, whatever, Shane still watched his game tape because no one out there was doing it like Rozanov. And there were dreams sometimes. He'd wake up soaked, have to do laundry in the middle of the night like a slut, but that was healthy, to still have some hormonal fluctuations despite the level of suppressants he was on. But other than that, it was easy to push the existential threat Rozanov represented out of his mind. Shane didn't have the luxury of dwelling on it.

Rozanov was drafted first, of course. He was that kind of player, that kind of alpha. Superiority came to him easily, Shane would bet. None of Shane's fears ended up being an issue anyway, because Rozanov's scent patch was firmly applied this time, and Shane couldn't smell him at all.

Asked and answered right there, probably. Amazing. What a huge relief. Rozanov looked at the kind of omega Shane was and said 'no thanks', which was exactly what Shane would have wanted. Or maybe - more likely - Rozanov was just minding his manners because the draft was important and some media manager had whipped him into shape, and Shane didn't factor into it at all.

Shane went twenty-third but still got the lion's share of the press' attention for being drafted at all. Rozanov probably resented that too, since alphas love to peacock.

It was a good day. It was such a good day. He was so close now he could taste it. Shane's parents flanked him on both sides, wearing matching restrained smiles, careful not to look too openly relieved. Shane made it to the show, to an original six team, his mom's favorite team. Montreal was comfortable keeping him as a center, the Metros owner told him. Being first line wasn't out of the question one day.

If Shane thought too hard about what his life would have been like if he presented as an alpha, he'd punch his new boss in the face. Shane would have been a first-pick contender; he was sure of it. He and Rozanov would have been neck and neck, the way they had been on the ice. Shane was every bit as good as anyone here - better! He knew he was better. It was easier not to think about it, so Shane didn't, as a general rule.

It was hard to come down from the rush of the best day of his life, which was why he couldn't sleep that night. When he tried to close his eyes, he remembered how he caught Rozanov looking at him a few times, flat and assessing, and it was a shot of adrenaline each time.

It fucking sucked that Rozanov came to the gym too. Shane felt the frustration well in his throat, taking comfort in the knowledge that he had slapped another scent blocker on automatically before he left his room. Omegas had lost rape cases when the alpha had proven the omega left a strong pheromone trail, arguing that the omega had been tempting them into a private room to be seduced, as opposed to the alpha being a fucking stalker rapist. He could defend himself against nearly anyone, but then there would be backlash against an omega attacking an alpha. Shane always made sure he smelled like nothing.

Rozanov probably wasn't a stalker rapist - he had a fresh patch on too - but he was an entire bag of dicks, apparently, choosing the bike right next to Shane's and challenging him to a race. Shane lost, and he didn't like that he had fun despite losing.

"What a fucking day," Rozanov said, later on the floor. They were both sweating hard, and some faint traces of Rozanov's scent were leaking through the chemical tang of his patch. Shane made sure he stayed perfectly still. "Happy with all the cameras, Mr. Celebrity?"

Shane said, "They were taking your picture too."

Rozanov smirked. "Not like you. No history books for me."

"Guinness Book of World Records instead," Shane agreed. "Biggest Shit-Talker Ever Selected For the MLH Draft."

Rozanov, still panting a little, didn't deny it. He was so hot. Just objectively hot. It didn't mean anything if you acknowledged an alpha, an alpha man, was hot if they were as obviously hot as Rozanov was, especially drenched in sweat and sprawled on the floor, legs splayed. Shane could see the outline of his dick through his shorts and felt his eyes pulled back to it again and again like a magnet. Thank god for his patch; Shane didn't have to worry about slicking up.

Rozanov shrugged, drinking his water. "Montreal is nice, yes?" The way he said it made Shane realize his English likely wasn't very good, which made him soften a little bit.

"Yeah, it's awesome," Shane said. He was going to be a professional hockey player in one of the best cities in the world. It was a reality now, one that hummed through him. Nothing would get in the way of that.

"Boston is nice, too?" Rozanov asked.

"Yeah, people seem to like it," said Shane, who had never been.

"You get claimed, yes?" Rozanov asked, gesturing to Shane's, like, whole deal. "Make it easier to play hockey."

Shane wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but it seemed like a genuine question. Rozanov wore a fairly polite, expectant expression. "It's illegal to claim an omega in Canada until they're twenty-one."

Rozanov made a face that was difficult to interpret, although it was clearly meant to communicate some kind of shared annoyance. He drank again, and Shane had a wild thought of drinking out of the same bottle, tasting Rozanov's spit, getting more of that scent, which was startling and gross. Rozanov wouldn't offer. Sharing fluids with an omega was intimate, signaled intention of a claim. Shane swallowed, the air thick in his throat.

"Is bullshit, anyway," Rozanov said. Whether he meant Canada's age of majority laws, or Shane being in the MLH, or the reality of secondary gender, Shane had no way of knowing. Rozanov grinned and winked, though, at whatever Shane's face did then.

***

Shane understood Rozanov's logic. He was not remotely the first person to float the idea. Being claimed, mated, would take Shane off the board as a sexual prospect, theoretically making it easier for him to move independently. Maybe it worked like that in Russia, but in North America, the second Shane mated, the expectation would be set, and the questions would start. Wasn't it selfish, focusing on his career when he should be at home making a perfect nest for his hypothetical future babies? Why would he risk hurting his face when his alpha wanted to see him looking pretty? Public opinion would be established, and the alphas in charge would follow the flow of money, the irrevocable tide of history, and Shane's contract wouldn't be renewed out of respect for his alpha's wishes. Over concern for Shane's safety and health.

As a teenager, Shane had lost toenails and fingernails, needed stitches, knocked out teeth, cracked ribs. He got a concussion when he was fifteen and, outside of the obvious physical drawbacks, he loved it. He fucking loved it. He came back as soon as he was cleared and played like a man possessed. Look at what I can do. Look at what I can endure. You don't know a fucking thing about me.

As it was, there weren't easy solutions to the unclaimed omega problem. No one would risk the liability of billeting him - anyone who offered would seem like a pervert. In the end, his parents sold their house and moved to Montreal. Shane spent his signing bonus to help with the down payment on a place a little outside the city for them, despite their ardent protests, and rented an apartment in the city proper for himself. He needed space, he told them, and they respected that. His mom, as an alpha, had to cosign, but that was just a formality. Shane had a place that was his. Only his.

Shane went back and forth on hiring a designer. He had several intense conversations with his parents about it, weighing the control of doing it himself versus how omega-y it would look, picking out wallpaper. In the end, he went with a designer to more effectively manage his time. Shane kept the lights dim and reviewed game tape while he ate his nutritionist-provided meals, and it was heaven.

Sure, he did some weird stuff when left to his own devices, but who didn't? That's what your own house was for. And it wasn't even that weird, really. Just research.

According to the internet, Russian male omegas were treated similarly to how they were treated in Canada. Globally, they were significantly rarer than female omegas, making them both more repellent and more alluring. They were understood to be very sexually voracious. In Russia, claimed omegas of any stripe couldn't work outside the house without the written permission of their alphas, which was definitely barbaric, unlike in Canada, where even unclaimed omegas were always legally able to seek employment and had been allowed to have a bank account under their own name since 1986. Arranged claiming was still a thing over there, too, although technically you still needed the omega's consent. It was a status symbol, Shane read, to have a male omega in Russia, considered both traditional and fashionable the way caviar and furs were perennially in style. So Rozanov didn't find him culturally gross or anything, probably.

Apparently, the old folktale about the male omega who turned into a crane to save his husband was Slavic in origin. Shane always hated that story, how the crane died at the end.

Shane was six feet tall, two hundred pounds of hard-fought muscle, and had trouble making direct eye contact. He was no one's version of an ideal omega. That was a good thing. It had always been a good thing. Shane didn't want a mate. He wasn't a trailblazer - and all the omega activists were women anyway, mostly artists. Shane had been forced to read Emily Dickinson by every single tutor he ever had. In darker moments, he suspected it was less due to her being an omega icon and more a warning about what happened when you didn't get claimed. You were stuck in a house alone forever, doomed to write poetry. Shane didn't care about any of that. He just wanted to play hockey.

So getting hung up on some knothead who telegraphed disinterest at every turn would have been stupid. Shane didn't even know the guy. He was better than his instincts, which apparently got one whiff of pheremones in a parking lot eight months ago and wanted them to sit like a splinter in his side for the rest of his life. But Shane was good at pain. He was good at ignoring.

Shane also masturbated a lot now that he had his own place. That was healthy too. His suppressants meant he didn't produce a lot of slick, and he felt a perverse satisfaction when he added lube to his grocery order, under a fake name. He ordered a knotting dildo online under a fake name, too, and kept both it and the lube in a locked drawer.

He and Rozanov didn't really talk during their second round of World Junior's. They were both patched the whole time, and Shane's team won. All of that was, of course, excellent and thrilling. Shane was riding high, hopeful and not just determined for the first time in his life as he geared up for the Metros training camp. He told himself nightly in the mirror that it wasn't a trap. He wasn't being sent there to flame out as a warning to others. He was wanted and welcome.

Training camp, his rookie class, potential hazing, were all looming large in his mind leading up to the CCM commercial shoot, which was probably why the news of the updated concept blindsided him so much. When Shane learned Rozanov would be there, he fucking slicked up a little in the kitchen on the phone with his mom.

Yuna was ecstatic, actually, about the commercial being a joint venture, despite not being a fan of Rozanov since he beat Shane at World Junior's and then got drafted as the keystone of Boston's rebuild. "It means they think you're on the same level, Shane!" she said, while Shane wedged the phone under his chin and grabbed at his paper towels. He'd had the patch on for over eight hours; it was losing effectiveness. "Which you are, and now it gets acknowledged right off the bat. And they promised they would still honor the original contract."

They had been careful in reviewing the commercial proposal, nixing any suggested shots of Shane's neck or scent glands or, god forbid, on all fours. He and his mom had a firm brand strategy in place since before he could get a driver's license: they weren't ignoring his designation, because that would signal he was ashamed of it, but they weren't going to sexualize it either. Shane was an omega, yes, but primarily a competitor. Yuna was right; this was a good opportunity. Shane couldn't pull out of the commercial now, especially when the excuse he could give was the one thing in the world guaranteed to make Yuna panic. He told her it was fine. He'd make it fine.

He took a double dose of his suppressants the night before, which was supposed to be bad for your heart, but Shane was an elite athlete, and he was only doing it this once, so he was sure it was probably fine too.

Suppressed to the gils, the shoot was surprisingly fun. Hanging out with Rozanov was apparently kind of fun, he was learning, dismayed as he was at the pattern. They didn't talk a ton, although Rozanov's English seemed improved, but the same things would make them laugh. During one of Shane's closeups, the director said in an encouraging sing-song, "Great job, Shane, good face, very nice, very breedable," and before Shane thought about it, he looked for Rozanov on the bench, who snorted audibly when Shane rolled his eyes, and then they grinned at each other for a bright, hot blink.

They called Rozanov by his last name. They called Shane by his first. He was used to it.

They laughed too much during the face-off close-up and were sent away in politely irritated tones to sit on the bleachers while the crew set up the next shot.

"He is hitting on you," Rozanov said after a minute of smalltalk, gesturing with his chin to the director.

Shane felt his shoulders creep in and down, and looked at his skates. Rozanov hadn't said it in any particular way, just like he was delivering information. Shane had been told in the past that he was bad at picking up on it when he was hit on. He always thought it was because people generally made a pass at him for the novelty of it, making it easy to tune out. He wasn't sure if Rozanov was right or just being kind of an asshole. Both, possibly.

"Yeah, well," Shane said.

Rozanov looked at him thoughtfully. Shane felt like a butterfly pinned to a wall. "He knows he will get nowhere," Rozanov said, meaning the director. "There's a better alpha in the room."

Shane looks up at him, his stomach twisting. Rozanov met his gaze head-on, not aggressively, but it was clear he knew he was being provocative. It was a disgusting thing to say, but the thing was, it was true. Rozanov was the kind of specimen right-wing pundits referred to when they talked about innate alpha supremacy. Rozanov was a walking propaganda poster. He drew attention, pulled focus. The background blurred in comparison. People oriented towards him when he entered a space, listened seriously to whatever he had to say - he hadn't properly entered his rookie class yet, and the press was already talking about when he would get the C. He was huge and handsome and effortlessly masculine, with shoulders the breadth of a mountain. Rozanov demanded respect without having to prove anything. He just assumed he would get whatever he wanted because everyone else was inferior; everyone else would trip all over themselves to give it to him. He probably never worked for anything in his fucking life.

Shane hated him for a minute. Maybe he hated Rozanov from the minute they met.

Shane, in his head, could articulate maybe one tenth of the rage that spurred inside him. Shane, in reality, had no chance of success. He just stayed quiet until Rozanov was called away for some action footage. It was only after Rozanov left that Shane remembered to worry about anyone overhearing them, but when he checked, no one was around.

They did rock-paper-scissors to pick who got to use the showers first, which sort of backfired when they kept challenging each other to rematches, usually with slightly different rules. One of the APs made them guess closest to the number she was thinking of instead, so they could all go home. Shane lost, which irritated him on principle, but at least didn't leave an opening for anyone to make a joke about omegas having good intuition.

Shane waited his turn for the showers, worrying that Rozanov would stay in the locker room afterwards and they would see each other naked. He couldn't get the idea out of his mind. Shane showered perfunctorily, keeping an ear out, but it was hard to hear anything over the rush of the water. He needed to refocus. This had been a successful day. Rozanov had said something possibly suggestive, but it wouldn't be surprising if he turned out to be just another knothead. Confirmation of that was a relief, really. Shane was relieved, just keyed up because it had been a strange day, and he was worried about Rozanov meeting him in the locker room.

His patch was waterproof, made for athletes. He'd had it on for over eight hours. Shane traced the edge of it with his fingertips, pulled gently to feel the resistance of the glue.

Shane got out quickly, movements jerky. He was tying the shitty little gym towel around his waist as he walked into the locker room, eyes scanning, and stopped dead in his tracks.

The room was empty. But on the bench, hastily folded, was a black t-shirt. Rozanov's shirt. The smell of it hit Shane like a truck, a mechanical force like that; he had to brace his hand on the wall. Rozanov must have worn it under his compression gear during the shoot. Saturated it. Shane's suppressants didn't stand a chance in hell.

Shane instinctively took a deep breath to steady himself, which just gave him another hit of Rozanov's scent. It was impossibly good; he was dizzy, almost woozy, with arousal. He put his hands on his thighs, bending over, trying to make his thoughts make sense. Shane had to get a grip. Okay, okay. Rozanov had made a move. That was important to know. He had to think this through. He was harder than he maybe had ever been before in his life.

He crossed the room and picked up the shirt before he could understand he was doing it. His body decided for him. Shane buried his face in Ilya Rozanov's disgusting, sweaty shirt and moaned. He got it in his mouth and sucked, the taste overwhelmingly heady. He could float away on that scent. He could drown in it.

Shane felt something slightly viscous drip down his leg, and it took him a moment to realize it was slick, his slick, running down the back of his fucking thigh. Humiliated, Shane threw the shirt on the floor and staggered back. What the fuck was he doing? This was so dangerous. He was behaving like an animal.

Shane went back to the showers, turning the knob as cold as it could go. He braced himself against the wall in front of him with both hands, waiting until his erection went down, until his skin felt clean and his blood cooled.

He was undeniably flustered as he dressed, barely toweling off first. Shane had to get out of here. He opened the door to the hall with a hard swing, not bothering to look where he was going, and saw Ilya Rozanov leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting for him.

He took in Shane's appearance with evident delight. "Oh, you really liked it."

Shane realized he was holding Rozanov's t-shirt. Of course he was. Shane had grabbed it on the way out. Now, Shane balled it up and threw it at him. "Fuck you."

Rozanov caught it, but to Shane's surprise, didn't sniff it, just tucked it under his arm. He matched Shane's stride as Shane stalked down the hall. "But you did like it, yes?"

"Don't be so full of yourself," Shane said.

"Hard not to be when I make such a pretty boy look like this," Rozanov said, gesturing. It occurred to Shane that Rozanov was flirting. Shane might never have been flirted with before, at least not in this way. Rozanov was wearing a tank top, and his shoulders made Shane feel insane.

"What do I look like?" Shane asked.

Rozanov grinned a little. He had such a big mouth, the bow in his upper lip so pronounced. It made him look like a lion. "You look like you want to do more than smell my shirt."

Shane felt himself color. He didn't say anything.

"It's true, then?" Rozanov's voice was almost conversational, except Shane felt it in his sacrum. "You want the real thing?"

Shane paused. Rozanov paused too. Shane turned on his heel to face him. He tried to stay angry, and he was, distantly, but Shane was also abruptly aware that he could actually get something that he wanted here. It was a breathtaking realization.

Shane tried to sound equally dispassionate. "I don't do that kind of stuff." A lot of omegas didn't until they mated. It was considered pretty lame, but not out of the ordinary.

Rozanov assessed him. "I think you're lying."

Shane hadn't, but not out of any hardline stance. He had just never thought about it. His head felt overstuffed with it now. He could do this. Why shouldn't he do this? Didn't Shane deserve to feel a little bit normal for once in his life, even if it was through the act of making a stupid, selfish decision? Everyone else got to do that.

"Maybe I'll think about it," Shane said.

Rozanov's face got heavy in a fascinating way. "What is your room number?"

****

He was so stupid. This was so stupid. Shane had to stop this immediately.

People could find out. The press would destroy him before his career even began. Also, Shane was so fertile. Not, like, actually, thank god. His suppressants took care of that, and he had the shot four times a year, too, for breakthrough issues. But nineteen was statistically in the most fertile age range for omegas (seventeen to twenty-four), and the only guaranteed birth control was abstinence, so what the fuck was he doing?

Shane would simply tell Rozanov that he had changed his mind. Rozanov was an asshole, but he wasn't a brute. He'd take rejection on the chin and leave. The worst he would do was call Shane a bitch on the way out. Shane changed into his suit initially to signal how much they aren't having sex tonight, but when he tied the tie, he thought of Rozanov's fingers on his neck instead, over his scent gland, and slicked up, soaking his underwear, and he had to change. He settled on sweatpants instead, dark ones. He couldn't focus on the baseball game he tried to watch; he couldn't focus on anything.

Shane only got a little wet when Rozanov knocked on the door, arousal crowded in too much by nerves. Initially, it was a relief, but the moment Rozanov was inside, whatever scent Shane gave off was still enough to make Rozanov slowly crowd him against the door, moaning, "Fuck, Hollander."

"I'm not…" Shane trailed off, unsure of how he meant to finish that sentence. He could feel the heat radiating off Rozanov's body as they stood close enough to touch. Rozanov overwhelmed Shane's field of vision; Shane couldn't see anything beyond him. Shane wasn't entirely sure what he was or wasn't right now.

Rozanov, telegraphing the move, takes Shane's chin between his thumb and his fingers. "I know." He kissed Shane carefully, tongue licking in. Shane's body bloomed into it, unfurling.

He looked down to stare at Rozanov's chest, running his fingers down it until he hits Rozanov's tank top. Rozanov took off his jacket and then his tank top, Shane helping, both of them breathing hard. Rozanov's naked chest was a revelation. Shane was already so hard, so fucking wet. Some distant part of his brain was telling him he should be embarrassed.

Rozanov's thumb nudged the corner of his mouth, then slipped its way inside. It felt natural to suck, really fucking good to suck on it, and Shane abruptly wanted to do it to Rozanov's dick. Suddenly, he was ferociously desperate to put Rozanov's hard dick in his mouth. This might be his only chance to be with an alpha. He wanted as much as he could take.

"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov said again when Shane dropped to his knees, but he sounded approving. He put a hand on Shane's neck, cupping loosely. It wasn't near his scent gland, still covered by a patch, but Shane simultaneously felt a strong twist of arousal in his gut and blinding terror.

He smacked Rozanov's hand away, too hard. It wasn't cute or coquetish. "Not there."

The allure of a blowjob must have been pretty strong, since Rozanov didn't protest. He braced his hands against the wall. He was wearing a patch too - Shane hadn't actually noticed until now - but his scent was still impossible to miss, impossible to form a coherent thought around.

This wasn't Shane's fault, really.

Rozanov's cock was astonishing, of course. Thick and long and hard, flushed a gorgeous red. Shane had no way of getting it all into his mouth, so he put the head between his lips and sucked, moaning a little at the taste, fuck. People said your mate tasted better than anything, smelled better than anyone. Their mouth, their cock - you'd do anything for it. You'd do whatever they wanted.

The weight of it felt good on Shane's tongue, and he liked how he has to curve his mouth around its girth. Shane closed his eyes, figuring out a rhythm with the jittery thrusts of Rozanov's hips before Rozanov pulls him back up, kissing him, pawing at his chest. Shane was a little mortified. "Was that bad?"

"No, opposite, too much, too good," Rozanov said, maybe a little sheepish. "Felt knot coming."

"Really?" Shane asked. Shane would have taken it as a mark of his prowess, except that seemed highly unlikely. It was intriguing, though, if Rozanov were excited about this too. "Do you always knot with omegas?"

"Not always," Rozanov said. He brushed Shane's cheek with his knuckles. He was touching Shane everywhere, little touches. "Knot is moody. Needs the right conditions."

He said it like Shane was part of the right conditions. Shit, Shane could see a knot tonight. He had never seen one before, outside of porn. He could touch one. His knees wanted to buckle, but then reality set in. "I can't get pregnant."

"Okay," Rozanov said. He pronounced it okee. "You are asking me or telling me?"

"Fuck you," said Shane. Then, "Telling you. I can't - nothing back there."

It was a gamble. Various teammates had explained this to him over the years: an omega could be too slutty, which was bad, or they could be too stuck-up, which was bad, or they could be so stuck-up that it sort of looped around to seeming extremely slutty, which was worst of all. Shane was setting a lot of terms, which was allowed hypothetically, but none of his teammates would have considered it an indicator of a good time ahead.

Rozanov did, in fact, look mildly disappointed, but he was still crowded in close, rubbing Shane's bicep. Shane had one hand on Rozanov's waist, fingers curled in. Rozanov asked, "Is this your first time?"

There had been betas in high school, at team parties. Female betas. Shane's life plan was to marry a female beta when he retired - mildly untraditional but not scandalous. Just enough of a fuck you that everyone would know, but no one could call him on it. He figured he should practice with betas when he was younger, but then got too distracted with hockey to date seriously. "Yeah," said Shane, since they both knew what Rozanov meant. "Have you been with a male omega before?"

"Yes," Rozanov said, surprising him.

"Really?"

Rozanov seemed a little sheepish again. Maybe he had a fetish. "Really. My coach's son, back in Russia." He leaned in conspiratorily. "It was a secret."

"Why?"

Rozanov shrugged. "Complicated situation. We were young, he was arranged to be claimed." He kissed the corner of Shane's jaw. "Point is, I'm good at secrets."

Rozanov was so set on soothing him that it made Shane concerned he was coming across as too skittish. "You know a lot of big English words all of a sudden."

Rozanov grinned, rubbing Shane's shoulders, and Shane worried for a second that overdoing his suppressants had actually given him arrhythmia or something the way his heart skittered in his chest. "Not the only big thing I can show you."

Shane rolled his eyes but started walking Rozanov backwards to the bed. Rozanov went easily, eyes heavy-lidded. He looked kind of dopey, kind of drugged, but started undressing in a hurry once he landed on the mattress. He gestured to Shane. "Come on, you too."

That was a reasonable request from one person hooking up with another person. Shane was proud of his body, having spent his life sculpting it into a shape most people had told him was impossible for it to achieve. Omegas weren't usually mesomorphs. Shane was uncomfortably aware of all the wet places where his pants were clinging to his ass. He hunched over. "I'm not presenting for you, dude."

Rozanov made a dismissive noise. "Not anything weird. I just want to see you."

Finding no way around it, Shane undressed. He folded his shirt, but his sweatpants and underwear were a sodden mess, and he put them in the little ad hoc laundry hamper he had made of a trash bag in the closet. He could feel the slick between his thighs as he walked, but maybe it wouldn't be very visible in the low light. Shane stood in front of the bed, wishing he had pockets for his hands. "So. Yeah."

Rozanov was breathing hard and slow, eyes a little foggy as he looked Shane over. He spoke with an edge of alpha authority, though. "Come here."

Shane tripped a step closer to the bed before remembering himself. "Hang on," he said, and went to the bathroom and grabbed a stack of towels.

Rozanov made a rude noise when Shane came back and started layering them on the bed. "Shit. What do you think we're doing, Hollander?"

Shane felt himself flush. "You're not the one who has to sleep here tonight."

A complicated expression briefly crossed Rozanov's face. He watched Shane arrange the towels, then moved over, making space. Shane lay down next to him, their shoulders touching. Shane scanned the ceiling. Rozanov was too beautiful to look at directly right now. His eyes darted to Rozanov's cock, though, before he could help himself.

Rozanov laughed and leaned over to rub his hand over Shane's chest, catching his nipples. Shane made a little helpless noise. "Okay, so no fucking. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," Shane lied. He wanted to suck Rozanov's dick some more. He wanted to see Rozanov's knot, clasp his hands around his knot, milk it, maybe see how far Shane could get it into his mouth, although they said not to do that; you could asphyxiate. The enormity of possibilities in front of Shane was paralyzing, so thankfully Rozanov rolled over, kissing down Shane's chest, moving a hand towards Shane's hips.

Shane felt a bolt of panic, enough to unfreeze, and leaned over Rozanov, pushing him back against the bed so he could move down to settle between Rozanov's legs. Rozanov grunted with approval, so Shane sucked his magnificent dick back in his mouth. It made him leak slick down his ass crack, between his legs, but he almost didn't care, between the heat and the weight of the cock in his mouth, the hands in his hair, Rozanov's small groans of encouragement. Shane moved his head up and down experimentally until he found a rhythm that seemed sustainable, feeling the familiar satisfaction of acquiring a new skill.

It was so hot. It was so good. It was the hottest thing Shane had ever been a part of, and he whined when Rozanov yanked him off, fighting him to get back down there, until he saw that Rozanov was coming in thick ropey pulls, the base of his cock swelling. It was huge, the knot. Shane couldn't imagine it inside him, but Rozanov must have put it inside people before.

Shane pulled out of Rozanov's grip, bending back down to put his mouth on the side of the knot and suck. Rozanov said something jagged and loud that Shane had played against enough Eastern Europeans to recognize as a swear. He grabbed Shane's hand and wrapped it around the part of the knot Shane's mouth wasn't touching, pushing down to show the right pressure, his cock spurting out the last little streams of come.

Shane was so turned on, he didn't know how to survive it. He could hear himself whimpering and rubbed his own dick against the towel. It was scratchy, but even that felt good somehow as Rozanov held him in place as he suckled on his knot. He said, guttural and from the chest, full alpha, "Good, like that, good, Hollander." Shane came so hard that starbursts crackled across his vision.

Shane, light-headed, buried his face in Rozanov's thigh, breathing him in. It still made Shane feel like he was floating off in space, like he was wrapped up in something heavy and warm, like he wanted to get fucked for days. They said when you met your mate - your actual mate, not whatever gross old alpha they auctioned you off to back in the day - you knew. You just knew. You felt it.

Above him somewhere, Shane heard Rozanov chuckle as fingers carded through his hair. He said something in Russian, voice soft.

"What's that mean?" Shane slurred, muffled by Rozanov's skin.

"No direct translation," Rozanov said. "Something we call omegas sometimes. Sort of like, hmm, knot-hungry?"

Reverie broken, Shane's head shot up. "Shut the fuck up."

Rozanov, clearly still dazed, looked confused at Shane's genuine outrage. "What?"

"Don't talk to me like that," Shane said. "Get the fuck out of here if you're going to say shit like that to me."

Rozanov sat up on his elbows, frowning at him. "What, that you like my knot? Of course you like a fucking knot, you're omega. It's instinct."

Shane set his jaw, trying not to blink the moisture out of his eyes.

Rozanov hauled him up after a beat so they were face to face, Shane's thigh on Rozanov's hipbone. "Is little sweet name," Rozanov explained, running his thumb over Shane's jaw. "You think I'd be asshole, insult the omega who just sucked my dick?"

"I know you're an asshole," Shane said, but they both recognized he was calming down. Rozanov risked kissing him again, tongue back in Shane's mouth. Shane wondered if Rozanov could taste that Shane was growing more receptive, if he could taste whatever it was that made Shane identifiably himself.

Shane was fully hard again halfway through the kiss. Omegas came early and often, as they said. Rovanov rolled him over on his back, situating him on top of his pile of towels. He patted Shane's cheek in a kind of companionable way, then settled between his legs, mirroring Shane's pose earlier in the evening. "See, I'll make it up to you."

Shane was tense. "Remember, you can't…"

Rozanov, mouth hovering over Shane's dick, pulled a face. "Do you know how babies are made?"

"Shut up," Shane said. He was proven right, in a way, when Rozanov ignored his dick wholesale, dipping between Shane's thighs to lick at the slick there. Shane made an undignified noise, but so did Rozanov, a guttural grunt when he first got a taste. Avoiding Shane's ass, he otherwise licked him clean while Shane whimpered and writhed and clutched the sheets before giving in and begging Rozanov to suck his dick.

Rozanov kissed the inside of Shane's left thigh before complying. He swallowed Shane down easily and enthusiastically, reaching up to fondle Shane's chest, gripping and squeezing, and Shane's brain erupted into fire.

"Holy shit, Rozanov, I'm close, you gotta…" he gasped out an embarrassingly short amount of time later, but Rozanov hung firm even when Shane came, swallowing easily, like he did it all the time.

Shane's vision stayed blurred for a while. He wasn't sure he could feel his legs. Rozanov slapped his chest lightly, then settled beside him again. He grabbed Shane by the jaw for another kiss. It was demanding, Rozanov forcing his mouth open like he had found a way to wedge himself inside Shane after all.

The world gradually crept back into focus, and the weight of what Shane had just done crashed in around him with a sick, cold certainty. "Shit. Wow," he said, rubbing his face.

"Yes," said Rozanov, agreeing. Like they were in this together, like Shane hadn't just handed him the power to destroy Shane's entire fucking life.

Shane sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The towel was soaked, maybe even the one underneath it was soaked through, but Shane forced himself to sit in it. He looked over his shoulder at Rozanov. "You can't tell anyone."

Rozanov's mouth went pinched, maybe a little surprised. "No shit. What?"

"You can't," Shane said, wrestling down the panic to try to sound firm or dangerous. It was pathetic. He had no leverage here. It would be a huge boost to Rozanov's reputation if he talked about this. He had bragging rights that he was the first to bed the MLH freakshow. It was probably why he did it. "I'm serious. I'll fucking kill you." He tried to think of a better threat. "I'll sue you for defamation."

Rozanov's face went blank. "You are upset?"

"I'll say you forced me," Shane said. Rozanov's shoulders seized slightly, and Shane, empowered by the obvious hit, went harder. "I'll say you made me, that I didn't want it. They could arrest you."

Rozanov was quiet for a long beat while Shane's heart thudded wildly in his chest. "You slicked through three fucking towels," Rozanov said. "No one will think I made you do anything."

The shame hit Shane low in the gut. He stared at his lap. His dumb, idiot dick was finally soft.

He heard Rozanov rustle behind him. "Hollander, look, I'm not going to tell anyone."

Shane looked at him. Rozanov seemed annoyed, if anything, as he continued. "Was just fun. Nothing serious. Alphas and omegas fuck all the time. Nothing to talk about. I forgot already."

"Okay," Shane said. "Just promise."

Rozanov had that flat look again. His hair was a little matted up in the back, his necklace askew, the crucifix nestled in the side of his collarbone. "I promise I won't tell. Okay?"

Shane nodded, jerkily. Forgetting was also his best option. His body felt cold and empty, tacky and uncomfortable. He wanted Rozanov gone so he could shower; he wanted to scour away the part of himself that wanted to make mistakes.

Rozanov let out an irritated sigh and grabbed for the bottom towel under Shane, making him sit forward. He started wiping himself off and said something clipped in Russian. "I need a cigarette."

"Smoking is bad for you," Shane said.

"Wow, amazing news," Rozanov said, scrubbing the towel through his pubes. Shane had sort of forgotten how much Rozanov had come. A lot of it had already dried, and he had to scratch off the flakes. Rozanov got up, and Shane sat further back on the bed, against the pillows, arms folded. This was a good last view of him for Rozanov to have, strong and uninviting.

Rozanov got dressed more slowly than Shane himself would have in his situation. He paused at the door, posture stiff. "Good night."

Shane nodded. "Good night."

The shoot had booked them a Ramada, and there was no chance Shane had access to a laundry room or laundry service this late at night. Shane should probably throw the towels in the garbage bag he was using as a hamper, maybe see if he could find an incinerator, but he was tired, suddenly. He could smell Rozanov on the blanket, on the pillows, and before he could stop himself, he rolled over and buried his face where Rozanov must have lain his head, where he must have transferred some sweat. It smelled a little earthy, he thought. Pleasant, like hard work.

Shane passed out like that and stayed asleep past his alarm the next morning. His mom had to come bang on the door.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Shane's rookie year as a Montreal Metro exceeded his wildest expectations.

Training camp went well. Shane descended into a state of icy focus that felt a little like a fugue when he came out of it, and the coaches developed that wary excitement about him that meant they realized he was the real deal. No one mentioned the possibility of his going down to an affiliate team for a year or two for seasoning, which had been one of Shane's top five fears: being buried alive in the AHL.

They didn't even discuss putting him on wing. Which, okay, Shane wasn't too good to play wing, but it just wasn't his position. Shane was meant to anchor, meant to analyze, meant to lead. It took a day or two of training camp for the guys on his line to take him seriously enough for things to click, but Shane was used to that. The guys on the team actually needed a lot less time to learn to trust him and work as a unit during his shift than Shane was accustomed to. He quietly luxuriated in reaching this level of professionalism. This had always been the end of the story he had told himself: if he kept clawing, he would get to the place where everyone put their hangups to the side because they were here to win hockey games. And now it was finally happening.

He averaged 13.77 minutes of ice time over his first twenty games. 13.77. Sometimes, when he woke up in the morning, he repeated the number in his head over and over again, watching the ceiling go gray and grainy in the dawn. Face-off percentage 53%. His points and scoring totals would be better if they didn't keep him on the fourth line, but he was a rookie; he had to pay his dues, and almost fourteen minutes was still more than he had even visualized during his morning meditations on manifesting success. He was proving himself, and the doors were opening.

The job part of hockey was going well, too. Yuna loved to tell the story about how she assumed she was being catfished when Rolex approached her for a brand deal, but, as they broke it down during multiple strategy sessions, Shane's team understood the angle. Rolex was a prestige but declining luxury brand hoping to get some buzz, using Shane to update a reputation that had grown stodgy and dated. In their pitch, they called Shane 'handsome, revolutionary, and reliable.' Other sponsorship deals quickly followed. They were careful not to take on too much too quickly or to do too many interviews - Shane couldn't be seen as an attention whore - but his brand quietly grew. Shane liked the image of himself they presented to the public - down to earth and dignified, but also sort of cool for being a little different. He considered it aspirational, a reminder of who he should be whenever he dipped down too low into something else.

His PR firm gave Yuna regular updates on how the general public received Shane, and she shared, by his own request, a carefully curated summary with him. It was largely positive - focus groups indicated they were impressed with his stick-handling and hockey IQ and found him personally unobjectionable, even charming. Of course, there was always going to be a segment of the population that didn't think omegas had a place in professional sports, but nothing would make them happy except keeping Shane imprisoned in a tower, so it was better to focus on the people who could be won over.

The omega's rights people loved him, naturally, except he got some dings for his lack of activism. Yuna had been hesitant to share some criticism of Shane from more progressive omega circles about how he was overcompensating in order to fly under the radar, performing bland likeability to distance himself from the rougher edges that often defined the gender, which confused him because of course he was doing that. Why wouldn't he?

But in general, things were great, better than he would have ever dared hope. When the internet thing hit, Shane was caught unawares after riding such a high for so long. He should have known better. He would know better next time.

The internet thing was actually two things in quick succession. The first one wasn't that big a deal, or at least Shane should have shaken it off more easily than he did. It first came to his attention on the team bus travelling to an away game against Ottawa. A third-tier team like the Centaurs meant Shane likely could really rack up some ice time. He was trying to lock in, listening to binaural beats on his headphones to block out the roar of jock bonhomie going on around him, when he heard Hayden say, "All right, that's enough," with a tone of alpha command Shane hadn't known Hayden was capable of. Hayden blanched when he saw Shane turn around in his seat to look at them, which meant they were talking about him.

Hayden was twisted around in his own seat, talking to JJ and Comeau behind him. Comeau had his phone out, and Hayden and JJ looked embarrassed. "What's up?" asked Shane, taking out his headphones.

There was often an alpha on a team - a good, solid guy - who would hover around Shane unobtrusively, invite him to team events, hang out with him on the bus, all while radiating a neutral but firm energy that somehow communicated that Shane was to be treated with genial equanimity but should otherwise be considered off-limits. Shane always appreciated his self-appointed bouncers, but those friendships never lasted longer than his tenure on any given team. He had initially assumed that was what Hayden Pike was doing, and was confused and alarmed when it became clear Hayden was genuinely interested in Shane as a person. He kept asking Shane for his opinions on non-hockey things, inviting him places, sharing memes with him, cheerfully undeterred when Shane reacted like a lizard scuttling back under a rock until he got used to it.

Hayden was an alpha and mated, despite his young age. He and his omega, Jackie, took the blood test when they were eighteen, high school sweethearts, and got the special dispensation for being biological mates. They were married too, which was slightly unusual, more the realm of betas, and had twin baby girls. It wasn't untoward, then, for Shane to go over to their house for dinner, which he found himself, to his own bemusement, doing somewhat routinely. He had fun with Hayden and Jackie, or at least hanging out with them was infinitely better than going to clubs and bars with the rest of the team. He got the impression Jackie kept trying to corner Shane for an omega bonding session, though, which he so far managed to eel his way out of.

"Hey, Shane," Hayden said, drawling out the 'hey' in the way decent guys did when they were scrambling for time. "It's nothing. It's dumb. It's so stupid. Comeau's putting it away right now."

Comeau wasn't actually putting away his phone, despite Hayden glaring at him. Shane kneeled on his own seat, reaching for it. "Let me see."

"You really don't-" Hayden said, but Comeau was already handing over his BlackBerry, eyes thin with a catty satisfaction that sat uneasily in Shane's stomach. The phone was pulled up to a website that had a countdown clock ticking down by the second. There were a bunch of pictures of Shane surrounding it, some from ads, some from press, most with his neck bent or throat slightly exposed. Shane felt a bubble of alarm, but didn't quite understand how to make sense of it until he scrolled down to see the words '502 Days Until Shane Hollander Is Fair Game' written under the counter. It must be ticking down to his twenty-first birthday.

"Gross, right?" Hayden said, way too loudly. "People on the internet are disgusting. Just ignore it, man."

The three of them hadn't been ignoring it. JJ looked guilty, although Comeau didn't. Shane had been friendly with Dagenais, too, adding another layer of disappointment here. The timer must have made the rounds to almost everyone on the team before they would think to show it to Hayden or JJ. He didn't have to look to know the rest of the team was watching him; Shane felt the energy change, the tension gathering. That prickle on the back of his neck that meant an alpha was alert nearby.

"My birthday's going to be during playoffs," Shane said. He couldn't quite keep it light, but people often had trouble reading his tone anyway. "We'll be a little busy winning the cup. Plus, it's not like I trust any of you fuckers to make an honest man out of me."

People laughed, and there were a few agreeable shouts. Shane handed Comeau back his phone. Comeau looked a little smug, and it was good information to have that Comeau would find ways to put him in his place. Shane had gotten too comfortable, maybe. This was useful. Shane settled back in his seat, and Hayden moved up to join him.

"Sorry, man," he said, sotto-voiced. "I was trying to get them to knock it off."

It would have been a little insulting, really, how over the moon his parents were about Hayden, if Shane didn't know how much they worried about him. Shane had been a quiet, serious child, the chasm between him and his peers apparent even before puberty. After presenting, Shane stuck it out for a grim year of high school before announcing he was never going back, and then the hockey machine ate up any free time he would have had to find people on his wavelength. So Hayden was a strange little perk, and probably his presence in Shane's life was a good thing. The social media department loved Hayden too, loved his love story, and loved how he took Shane under his wing. They were already filming interstitials together.

He wasn't angry at Hayden, really. Shane wasn't sure what he felt.

"It's fine," Shane said. "People are always going to be assholes on the internet. You can't let it get to you."

"Fucking right," Hayden said, visibly relieved. He was not built for conflict. "Fuck the haters." Then, obviously trying to steer towards safer waters, he said, "At least you're not Rozanov, right? If that asshole didn't have bad press, he wouldn't have any press at all. Did you see that thing with him leaving the nightclub?"

"No," Shane lied. He risked being rude by putting his earbuds back in because he'd gladly talk about a million countdown clocks rather than Ilya Rozanov. The nightclub thing was a fight Rozanov had gotten into while, according to anonymous sources, trying to take home someone else's beta girlfriend. But Hayden was wrong. Rozanov was notorious, sure, but none of it was bad press. He had moved to Boston and, apparently, immediately began having sex with every single person in New England. Everyone loved it when their sports hero alphas acted like that.

Well, Rozanov wasn't hooking up with male alphas or male betas, no one taboo, although who actually knew for sure. Obviously, he was very good at keeping secrets. Publicly at least, everyone else seemed to be fair game. It was a weekly occurrence, tabloid or blurry cellphone shots of Rozanov necking with a woman in a bar, stumbling out of a club with sometimes two on his arm, sharing a cigarette as they waited for a cab. The internet gobbled it up.

That behavior might have hit a different note with the public if Rozanov were a middling player, sure, but he had immediately lived up to the generational greatness he had promised. He wasn't being treated like the average rookie, which was fair; he wasn't one. Shane kept Rozanov's stats - his domination of the rookie scoring race, the ice time he got, over twenty minutes every fucking game because they were already putting him on the first fucking line - locked in a dark little box inside himself.

Rozanov was well on his way to his promised fifty goals in his rookie season. Good for him. The Metros had played against the Raiders once so far this fall. Rozanov had barely looked at Shane the whole game, but that made sense. You didn't bother looking at people who weren't competition.

Sometimes Shane felt a little bad about how awkwardly that night had ended, considering that since then, Rozanov hadn't done anything with the live grenade Shane had thrown at him. Rozanov didn't even say anything weird when Shane inevitably came up in interviews. But regret was a weakness Shane couldn't really afford.

Besides, he decided, they both got what they wanted out of that encounter. Shane had satisfied some curiosity and, presumably, Rozanov had too. Now they could continue living their various lives. Rozanov, headed for the Hall of Fame someday; Shane, if he were lucky, eking out a journeyman career while expected to fall all over himself with gratitude at the privilege of being allowed to be here at all.

No, focus, get it together. Shane was excellent and excelling. Maybe his team was a little shittier than he previously thought, but they still respected his skill, they acknowledged it. Shane would be a Hall of Famer, too. He just had to put in the work and take advantage of every opportunity. Lock in before this goddamn game.

The second internet thing was less sleazy but more protracted, and arguably worse. Shane hadn't expected to be sent to All Stars, certainly not as a rookie, and he hadn't minded when he didn't make the initial roster. The fan vote, though. Shane was surprised, then quietly pleased, when his name started ticking up the list of results. But then why shouldn't it, as Yuna said. Shane was confident, charming, self-effacing, and really fucking good at hockey. He made the mistake of relaxing into it, getting genuinely excited. All Stars was in Nashville this year, not really his scene, but he could make a name for himself in the skills competition. He could meet some of his heroes - Scott Hunter would be there.

Rozanov. Rozanov would be there.

Then, Twitter got involved. Hockey Twitter did not think an omega belonged at All Stars. Hockey Twitter started a grassroots movement that erupted with immediate groundswell support to vote for Toronto's Dallas Kent instead. Dallas Kent - an average center on an average team, only notable for his views on the rightful role of omegas, which he felt free to discuss at length in interviews and which hockey Twitter apparently shared in abundance. The hashtags were not kind.

Kent's votes dwarfed Shane's within the week. There was some outrage on his behalf, a few editorials, but Shane had checked out of the whole thing by then. He wished he could truly check out of it entirely, but the media scrum loved to ask him about it, and the Metros loved to put him in front of the media scrum.

"Obviously, I'm disappointed," Shane said, for the five hundredth time. His sweat was drying on his skin, everything itched, and he wanted a shower. Fortunately, it was a home game. The Bell Center had turned one of the physical therapists' lounges into a little shower and locker room set-up for him. They had done some press about it, how they hadn't even taken the refurbishment costs out of Shane's paycheck. He would get through this interview by visualizing the shower he'd have after. "But it's a fan vote, and you have to respect what the fans want. Next year, I bet I'll have changed some minds."

"Shane, do you think your designation was a factor in the fans' decisions?" asked a beta reporter, who would never have to care about any of this on a personal level in his entire life.

"I don't think that's for me to say," said Shane. "I'm just here to play hockey."

Before it could inevitably segue into the fucking Twitter campaign ("Well, I can't speak to what happens on the internet. All I know is the Metros and the city of Montreal have only been welcoming to me and that's what really matters."), another reporter asked, "Shane, what do you think about Ilya Rozanov's announcement that he won't be at All Stars?"

Shane was caught flat-footed. "He won't? I didn't know that."

"It was announced three hours ago," said the reporter. Right after the Raider's game finished up, then. They must be asking Shane about this because he was the first Metro the press had a chance to interview. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were otherwise seldom mentioned in the same breath. "Citing a wrist sprain."

The reporter said it like he knew it for the bullshit it was. It was an almost impressive level of audacity on Rozanov's part. Players usually didn't feel comfortable telling obvious lies to get out of All Stars until they were a few years in.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sounds like a real shame for Boston fans," Shane said. And then he succumbed to an insane impulse he was barely aware of having and added, "And I'm sorry for everyone who is going to All Stars. I'd rather play against Ilya Rozanov than Dallas Kent any day of the week, that's for sure."

Alan from publicity called off the press conference after that, pursing his mouth at Shane. It wasn't a great look, unnecessarily flattering your team's most loathed rival. Still, the chirp was mild, and Shane was pretty sure he'd get away with maybe only one politely irritated email from front office. As he walked away, Shane was pleased with his own daring, which was a fairly unusual experience for him.

The good feeling lasted until well into the evening, after Shane had weighed out, heated up, and eaten his dinner, and settled on the couch to put on highlights from the Raiders game. He chewed on the drawstring of his hoodie, taking down notes on a legal pad. He had played against Rozanov's line for a shift in their one game against the Raiders so this season. Rozanov bore down on the opposition like a bullet train, huge and quicker than you could credit. He was too vicious a player to be really elegant on the ice, but he was so fluid and adaptable, despite the brute force. Shane knew he himself was analytical to a fault, always riding the fine line between being able to plan out a play like a foregone conclusion and choking. Rozanov looked like he skated by instinct, even if it was clear from his post-game interviews that there was plenty of analysis going on in his decisions on the ice.

Sometimes he wondered if Rozanov watched Shane's game tape too. Not with the team, not as a matter of course, but privately, thoughtfully. He wondered if Rozanov believed he had anything to learn from him.

It was nearly nine thirty, the time when Shane turned off the TV, took all nine thousand of his prescription meds and supplements, did his stretches, wrote in his gratitude journal, read twenty pages of his book, texted his parents goodnight, and went to bed listening to whale song. Shane was grabbing for the remote when his phone buzzed. It was an unusual message notification, and he went to pick it up with a frown.

Shane had a Twitter account, run by his PR firm. Yuna had the password. Shane, technically, had a personal twitter, but he only made it two months ago and used it once to tweet 'hi this is shane jackie's making me make a fake twitter' with the only response being Jackie Pike replying, 'REAL twitter, Shane. I want you to make a REAL twitter account.' Last Shane checked, eleven people followed it.

It still sent him push notifications, though. He just got a DM from Ilya Rozanov.

Shane sat up frantically, biting on the aglet of his hoodie string so hard it sent a small pain through his tooth. He spat it out, slowly opening the notification with shaky hands.

ilyarozanovhockey81: heard you'd miss me at all stars

"Oh my god," Shane said out loud in an empty room. What did this mean? Shane had nuked the possibility of Ilya Rozanov ever contacting him again from orbit. What was even happening?

He had to find a way to be chill. Shane took a deep breath. The show had changed from hockey to something else. Golf.

shollander24: how did you find this account?

Rozanov answered back five minutes later:

ilyarozanovhockey81: hockey players are gossips you know this
ilyarozanovhockey81: chirping kent tonight! who knew you had it in you

Shane needed to delete his Twitter, part of him noted distantly. He had assumed there was no way Rozanov would want anything to do with him after Shane had a nervous breakdown two seconds after Rozanov sucked his dick. Rozanov, who apparently hooked up as frequently and absently as breathing and never meant anything by it. Rozanov had just been killing time after a commercial shoot by fucking around with the twitchy omega who happened to be there, and Shane had a panic attack on him. By all logic, Shane should have shot any possibility of this dead in the water.

shollander24: why, are you buddies?

ilyarozanovhockey81: kent is a prick
ilyarozanovhockey81: What part of me will you miss at all stars?

shollander24: i won't miss any of you asshole. I won't be there either

ilyarozanovhockey81: hollander this is boring answer
ilyarozanovhockey81: or are you saying you miss my asshole? hollander you have not seen it yet

Shane bit down on the hood of his sweatshirt. Aw, fuck.

shollander24: who says I want to see your asshole

ilyarozanovhockey81: good point. maybe I'll just see yours instead.

Shane got wet so fast that he had to bite his lip around a little sound. He shifted uncomfortably, grabbing his throw blanket off the back of the couch and wadding it under his seat. He had threatened Rozanov. How was this happening?

shollander24: might be tricky. I heard you have a sprained wrist.

ilyarozanovhockey81: ask me how i sprained it 😜

shollander24: you're bragging about jerking off til you got a repetitive stress injury?
shollander24: also just wanted to say thx.
shollander24: for not telling anyone
shollander24: you've been cool about it

There was a longer pause this time. Shane's breath felt sharp, stuck in his chest.

ilyarozanovhockey81: thank me in person
ilyarozanovhockey81: neither of us will be at all stars
ilyarozanovhockey81:: we should meet up

What the fuck.

Rozanov must really be incapable of assessing risk from his perch on the crown prince of hockey's golden throne. Shane wanted to get up, take a lap around the room, maybe dunk his face in ice water, but that would mean unpeeling himself from the couch, and he didn't want to face how wet he was getting. He did some box breathing instead. He could smell himself for the first time in a long time; his body was that excited about the idea.

shollander24: i still can't fuck

ilyarozanovhockey81: we can find other ways to have fun

shollander24: i've got stuff to do over the break
shollander24: meetings and stuff

ilyarozanovhockey81: more photoshoots mr celebrity?

shollander24: shut up

ilyarozanovhockey81: mr supermodel

shollander24: you're laughing but i don't see your billboards anywhere, rozanov

ilyarozanovhockey81: no picture necessary, i'll give you a private show
ilyarozanovhockey81: lets meet up. only need a couple hours, plenty of time left for meetings

shollander24: we live in different countries

ilyarozanovhockey81: You're rich now. buy a plane ticket

shollander24: to where, Boston? You're asking me to go to your place??

He sent it before he thought it through. Reading it back, he realized it was an insane assumption, hopefully one Rozanove didn't interpret as an invitation. It was presumptuous and categorically impossible. Even if he could travel to Boston undetected, which he probably couldn't, since at this point Shane was extremely recognizable in certain circles, there was no way Shane could tolerate being in Rozanov's house. If Shane smelled the objects Rozanov used to live his life - his clothes, his furniture, his sheets, he wasn't sure what he would do. Rozanov's home was surely the one place he never wore scent blockers. Shane would go into heat or something.

A few minutes later, when Shane picked his phone back up from where he had thrown it on the coffee table, he saw that Rozanov had responded.

ilyarozanovhockey81: what?? no. New York. I have business also, need to sign papers there.
ilyarozanovhockey81: its a good excuse for you too. easy to lie about having business in New York
ilyarozanovhockey81: we meet at a hotel
ilyarozanovhockey81: dont be boring hollander is just a plan to hook up

Shane chewed on his lower lip. There was always a good excuse to go to New York. Shane wouldn't even have to lie; he could meet with his agent. A few hours in a hotel room was actually feasible. He just wished he were fluent enough in people to know if Rozanov was being weird about this.

(A high-pitched refrain in the back of his head, easy to ignore: what if he feels it too, what if it's real, what if I haven't just been losing my mind.)

He could fly to New York. It wasn't the fifties; no one cared if an unclaimed omega traveled alone. The reasons not to do it were evaporating in front of him, except for the main one, which he never really looked at anyway, except out of the corner of his eye.

And Shane wanted to go. He really wanted to. He pulsed with it.

He blew out a breath, shaking his head, and stuck his drawstring back in his mouth.

shollander24: okay fine. If I don't find something better to do.

Rozanov texted back immediately.

ilyarozanovhockey81: give me your phone number
ilyarozanovhockey81: easier to plan that way

Rozanov promised to save Shane's number under a fake name after calling him paranoid a few times. Shane deleted the Twitter account the minute Rozanov was saved in his phone under a fake name, too. If anyone ever saw their texts, Shane would infinitely prefer people to think he was dating a woman.

This was fine. Shane was young, and young people explored new things - in the world, sure, but also sexually. And that was reasonable, practical even. This was a necessary step in his maturation process. And Rozanov was trustworthy, probably. Maybe. Had been so far. Shane was going to partake in some no-strings-attached sexual exploration, like all young people should do to feel fulfilled in a stable relationship with the right partner later in life, far down the line. But unlike his peers, Shane was going to be smart about it. He was going to do it safely, contained in airtight parameters, so nothing about it could ever leak out and hurt him.

It turned out that lying was alarmingly easy, especially when Shane read a Wikihow article that confirmed his suspicion that the best lies had elements of truth. No one thought it odd that he requested a meeting with Farah, his polished and terrifying alpha agent. Yuna didn't say a word about him going off by himself, probably because she approved of Farah - they were exchanging Christmas presents these days. Yuna even seemed quietly pleased when he marked off two hours in his itinerary just for sightseeing. He knew she thought Shane was placating David, who always encouraged him to fit in more tourism when he could. ("It's a big world out there, kiddo. You might even like some of the parts of it that aren't hockey.")

Shane had always liked Farah, but felt a genuine pang of appreciation for her when she took the request for an individual meeting in stride, not even asking whether his mother would be in attendance. Her minimalist office suite was soothing, and an oatmilk macha latte appeared by his elbow on the conference table as if by magic. She was brisk and optimistic, surrounded by her laptop, several color-coordinated folders, and at least five unobtrusive and interchangeable assistants who ducked in and out of the conference room all meeting.

"You're going to be happy about this," she said after they exchanged pleasantries. "We're getting good reports from Metro's front office."

Shane felt himself perk up like a dog smelling a treat. "Yeah?"

"They're very impressed with you, Shane," said Farah. "Your numbers speak for themselves."

Shane had to clear his throat before he could ask, "That's what you're hearing?"

"The Metros are having a good year," Farah said. "It's been a strong season, everyone's thinking playoff run. They'd have to be willfully blind not to see you're part of that. We always knew their biggest concern would be about team cohesion, but so far, they're saying they've had minimal complaints. You've really won them over, honey."

"They've had complaints?" asked Shane.

She waved her hand. "Nothing serious. Just knotheaded stuff about being distracted, not wanting to have to coddle a teammate. Mostly it was preseason, before training camp. Nothing we hadn't expected."

Mostly. Shane nodded. "Okay. Is there anything I could work on?"

Farah sucked air in between her teeth. "Some people just need time to adjust, Shane. Just keep showing up and doing what you're doing."

Shane nodded again. "Okay."

Farah leaned forward. "I wouldn't get cocky, nothing's over until it's over, but if you keep this up, I honestly don't think we have any reason to worry about your contract extension."

She had told him at the time that the Metro's legal team had had to write an entirely new contract for Shane, a one-year provisional with an option to extend to the traditional three if Shane earned it. Shane was always making more work for other people. Now, a small amount of the tension that always sat there released from his shoulders. "Oh wow. Great. Okay. That's - that's really good to hear."

She paused, rapping her pen against the glass top of the table. "You know, Shane, we might even be in a strong enough position that if you wanted to push back against any of the language in the pregnancy and claiming or even the morality clauses-"

"No, that's okay," Shane said. "I don't - it's not worth making waves over."

Farah bit the corner of her lip. She had made mention of an omega at home once or twice. "You know, Shane, there are perks for them here, too. The Metros have gotten a lot of free press because of you. You've opened up a whole new market of potential hockey fans, rehabilitated their image… You should just keep that in mind when we're getting into negotiations, okay?"

Shane had to swallow down a lump of irritation. It wasn't like he didn't know he was a good human interest story. "I'm not going to be taken seriously if I throw my weight around as a diversity hire."

"Oh, no, that's not what I-"

"It's fine, I get it," Shane said. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind. Can we talk about my endorsements, though? That's what I really came here for."

The thing was, he thought afterwards in the cab to Rozanov's hotel, Shane was having a good season. By any metric, he was having a consistently excellent rookie year. He was the best rookie on the team, no question, signaling very promising things about the arc of his career. He would probably be in contention for the Calder. He had proven to be a good investment.

What he wasn't having, what he needed to be having, was a legendary rookie season. Shane was solid; he was arguably exceptional. But he wasn't effortlessly lapping the competition; his name wasn't being said in hushed tones. No one was using him as a benchmark of greatness, no one was saying he was a generational talent. He wasn't having Rozanov's rookie season, essentially. And he needed to be, if he wanted to be taken seriously.

The Metros were a legacy team coming off a solid decade of playoff runs. They won the cup six years ago, just far enough in the past to be losing its shine. They signed Shane because he was good, and if he lived up to his potential, he'd add crucial depth to their center, but also because it would be no great loss if he flamed out. There had been unpleasantness a few years ago with the captain at the time, Gustafsson, some allegations, but he had retired, and now they had Shane to use as a shield against any bad PR. He didn't think that was his primary value to the team, but he knew it was part of it.

The Metros were solid enough contenders without him that they could afford to be cautious with Shane as an asset, still testing how disruptive his presence was to the team dynamic, how other teams reacted to an omega on the ice. As the season went on, Shane had moved up lines, but his ice time hadn't increased as much as he had hoped. Shane sat on the bench a fair amount, especially if tensions were high during a game, if alphas were snarling and circling each other.

Boston, despite its storied history, had been at the bottom of the rankings for years and treated Rozanov's arrival like the second coming of Jesus. Rozanov was already being recognized as a playmaker, an equal to the veterans on the team. He was being groomed to lead them one day. His stats reflected that, and Shane's stats reflected that he wasn't being taken nearly as seriously.

If Shane wanted to be more than a pioneer of omega's rights, if his being an omega and mixed-race were to be incidental to his legacy and not the defining features of his career, he needed to be known as a generational player. He knew he was one. He wasn't being full of himself - recruiters and coaches had eyes, they said so too. But so far, he hadn't quite figured out how to demonstrate that when they wouldn't let go of the reins, give him his head.

He had the cab drop him off three blocks from Rozanov's hotel and walked the rest of the way, head ducked down, hands in his jacket pockets. Rozanov had texted Shane his room number halfway through the meeting; Shane still felt the flush he got when his phone vibrated lingering in his cheeks.

Rozanov picked a hotel on 43rd Street, meaning Shane had to battle throngs of tourists on his way there. He didn't think he was recognized as he skulked his way through the lobby and into the elevator. He was fuming about it, though, and about the meeting, and about everything, by the time Rozanov apparently mosied in from a different borough, it took him so long to open the door after Shane knocked.

Shane hurried inside. Rozanov took him in with undisguised amusement, snickering like a kid at Shane's sunglasses and baseball hat. "You would make a terrible spy."

"You booked a hotel in midtown," Shane bit out. "It's the middle of the day."

Rozanov appeared unrepentant, infuriatingly, but then the weight of his presence smacked Shane in the chest. Rozanov was more real than anything Shane had ever seen. His chest, his thighs. His fucking arms. That face - the cut of Rozanov's jaw pulled something in Shane's gut so tightly Shane barely recognized himself. Shane launched himself at him. He had earned this.

Rozanov kissed back, tearing off Shane's hat and glasses, getting his hands everywhere. Getting them under Shane's shirt to ruck it up, then down to palm at his ass. He pressed his face to the crook of Shane's neck and inhaled, grabbing at the muscles of his back. Rozanov was scenting him. It was shockingly forward, the kind of move for which an alpha could expect to get slapped, and it made Shane melt, moaning, "Fuck."

Rozanov lifted his head and cradled the back of Shane's skull, pushing down to have him rest in the same position. He said, hoarsely, "You too."

Shane did it without thinking, the command running through him like a cool stream. Rozanov's scent was so strong. Suddenly, everything seemed wonderfully simple. Rozanov wanted him; Shane knew that. Here was an alpha who wanted him and could tell him what to do.

Shane peeled off Rozanov's scent blocker and pressed his face back into his neck.

Rozanov swore loudly. He gripped Shane hard enough to bruise and hoisted Shane's legs around his waist. They kissed as Rozanov walked him to the bed. Rozanov tasted like cigarettes and mint, like he gargled mouthwash before Shane came over.

Shane landed on his back on the bed, immediately began undressing, and helped Rozanov undress too. Rozanov grinned down at him like a shark, then kissed his way down Shane's chest. He licked a stripe up Shane's cock, but kept going, tilting Shane's hips up, folding his legs in to expose his hole. Shane could feel how much he was dripping now that Rozanov was staring at him, nostrils flaring.

He looked up at Shane. "Is okay?"

Shane's head was a little swimmy. Rozanov's scent had him a little drunk. He wasn't sure what Rozanov meant, but he nodded anyway.

Rozanov scattered kisses over Shane's stomach before rearing back, ducking down. And then - oh - he spread Shane's ass apart and licked him with the flat of his tongue.

Shane made a broken sound, back arching, which Rozanov took as encouragement. He chased Shane's slick down the back of his thighs, the crease of his ass, then returned to his hole, licking with long strokes. It was so strange and compelling. It could break him, rearrange him into something new. Shane's head was just white noise, blissfully clear for once. Shane felt the moment of surrender, something clicking into place, when he realized how good it felt to let Rozanov do whatever he wanted.

Pressure built up low in Shane's stomach, and he wrapped his hand around his dick and squeezed. He moaned, and maybe because of the sound, Rozanove probed the tip of his tongue into the furl of Shane's ass, pushed it inside.

Shane jacked himself off frantically twice and came, shooting up to his collarbone. He hadn't been expecting it; it felt like an eruption inside him, and he made a crazed, harsh sound. He wanted to collapse, his muscles felt heavy and liquid and good. But Rozanov growled - Shane felt it more than heard it - and pushed Shane up by the back of his thighs again, pinning him into place. He licked Shane over and over, sawing his tongue inside Shane until Shane felt himself get soft and loose.

Rozanov didn't relent, not even when Shane begged, but then again, Shane wasn't begging him to stop. He was just saying 'please, please' over and over. Shane got hard again, a little too soon even for him, but the hurt felt sort of good. Shane liked pushing his body to extremes. It was the only time he and his body were in agreement.

He felt untethered, though, uncontained, and leaned forward enough to grab Rozanov's hair. His curls were wet with sweat but a little crunchy. He must have used some sort of gel. Rozanov made an emphatic sound and bit Shane's inner thigh before crowding in, spreading Shane's legs wider, and sucking Shane's cock into his mouth.

Shane planted his feet flat on the mattress and surged into Rozanov's mouth. Rozanov swalloed Shane down like he was happy to meet a challenge. His eyes were triumphant slits, still shockingly blue.

Shane scrambled, pumping his hips, clawing at Rozanov's hair, until he came again. Rozanov swallowed easily while Shane collapsed back on the bed. Nothing felt over, but Shane had to gasp for breath, enjoying the languor in his limbs. He could feel an outline of his body in sweat on the sheets underneath him now, tackier and wetter closer to his hips and ass, where he had slicked up. The bed was disgusting.

"The bed's disgusting," Shane said. When Rozanov didn't answer, he looked down. Rozanov's face was dark red, fever red, a vein throbbing in his temple. He looked dazed, almost pained. He was gripping his cock firmly in his hand, like he was trying not to come. He was so hard his cock was flushed nearly purple at the tip.

Shane felt a slippery and intriguing new feeling curling up his spine. Just getting to touch Shane made Rozanov look like that. Overwhelmed. Helpless.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Shane asked.

Rozanov looked up sharply. He was panting, chest rising and falling. The haze of desire was still there, but Rozanov looked wary too, like this might be a trap. Shane was pretty sure he was, in fact, setting some kind of trap.

"You said you don't do that," Rozanov answered, finally. His accent was thick.

"I bet you brought condoms anyway," Shane said. The flash of guilt that crossed Rozanov's face made him look young. He was Shane's age, Shane remembered, a few weeks younger, actually, despite the bulk and the swagger and the worldliness. Rozanov was also nineteen, and very far from home.

Rozanov was a kid, too, and he had everything Shane ever wanted. A lifetime of flowers would be thrown at his feet. But, here in this moment, Rozanov wanted Shane so much that he looked like he was going to pass out.

Shane realized he had rarely felt powerful before, now that he was getting a sense of what power could feel like.

Slowly, making sure Rozanov was tracking the motion, Shane reached up and ripped off his own scent patch.

Rozanov's eyes went huge before he exploded into action, covering Shane with his body and licking crudely, frantically over Shane's jaw, his neck, like the taste was making him mindless, rutting his cock into the groove of Shane's hip. Shane had never been this reckless before in his life; Rozanov could bite him, claim him, and there would be nothing Shane could do about it. The thought made him as hard as he'd ever been, and he grabbed Rozanov's face between his hands to drag him into a kiss, hissing, "yeah," into Rozanov's mouth.

Rozanov kissed back, sloppy, before sliding off of Shane just enough to paw through the bedside table, grabbing for a loose condom. He must have been staying at this hotel for a little while. Maybe Shane wasn't the first person he brought up here.

Shane bit Rozanov's shoulder. Rozanov swatted at him aimlessly while he located what he was looking for - a knotting condom, Shane noticed, from a selection of normal ones. He kissed Shane again, then trailed kisses over his face, wedging Shane's jaw between his fingers, before sitting back on his heels. He closed his eyes, wordlessly mouthing something to himself.

Shane felt cautious. "Are you, like-"

"Hollander," Rozanov said, voice strained. "If you want my dick, shut up for a minute."

Shane leaned back, flattered and smug as he watched Rozanov try to calm himself down so he wouldn't nut immediately. The thrum of his own arousal still felt like a drumbeat, though. After a while, he said, "Are you going over hockey stats? Your face-off percentage would make anyone lose their boner."

"Shut up," groaned Rozanov and scowled when Shane grinned. It maybe worked, though, since Rozanov tore the condom wrapper open. "My face-off percentage is incredible."

"Not as good as mine," Shane said, watching Rozanove roll the condom over his dick, a well-practiced motion. It was huge in a way that Shane hadn't considered last time, when he was just putting it in his mouth.

"I already set record for power plays in rookie season, you only have-" Rozanov cut himself off, looking at Shane's expression. "You sure you still want?"

"Yeah," Shane said, too quickly. He did, though. It felt imperative. Sharp. Necessary.

Rozanov prowled close, kissed the jut of Shane's hipbone. "Don't worry. I will make it good for you."

He entered Shane with a finger first in a way Shane could tell was meant to make him feel good but also stretch him, prepare him. Shane didn't need much preparation; he could take two right away. His body was built for this, which was the real trap, the defining prison of Shane's life. Right now, though, he could almost forget his resentment as Rozanov moved his fingers in and out, finding the spot inside him that Shane often found and lost again when he used his dildo. Rozanov zeroed in with a terrifying clarity of purpose, and Shane soon felt like he was riding Rozanov's hand, chasing the bright, zinging spark of the touch.

He was so hard. He was so wet. He wanted his alpha's cock inside him, he wanted his knot, what was Rozanov even doing when-

"Okay, okay, fuck," Rozanov said, pulling his fingers out. He pushed Shane's knees up again, taking his cock in hand and pushing inside Shane. Rozanov's cock was a hot, blunt intrusion. For a moment, it really was too big, so big it crowded out everything else.

Rozanov stayed still, arms locked and braced on the mattress, as Shane took short, panting breaths, getting used to it. He arched through his spine, just needing to move, and Rozanov kissed him and kissed him. The sensation turned golden - syrupy and warm.

"Still okay?" Rozanov asked, and Shane nodded, pulling him into another kiss. Rozanov moved his hips, fucking him.

Rozanov was like that the whole time, hovering, attentive. He kept checking in, looking down to see where their bodies were joined. It got to be annoying, frankly, when Shane had adjusted, because he wanted it hard. His body wanted to get fucked. Rozanov pulled out to get him on all fours, and that felt better, each thrust punching helpless little sounds out of Shane's mouth.

It was so good. Shane might never recover from how good it was.

He came for the third time harder than his first two, untouched. He clenched around Rozanov, who gasped, "Are you - fuck, Hollander," pumping into Shane ferociously as he came.

Shane slumped down as he felt Rozanov's knot swell inside him. Rozanov made a startled little noise as he knotted, gripping Shane's hips. It was an impossibly full feeling. Shane had never been sure if he actually wanted to be knotted. It seemed appealing when he was horny but terrifying when he wasn't, like a lot of stuff Shane saw in porn. Even now, Shane couldn't tell if he liked it except that it seemed to slide into a slot in his brain, leaving him boneless and purring. Everything was moving at half-speed.

Rozanov collapsed on top of him, hot, sweaty, and crushing. He mouthed at Shane's hair, his ear, licked Shane's neck in a way that made Shane hold his breath, tense, until Rozanov moved on.

"How long does this last?" Shane mumbled, still mostly happily floating. He had perhaps never felt this relaxed in life.

"Hard to say," Rozanov answered after a pause. His voice sounded rough. "Twenty minutes, maybe. Usually."

"Can you roll over? I'm in the…" Clumsily and carefully, still stuck together, they rolled onto their sides away from the wet spot, spooning as they waited for Rozanov's knot to go down. Rozanov kept nosing the join of Shane's neck, far away enough from Shane's scent gland that he didn't have to worry and could still drift comfortably in the haze. The fullness inside him felt wonderful now, like Shane just hadn't realized before that something was always meant to be there.

"I think I blew my brain out my dick," Rozanov said after a while, sounding stunned.

Shane felt himself smile. "That was so fucking hot."

Rozanov kissed the crest of his cheekbone. "Better than All Stars?" Shane laughed, and Rozanov buried his face in Shane's shoulder. Scenting again. Rozanov said, satisfied, "You smell like me."

Shane almost asked what he smelled like to Rozanov, but that was a romantic question. He thought maybe Rozanov himself smelled kind of green. Like a fresh, growing thing. Shane wondered how their scents blended together; if the result was good.

"Yeah, no shit I smell like you. You're still inside me," Shane said without heat.

Rozanov grabbed Shane's pec, massaging it like a stress ball. Shane let him do it. Rozanov's speech was thick and slurred; Shane supposed he was knot drunk. "Why did you change your mind?"

"I don't know," Shane said. "Because I could, I guess."

Rozanov snorted, fluttering the hair on the back of Shane's head. "I think you always do whatever you want."

It was the first wrong thing Rozanov had said about him. It was absurd enough to make him peer back at Rozanov, brow furrowed. Rozanov didn't look contrite, but he did continue. "You want to play hockey, you play hockey. You want to be best in league, you settle for second best."

"Fuck you," said Shane, charmed.

"You want big alpha knot…" Rozanov nuzzled his ear again and thrust his hips shallowly, letting Shane feel it. "Well…"

Shane swatted him, and Rozanov bit his ear and slung his leg over Shane's thigh while Shane squirmed, tussling for a moment before they settled back down.

"I don't just get whatever I want though," Shane said, after a while.

Rozanov hummed. It was hard to read his tone. Neither of them said anything else after that.

Shane must have dozed off because he woke up empty, which was not a sensation he was accustomed to being this acutely aware of outside of heat. He craned his head up. Rozanov was standing by the side of the bed in front of him. He was wet, a towel around his hips, holding a washcloth. When he noticed Shane was awake, he froze a little, face going still.

"Were you watching me sleep?" Shane asked, muzzy and incredulous.

Rozanov dropped the washcloth on Shane's chest. It was damp and warm. Rozanov went over to a suitcase on a little round table in the corner. Clothing had burst out of and around it like the aftermath of a cyclone, and he started rummaging through it, business-like. "Shower's free."

Shane sat up gingerly. He ached, but not as much as he would have expected. "What time is it?"

"Five thirty," Rozanov said.

Shane had gotten to the hotel room just after one. "Five thirty?"

Rovanov glanced over his shoulder, holding a shirt in his hands. The sweetness between them when they were tied together had dissipated, and Rozanov didn't sound particularly nice anymore. "I fuck you so good you forget how to tell time, Hollander?"

"Shut up," said Shane. He looked around a little bit. It was a pretty nice hotel, he realized, now that he was paying attention. Modern and trendy. He figured the combined pheromones they must still be pumping out must be keeping him calm, since his flight back to Montreal left at eight twenty-three that night, but it just didn't feel that important. He was starving. "I'm starving."

In sitcoms, when an omega was hungry after sex, the alpha would fall over themselves to feed them by hand, usually frantically and unsuccessfully, to create a conflict for the third act. Rozanov just looked at him with that hard, bright look of his until Shane realized what it sounded like he was fishing for. "I mean, it's fine. I don't… Do you have a protein bar or anything?"

Rozanov didn't move or change expression, but something about his posture made him look young again. Shane remembered seeing him at the draft with an older man, presumably his father. The man had looked dour and unimpressed every time Shane had glanced over. Shane had no idea what Rozanov's father was actually like, or what the rest of his family was like. He didn't know if Rozanov missed Moscow. He didn't know anything about Rozanov, really, other than that he smoked, and he was working on a collection of grotesquely colored sports cars, and he was as good at hockey as Shane.

Rozanov reached into an inner pocket of his suitcase, pulled out a bottled protein shake, and tossed it at Shane. It wasn't a brand Shane would have chosen, but he sat up in the bed and drank it anyway. Rozanov spent a while pawing through his suitcase, but eventually just put a pair of underwear on and sat down on the bed next to Shane.

"My flight's at eight thirty," Shane offered eventually.

"I drove," Rozanov said. "Don't need to be back in Boston until practice Sunday."

Shane was quiet, thinking that through. "Same, yeah. Montreal, I mean. I don't need to be back until Sunday morning. Technically."

Rozanov nodded. He sniffed and rubbed the side of his nose. "You could move your flight," he said, offhandedly. "Fit in one more round, maybe."

Shane nodded, studying Rozanov and taking an inventory of himself. The awkwardness between them now prickled, but his body felt good, really good, in a way he recognized as chemical. Rozanov was still beautiful, and they had just had mind-meltingly amazing sex, at least from Shane's perspective, even if it had been impulsive and dumb. They had scented each other first thing. Usually, that meant something.

It might have been a good moment to ask something, except Shane couldn't even figure out the shape of the question. Then again, it was an equally good moment for Shane to tell Rozanov the truth: Rozanov might be able to afford this, sneaking around together, but Shane couldn't. If he left right now, Shane could still make his flight.

Shane finished the protein shake, sucking the residual grit off the roof of his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Chapter End Notes

We are ride or die Hayden apologists over here, and this fic will reflect that. Sure, he's a cringe normie loser who fundamentally doesn't understand anything outside his narrow cultural experience, but he's our cringe normie loser who fundamentally doesn't understand anything outside his narrow cultural experience. Shane needs a friendly golden retriever in his cheetah enclosure, and he's having a bad enough time in this AU that I'm not going to take that away from him.

Shane is also right to suspect that Ilya is into any and all configurations of gender available. Ilya is like Commander Riker: if it is sentient, he will find a way to be attracted to it.

Thank you to everyone for your kind kudos and comments! We're going to diverge more fully from canon from here on out, so... stick around for that! Or don't, if you don't want to. I'm not your mom.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Needing separate accommodations for away games meant that Shane was on a first-name basis with a vast number of equipment and facility workers across North America. Most of them took him in stride or were even low-key excited to show off how they had arranged an ad hoc locker room and shower stall for Shane. Shane always enjoyed that. Not the special treatment - he had gotten inured to being catered to over the years - but he always gravitated towards people who enjoyed solving problems. It was often a nice part of his pre-game ritual, peeling away from the team with Jorge, his security escort, and Elliot, his equipment assistant, and making awkward chitchat with the opposing team's facility personnel as they took him to his changing area. He wouldn't say he was close to any of them, but it was refreshing to talk to competent people who saw life as a series of completable puzzles.

Janet, from the Houston Drillers, was an exception to this rule. For some reason, Shane was pretty polarizing among older alpha women. Most of them viewed him fairly maternally, but a fraction of them loathed him on principle. Janet waved them over with hard eyes and a tight mouth. As she led them to a subbasement in the vast complex of the rink, Janet talked exclusively to Jorge, the only alpha present. Shane had been nauseous off and on for most of the day, so that was fine with him, really.

They were headed in a different direction than his changing room had been last season, which Jorge made mention of. "There's a law now - we have to provide a private lactation and pumping space for nursing omegas," she said. "And betas, I guess. Made sense to use it for this, too. Why should we be expected to spend money on an opposing team if we don't have to?"

Jorge's jaw went tight, and even Elliot, a beta, drew his shoulders back under the strap of the gear bag. That was a familiar but unexpected script, a talking point from numerous hockey podcasts: whether it was fair to make other teams bear the financial burden of Shane's presence in their rink. Hockey fans loved to talk about how Shane, with his legal and medical accommodation requirements, cost, on average, fourteen percent more than an alpha player across the league. Their math was off; it was actually closer to eight percent, but even Shane recognized that wasn't a compelling counterargument.

"It's fine," Shane said after a beat, with a warning glance at Jorge. "Whatever you've arranged will work, I'm sure." It really would be fine since Shane was a little worried he was going to throw up, and his accommodations were guaranteed to include a bathroom. That was the law, too.

Janet sniffed as they arrived at the appropriate door, opening it with a key card. She turned to look at Shane and said, "Well, there we go." She turned back to Jorge and asked him, jerking her head towards Shane. "He smell off to you?"

"Dude," said Elliot, scandalized.

Jorge also looked stunned, although a crackle of alpha anger started leaking through his patch. He sounded measured but warning when he said, "That's a fucking rude question, lady."

Janet just shrugged, clearly pleased with herself. "Well, here you are. Unless you need anything else, I'm off to do some actual work."

"Fucking Drillers, man," Elliot said, loud enough that Janet could hear him as she walked away. "Petty fucking bitches. They're so butthurt about how bad they're already tanking this season, all they can do is try to psych us out."

"Alphas like that, they're not even real alphas," Jorge added. "Just insecure assholes. Just ignore them, Hollzy. Hey." Jorge held his fist out for a dab. "1C."

"1C," Shane agreed, bumping back. He knew the gesture was awkward, but his excitement - first-line center this season since Milty retired, the newness of it still lingering - was genuine, beating out the queasiness, which was evaporating now that Janet's sour combatativeness was fading away. Shane was relieved; he'd prefer not to throw up before a game. "We're gonna destroy them today."

Elliot set up the room while Shane listened to a guided meditation on his iPod. Shane waited until Elliot was done, Shane was inside, the door closed, and Jorge was standing guard in the hall, to check his texts. He and Rozanov were talking again, and Rozanov had sent him a picture of a sink that looked like a face, the drain an unimpressed, round mouth. look its you, he had captioned it.

Shane sighed and turned off his phone.

****

Life developed a rhythm, as it always did. His fourth year in the MLH, Shane felt he knew the score. He hadn't been nominated for the Calder (which Rozanov, of course, had won), but he had to miss the award ceremony that year anyway due to going into an unexpected early heat. But things had smoothed out since then and gained momentum. Last year, he had won the Rocket Richard, and now he was centering the Metro's first line. Shane was twenty-two, and his career had just hit its stride.

The Olympic rosters for Sochi had been announced a few weeks ago. Shane wasn't on Team Canada, but it didn't matter because he knew he wouldn't be. Shane had been invited to an early training camp as a diplomatic gesture. The Canadian Olympic Committee was notoriously conservative, and there was no way they were going to have an unclaimed adult omega running around Russia. The individual events, sure - figure skating, where competitors were still historically alphas and betas, but a sizable trickle of omegas skirted through - it was acceptable, because they could be sequestered. Team sports were trickier. There was no place to put Shane, and his presence in a high-contact sport would be considered insulting on the international stage in a way it wasn't in a national league. A lot of the rest of the world thought the West's attitude towards omegas was absurdly liberal, potentially depraved. It was the one known even Yuna had had to concede when Shane first presented: unless things changed in a hurry, Shane would never represent his country in the Olympics.

Rozanov was named captain of Team Russia. Shane had expected that too. It made sense.

Dr. Borland, the dynamic endocrinologist to whom the team referred Shane, thought it would regulate Shane's hormonal fluctuations - help with the nausea and dizziness and hot flashes - if he spent more time with other omegas. Even Yuna, who hated both Dr. Borland and anything she referred to dismissively as 'moon energies', agreed, although she probably just wanted Shane to socialize more. Shane felt as fully integrated into the team as he could be - they were mostly a solid group of guys - but he was always going to be kind of a loner. It was the one benefit of knowing he'd never be captain. Shane didn't have to pretend to be more gregarious than he felt like being at any given time.

But Shane did apparently need to hang out more with other omegas and, embarrassingly, it turned out the only omega he even really knew was Jackie Pike. Jackie, pregnant with her third, made it clear she could use company and some help with the twins, so Shane started spending time at the Pike's house even when Hayden was away. Despite the eternal toddler ruckus, there was indeed something very soothing about a space with no alphas in it, like permitting a muscle to unclench or watching the light dapple on the lake by his parents' cottage. It unsettled Shane how swiftly and thoroughly he felt the difference.

Jackie had tried to help by offering to invite her other WAG omega friends over, too, but quickly recanted when Shane's face did whatever it did in response. Shane would have felt worse about how rude he knew he was to the WAGs (omega women almost entirely, except Benny was married to a beta and Pilto was bonded to an omega man), who had been nothing but blond, thin, and extremely welcoming towards Shane, except he was sure of the horrific cascade of events that would occur if he became in any way associated with them. So hanging out with just Jackie it was.

Right now, he was coloring with one of the girls at the table while Jackie chopped fruit in the kitchen. Jackie was true to her word and never brought any of the WAGs around, but she gossiped about them constantly. Shane half-listened, assuming she mostly wanted to complain.

"It's not like I don't like Chloe," Jackie was saying. Chloe was Gauthier's, the captain's, omega, and Shane was pretty confident Jackie despised her. "She's just so competitive... Did I tell you the thing about the fish fry?"

"I don't think so," said Shane. His phone had buzzed about three minutes ago. Shane was not going to look until he was out of the Pike's house.

"Uncle Shane, give me the orange crayon," said Emma. At least, Shane was pretty sure it was Emma. They tended to dress Emma in pink and Ruby in green, because Jackie was a big fan of Wicked.

"Emma, say please," said Jackie. Then she glanced over her shoulder to share a sweetly amused look with Shane, alarming him with the implicit assumption they were adult collaborators here. "Aw, Uncle Shane."

Emma hadn't been instructed to call him that. Apparently, she just decided she wanted to. Shane ruffled Emma's hair after he handed her the crayon because she liked physical gestures of affection. Shane, at four, would have fled the kitchen.

Ruby, in a half-zipped dinosaur costume, clomped downstairs and marauded through the open floor plan, snatching Emma's picture and running away with it. Emma screamed and gave chase as Jackie, in a tone of resigned surrender, called, "Girls!" after them.

"Oh, who cares," she sighed and sat down, slowly and awkwardly, next to Shane. She was only four months along but clearly showing, which she said was common with second babies. "Let them get it out of their systems."

Shane smiled sympathetically. "At least they're cute."

Jackie sighed again, rubbing her belly with a shake of her head. "Ruby's going to be an alpha, I think. Can't ever sit still, can't ever let anyone else win…"

Shane had also been like that as a kid. "That'll make Hayden happy."

"I don't know if it will," said Jackie. "I mean, yeah, sure, alpha dads want alpha kids. But life can be hard for an alpha woman. Not always easy to find a partner, there's the glass ceiling… what does your mom say about it?"

Shane felt the urge to check his phone like a physical itch. "Mom's a big believer in carving your own path, no matter what your designation is."

"Well, yeah, of course she is," Jackie said. "Obviously."

It had taken him a while to trust Jackie. Not like - Shane knew she was trustworthy, but Shane had been braced for comments about babies and mating, and how Shane must want both babies and a mate. But so far, Jackie had never said anything like that. Although it wasn't like Shane didn't ever want babies. Hypothetically. One day. After hockey. If it didn't destroy his body. He liked the twins, even if he was at a loss for how to talk to them most of the time.

Jackie turned to him now. "You must have assumed you'd be an alpha, right? When you were a kid?"

Shane was startled, for a moment, that Jackie Pike was that perceptive. Usually, only his mother and Rozanov ever noticed anything true about the core of him. Shane swallowed, surprised to find there was still some pain there. What a foregone conclusion presenting as an alpha had seemed like at eleven. "Yeah. I mean… yeah."

Jackie drummed her fingers on the table. "I sang when I was younger. Have I ever told you that?"

"No," said Shane.

"Oh yeah," said Jackie, rueful and fond, toying with her claiming collar. It was unobtrusive - Hayden wasn't an asshole. "I took lessons. I was in a regional production of Annie, actually. I had all these big dreams of being on Broadway."

"Did you want to be a beta then?" Shane asked.

"I was torn, I think. All the pretty princesses are omegas, you know? And I was a girly girl. Still am, I guess. And I figured omegas can make it in the arts, it's just a little harder. I don't know if I was actually talented enough for it, really. And then I met Hayden."

"Did you know right away?" The question just slipped out. The only reason he hadn't asked this question before was the terror of what else might slip out, the enormity of his confusion that he wouldn't be able to hide. The phone, next to him on the table, felt like a bomb about to go off. "Biological mates - it's so rare. Did you know that's what it was?"

"Biological mates," Jackie mimicked, voice deep, gently mocking him. "You sound like a textbook. I mean, that's the story - we both just knew we were true mates. And I think so? But at that age, the hormone cloud is so crazy, I think a lot of people feel like that about their first love, no matter what. I mean, though, I definitely knew the first time we-" she made a gesture that somehow indicated physical intimacy without being in any way suggestive.

"Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom," Shane said, grabbing his phone.

Rozanov had texted him twice: once with a video of a monkey sitting serenely up to its neck in a hot spring. look its you again, and another, sent a few minutes later: ready to take my knot in three weeks?

Rozanov only brought up knotting if he was in the mood to sext. Shane muted his phone until he could get home, then washed his hands.

****

The thing with Rozanov was intermittent and unavoidable. Shane didn't think about it much.

They didn't speak for almost eight months after Shane spent an exorbitant amount of money canceling and rescheduling flights in order to stay in New York with Rozanov for an extra sixteen hours. When he emerged from the den of pheromones, lucidity returned, and Shane had been horrified at his own behavior, intimidated by the intensity and shamelessness of his desire, and backed off. Rozanov hadn't texted him either, so maybe he felt something of the same. And then Shane started having the problems with his hormone levels, and his heat came early and wretched that year, and he had gotten distracted.

He had texted Rozanov months later, almost on a whim, a few days before Montreal was going to play Boston. Rozanov had been photographed more and more with the same woman, maybe the most beautiful woman Shane had ever seen. Shane spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to guess her designation from tabloid photos. Her presence made reaching out safer, though; there was a comfort in knowing Rozanov's rejection wouldn't be personal this time. But Rozanov had texted back and came to Shane's apartment after the game.

It was always pretty on-and-off, one of them ignoring the other for a few months before they would have a flurry of communication again. They hooked up maybe four times a year. It was nothing, except it wasn't. It was just sex, except Rozanov knotted him every time, and even for Shane, it was hard to stare at a wall in stony silence for half an hour when someone was inside of you. They got to talking, mostly about hockey. Shane had a better sense of the person Rozanov was, even if he still knew frustratingly little about him. Rozanov was funny in a kind of sly way and could be surprisingly gentle. Shane thought he might have liked Rozanov if that were an option remotely available to him.

When he knew a Boston game was coming up, Shane couldn't settle. He felt it like a generator inside him. He had been thrumming with it now for weeks. He just hoped that this time, Rozanov wouldn't do the weird thing he'd been doing lately, going on for a while about times he'd been in Miami or LA and helped a gorgeous omega there through her heat, and it had been so cool and hot and fun, and Rozanov had loved doing it.

It made Shane paranoid that the beautiful curly-haired girl was one of those omegas, although it seemed like whatever she had going on with Rozanov was more serious than just a one-off heat partnership. It made him afraid that Rozanov somehow knew about Shane's problems with his hormones over the last few years, although of course the Metros kept that as locked down as humanly possible. Things had gotten to the point now, though, that Rozanov might be able to smell it on him. Shane was painfully conscious that his cycle was unbalanced enough to affect his scent. His scent patch usually neutralized it, but occasionally, when he was in distress, alphas and omegas wrinkled their noses around him now and asked him if he had been to the doctor lately.

Sometimes, it felt like all Shane did was go to the doctor. He had to fill out the same form every time. The fifth question was always, 'Do you have a suspected or confirmed biological mate?' and Shane always checked 'no.'

But Shane had a good week, hormones-wise, leading up to the Raiders game, no fits of irritability, even. The biggest impediment to hooking up with Rozanov, Shane hated to admit, was Jorge. Shane liked Jorge; he was a nice guy. And Shane grudgingly acquiesced to occasionally needing a security detail after he turned twenty-one, when life got profoundly weird for a few months there. Shane was mostly safe in Montreal, where he paid a lot of money to live as anonymously as possible. Still, he had conceded to head office's request that he have personal security traveling to and from the Bell Center, and the practice rink, and during away games after being accosted a few times by unwell or just blindingly arrogant fans. The kidnapping threats had also gotten a little unsettling.

It would be suspicious to tell Jorge not to drive him home, which would mean Rozanov had to meet Shane at his new place, in a gated community further out in the suburbs - another security measure. Which would mean Rozanov would have to get checked in at the entrance and provide an ID, which was, of course, a nonstarter. Instead, Shane had to go out with the team after the game, telling Jorge to take an early night because Shane would catch a ride home with one of the guys, then left the bar as quietly as possible a few hours later. You are so polite even when you are lying and sneaking around, Rozanov texted when Shane explained to him why he'd be so late.

Vibrant, Shane thought later, after he politely snuck his way into Rozanov's hotel room and they fell into bed. That was the word for him. Vibrant. Dazzling. Sometimes Rozanov would grin at him, run his hands all over him, leave sparks in his wake. In his better moments, Shane didn't begrudge Rozanov his success because Rozanov was such a glittering thing that he must always have been bound for greatness.

Sex with Rozanov was a revelation every time, like Shane had half-convinced himself it couldn't be as blisteringly satisfying as he remembered and was always shocked at the reality of it. Shane sucked Rozanov's dick, and then Rozanov ate Shane out until he cried, and then Rozanov had Shane ride him, so that when he knotted, Shane was more or less sitting in his lap. Rozanov was taking advantage by pawing at Shane's chest, tweaking his nipples as Shane was coming down from his orgasm. Third, maybe? He'd lost count.

"Knock it off," Shane grumbled, oversensitive, and pushing Rozanov's hands away.

"You like it," Rozanov crooned. "Besides, how could I stay away from such perfect little tits?"

"Don't be weird," said Shane, who didn't mind. It felt so good to be filled, to be kept full. It made the constant frantic scramble in his brain finally ease and settle, laze in the sun like a contented pet.

Rozanov beamed and put his hands behind his head. Shane surveyed him from his position, Rozanov spread out and gleaming below him in the low light. Shane wanted to map constellations out of Rozanov's moles; he wanted to ask Rozanov if he was routinely seeing a dermatologist.

Montreal had won that night, which generally made the sex better, although Shane had to confess that he also liked it when Rozanov won and came to him like a conquering hero. Rozanov's cock was deep in him now, and he settled a little, feeling the delicious little tugs and pulls whenever he shifted his weight.

"Are you excited about the Olympics?" Shane asked. He knew it was a mistake to ask, like picking at a scab.

Rozanov peered up at him. Shane had expected him to puff up his chest, but he seemed surprised, cautious, if anything. "Yeah, sure. Of course."

"Of course," Shane echoed. He hoped he didn't sound bitter. It would come across as petty. Overindulged.

Rozanov shrugged. "You know, is exciting, sure. But disrupts the season. Have to make new team click with not much time. They say the Olympic village might be shit this year. Is not all glamorous."

"Yeah," Shane said, clamping down on the seething, roiling oiliness in his chest. God, what would it be like to be Rozanov even for a day? To be so comfortably elite, you could nitpick the Olympics? "I'd hate to have to sleep on, like, a cheap mattress while representing my country."

Rozanov raised an eyebrow at him, and Shane tried to shake it off. He wanted to ask Rozanov if he was excited to go back to Russia, if his family was coming to watch him compete, but Rozanov tended to shut down when Shane asked about that kind of stuff, going hard and cold.

"They say the village is a good time, though. Lots of parties," Shane settled on. What people actually said was that the Olympic village was a total fuckfest, but as a general rule, they didn't talk about how Rozanov had sex with other people. Shane was afraid he'd come off as jealous when he didn't have the right to be. Shane stringently avoided any of the typical omega behavior, like getting attached too quickly or being possessive without cause.

Rozanov just gave him an odd look, scent going flat. "You hate parties."

"No, I don't," Shane said automatically. Thinking it over, he could probably make it about half an hour into an Olympic party before the shine wore off and he wanted to leave. "I just don't like it when they're loud. And if there's a lot of people."

The corner of Rozanov's mouth twitched up. "That's what a party is, Hollander."

"Not all parties," Shane said. "My security detail - Jorge - had a barbecue a few weeks ago, in his backyard. That was pretty okay."

"Wow," Rozanov said dryly. "What an animal you are."

"Shut up," said Shane.

"No, seriously," Rozanov said, getting into the groove now. "Why go to Monaco and do bodyshots on a billionaire's yacht when you can go to bodyguard's backyard barbeque? Was for his little niece, maybe?"

"Oh my god, shut up," said Shane. It was actually for Jorge's mother's birthday, but Shane would rather drown than tell Rozanov that. Was Rozanov doing yacht bodyshots in Monaco? "Jorge's a buddy. He's a nice guy."

"I think it is just that you are boring," said Rozanov.

"I think if you ever played cornhole, you'd refuse to leave until you beat everyone there," said Shane.

"Is that what you did?"

"I let abuela win," said Shane. She was eighty-one and didn't appreciate being condescended to, it turned out.

Rozanov laughed, that familiar snort. The sound trickled through Shane's chest, curled happily in his stomach.

"So, your bodyguard," Rozanov said after a minute, scratching at his nose. "He is alpha."

"Yeah," Shane said. "Most of them are, I think."

Rozanov nodded a few times, then rubbed his nose again. This was how he acted when he was trying to appear indifferent about something that mattered to him; Shane was a little endeared by how obvious his tells were, how Rozanov didn't seem to realize it. "Good heat partner for you, maybe."

"What?" Shane squawked. "No!"

"Mm," said Rozanov, unconcerned as a lazing jungle cat. "No?"

"Of course not. He's a Metro employee."

Rozanov gave him one of those soft, fond looks. He often did that when Shane was indignant about something. "Of course not then, no. Think of the paperwork. What an HR nightmare."

"You're making fun of me, but it really would be," said Shane.

"God forbid," Rozanov purred. "The impropriety."

"Impropriety," Shane echoed, savoring the word warmly. "Yeah."

"So who is your heat partner then?" Rozanov said, a little brusquely, shaking off the spell of the moment. "Pike?"

"That's disgusting," Shane said. "He's bonded. And married."

"So who is?" Rozanov asked. "Your heat partner."

Shane would think that Rozanov initiating this conversation while they were tied together was strategic, except that about ninety percent of their conversations occurred when neither of them could leave. Shane concentrated on a spot on the headboard above Ilya's shoulder, a whirl in the woodgrain. "That's pretty personal."

"Hollander, my cock is currently stuck in your asshole," Rozanov said, a little exasperated. "It does not get more personal than this."

Shane sighed, not seeing a way out. Dread sat in the bottom of his stomach like mud. "Okay, just… don't be a dick about it, okay? Like, don't say anything awful."

"You are being so rude to me," Rozanov said. "When I am showing interest in your hobbies."

"Heat isn't a hobby," Shane said.

"If you say this, I think maybe you're not doing it right," said Rozanov.

Well, that was undeniably true. Shane felt abruptly naked after hours of not minding being nude and splattered with fluids. After the derangement of their first time knotting, both of them kept their scent patches on during sex in wordless agreement. Shane had never been more thankful for the clarity that provided than he was now. "Seriously. This sounds like a bigger deal than it is."

"Is he ugly?" Rozanov asked. "Is it Theriault?"

"No," Shane laughed a little, despite himself. He scratched at his ear. "I, uh. Haven't, so far. I haven't been with anyone."

Rozanov's face didn't move. "What?"

Shane tried to make it into a joke. "Yeah, no. Do them solo."

Rozanov sat up on his elbows so quickly it jostled Shane, who winced and had to brace himself. "You are fucking with me. You are lying."

"Why would I lie about that?" Shane said, a shade more sullen than he meant. He didn't like thinking about his heats. They were bad memories: flame-hot, disjointed, and painful. Full of hunger that was too big, that he couldn't hold, that he dropped and shattered, and cut himself on the shards.

"Why?" Rozanov sat up fully, more slowly. Shane moved with him as much as he could, until they were as face-to-face as possible, Shane's legs wrapped around Rozanov's waist by necessity. "Hollander, how? Why? This is stupidest thing I have heard in my life."

Shane felt himself frown. "It's really not that big a deal."

"Hollander," Rozanov said emphatically. "You could find someone to fuck you."

"I know," Shane muttered, aware he was coloring.

"They did that fucking article," Rozanov said. "Whole world said you were most fuckable omega-"

"I only came in third," Shane protested. "In that magazine."

"It was Vogue September Issue," Rozanov said. Like Shane didn't remember; the photoshoot for the article had run four hours over schedule. "You come in third in Vogue issue ranking world's best-"

"Most influential," Shane said, testily.

"Best, most fuckable omegas. Magazine is the biggest fucking deal, you come in fucking third, after two princesses, and now you sit here on my cock and tell me you never had heat partner?"

"I asked you not to be a dick about this," Shane reminded him.

"I am not being dick!" Rozanov said, wild-eyed. His English was slipping; he must be genuinely upset, somewhat to Shane's bafflement. "I think you have lost your fucking mind!"

"I know I could find someone," Shane said, snappish. Never a hockey player, god no, although they often offered, but someone in his orbit, willing to sign an NDA. Like that would help. Like that wouldn't only make things worse.

Rozanov made a noise Shane had never heard him make before. He kept shifting, making Shane wince for alternating reasons. It was objectively pretty wild that they were having this conversation while Rozanov was still inside him. "You could hire a professional! If you need! You would never need, but you could! Someone trained in it! You could go to fucking spa and get fucked by expert! What are you thinking?"

Shane felt his eyes go bright and hot. "Suppressants have come a long way in the past few generations. It's really old-fashioned to think you need to get fucked the whole time to get through a heat safely. The research is solid-"

Rozanov stunk of anger, musky and oily. "This is bullshit. The research is - what is, nonsense talk?" Ilya said, miming a yapping mouth with his hand.

"Gibberish?"

"Gibberish, research is gibberish! To get through heat, omega needs a partner. Is just fact."

"That hasn't been true since - since 1998," Shane said, grimacing. Ilya's knot had deflated rapidly, but it still hurt when Shane pulled himself off of it. He sat back gingerly against the pillows, crossing his arms and ignoring the residual empty, aching feeling. "Not everyone needs a partner. It takes a careful nutritional and medical regimen, sure, but lots of people now barely have any heat symptoms."

Ilya gestured to him skeptically. "Oh, you are one of them? Hollander, you missed MLH award ceremony rookie year. Everyone knows it was because you went into heat. You were having symptoms then."

Rozanov didn't say it particularly unkindly, but Shane's cheeks burned. Partially from the humiliation of that unmitigated disaster, painful to recall even now. Partially because he always forgot how Rozanov was actually really fucking smart, and that was so wonderful even when it was inconvenient.

Rozanov cupped his face, suddenly. Shane could only imagine what he smelled like right now, bad enough to make Ilya press his thumb softly against Shane's cheek. "Hey, no. Is not embarrassing. Is what your body is meant to do."

Shane blinked at him, shaken out of the fog because Ilya's statement was so stupid. He felt a spike of rage in his chest, sharp as a needle. Shane's life was anchored on the premise that if he were patient, methodical, and dedicated, he could mold his body to his will. He had built it into the shape of his need brick by agonizing brick.

"I get to decide what I'm meant to do," Shane said.

"Why are you like this?" Rozanov sounded frustrated, like this was part of a larger conversation Shane had been unaware they were having. "Omegas need heat and need a partner. You need heat partner."

"It's not that big a deal!" said Shane, beginning to take offense. "People do it. It's not a death sentence. It's just annoying, but if you're prepared, if you know what you're getting into, it's fine."

It really was. Shane didn't know why people were so horrified. Then again, it was almost always alphas who told everyone else they should be horrified. Maybe it wasn't actually horrific for an omega; maybe it was only really horrifying to an alpha because it meant they weren't necessary.

That might not be fair to Rozanov, who seemed legitimately distressed, but Shane had access to the best doctors in the world. He had a lot of money to spend on lube and toys and painkillers and luxury heat meal delivery services. He was also, people seemed to forget, a professional fucking hockey player and used to being in a fair amount of pain. Heats weren't pleasant, but generally they were endurable. It was only his cycle being all fucked up that made his past few ones so brutal.

Rozanov completely ignored him. "You could hire a - a not sex one! Companion! Heat companion! Just cuddle all heat! But instead you have no one because - because why?"

"I don't know why you're so upset," Shane said tightly. Ilya smelled angry, but darker than that too, almost smoky, and Shane's whole body vibrated with it like a tuning fork. Sometimes Shane had to wonder how the fuck Rozanov did this to him. How they did this to each other. Shane didn't care about what anybody else said to him, good or bad, half as much as he cared about what Rozanov said to him. What he thought about him. It didn't feel good. He wished he could shut it off. "This is none of your fucking business."

Ilya's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He scratched at the back of his head, then tried to turn the gesture into him smoothing down his hair.

"You're careful," Rozanov said finally. "You are most boring, most careful player in the league. Won't go out after ten in case you turn into gremlin. No booze, no fun. Make sure everything is tested, everything is safe, but with this you decide to be reckless?"

"I know what I'm doing," Shane said. "I know my body. I'm not a total fucking idiot."

They both knew he meant being an omega doesn't make me a total fucking idiot. Ilya snapped back to himself a little, likely aware he was on extremely thin ice. He searched Shane's face for a moment, eyes darting, before he said. "I could do it. Be your partner."

Shane couldn't even speak. It came out as a sputter.

"Hollander, I can't sit back and watch you do this to yourself when my magnificent cock is right here," Rozanov said. It felt so good to bring it back to lightness; it was the only way through. Shane was thankful to Ilya, and also he wanted to scream. "It would be the off-season for me too. Please, Hollander, I am sexiest and best lover in the league. You are bruising my ego, not letting me tap this ass."

Despite everything, Shane almost laughed. Rozanov jostled his shoulder. "See, hm? We have a good time. Spending heat with me can't be worse than being alone."

It could be, though, was the thing. Like his mother, Shane eschewed the moon energies approach to treating omegas and their heat cycles. He believed in data-driven practice and clinical trials. But somehow he still knew, in his bones, that if he tried to spend his heats with anyone but Rozanov, it would be a disaster. He'd reject them. Heat-addled, he'd panic, he'd frenzy, he didn't know what he would do.

But possibly the only worse option was spending his heat with Ilya Rozanov. Shane couldn't even see anything past that scenario, if it were to happen. The pages in that book went blank after that.

So Ilya was wrong. Shane was playing it safe. Spending his heats alone was the best option. Sure, it was messing with his cycle and his heats got worse as his hormones tried to compensate throughout the year, but Dr. Borland and his team were helping him work on that now, even if there was some trial and error. And Shane had to own his piece of the blame here too: fucking Rozanov, even as infrequently as he did, couldn't be helping. But ultimately, it didn't matter because Shane was handling it. He could handle it.

He was going to say no. The only reasonable answer was no. But Rozanov started beaming at him - not his usual knowing smirk, but what Shane sometimes thought of as his real smile, a big, open, goofy grin - which meant Shane was giving off a scent Rozanov must find very encouraging.

"C'mon, Hollander," he whined, cute and demanding, crowding in close to kiss Shane's shoulder. "Let me fuck you through your heat. Will be fun. So much better than your dildo."

Not for the first time, Shane deeply regretted telling Rozanov about his dildo. "Maybe. Okay? Maybe."

Rozanov understood that as the final answer it was. He still seemed satisfied with this turn of events, maybe even a little relieved. He kissed Shane's shoulder again and then his mouth. "Maybe. Okay."

"Okay," Shane said.

Neither of them could pretend it didn't feel different after that. Ilya followed him into the shower, soaped him down thoroughly and carefully. They didn't have time for another round, but they couldn't stop kissing, interrupting each other as they dressed to keep making out. On his way to the door, Rozanov pinned him to the wall and kissed him so thoroughly and possessively Shane felt himself start to slick up again and made a breathless little sound of protest. "Rozanov, I have to go."

Ilya put a hand on Shane's chest, nodding to himself like he was remembering something. "Right." He looked Shane right in the eyes, serious. "Call me. Before heat. If you want to."

"I'll think about it," Shane said.

"Give me time, if you can," Ilya said. "Tell me maybe a week before, so I can rearrange plans. But call me. If you want to. I will come."

"Okay," Shane said. Rozanov kissed him one more time, sweet and slow, before he made his way out the door.

***

So spending his heat with Rozanov was on the table. Okay. That was interesting.

Shane was immediately in a dither of logistics for a few days, thinking it over. When and where they could meet up, how they could stay undetected. Even as he did it, though, he knew on some level he was just distracting himself, fussing over the table settings as the house burned down. There were plenty of discreet, upscale heat centers, perfectly designed for something like this. His parents went to one for his mom's ruts. It really wouldn't be hard to make this happen if Shane agreed to it.

The real concern was what would happen during his heat. What Shane would do. Or say. Or ask for.

It just didn't seem likely that Shane would get through a heat with Rozanov without asking Rozanov to claim him. Not that he - sober, non-heat-crazed Shane - wanted that. It would be a catastrophe. There would be no way to hide it; the negative press for being claimed by a member of a rival team would be propulsive, hostile, and gleefully condemnatory. See what happens when we let omegas in the show? Shane Hollander probably never even wanted to play hockey; he just figured out how to get access to the finest alpha knot available. At best, he'd be pilloried as a slut, at worst he'd be considered some kind of Mata Hari, using his wiles to spy for the enemy. It would be a considerable blow to the omega rights movement. It wouldn't look great for the Asian Canadian rights movement either, just by association.

Shane would be fired immediately. He could technically maybe argue he wasn't currently in violation of the morality clause in his contract, but being claimed without Metro oversight or approval would be in direct violation of the terms multiple times over. He'd be radioactive; his career would never recover. He'd never skate again. So regular, normal Shane didn't want to be claimed any time soon, if ever. Absolutely.

Shane didn't trust himself during heat, though. And frankly, he didn't trust himself much around Rozanov, even when he wasn't in heat. Shane knew how he acted around Ilya. He knew what he dreamt about. Heat-sick and vulnerable, he'd ask Ilya to bite him. He had no doubts.

But there could be ways to plan around that. He could wear a heat collar. Protect his scent glands. Although that would be obvious and difficult to explain. He could lie, tell Ilya he hadn't been with heat partners before because he would ask anyone to claim him, so please keep an eye out for that when Shane was too horny to control his base functions. That didn't paint a great picture either, but it was better than the alternative.

(There was a late-night part of him, a silky, malevolent, duplicitous part, that murmured: why not just let him? Would it be so bad, letting Rozanov bite him, claim him, make Shane his? Ilya was such a strong alpha, so sweet and brave. Who cared what the fallout would be? Rozanov would keep him safe. Shane would stop being a misfit toy, a broken tooth, and could finally have somewhere he belonged. It was only a matter of time until it happened anyway, wasn't it? After all, wasn't everything Shane was doing now, all the trappings of his life, a misdirect anyway, a stall, since Rozanov was his-)

Shane consulted with the team trainers, added some mileage to his runs and extra reps to his sets. It meant eating more, always a chore, but exercise helped with his decision-making. He mulled it over as he worked out. Rozanov had some antiquated views about omegas, but maybe not in a disrespectful way. Shane was used to being more on the cutting edge of wellness and health than his peers, and that went triple for omega's issues. Ignorance didn't mean Rozanov was a jerk. But also, even if he were just a chauvinistic asshole, he'd still be an amazing heat partner. That was obvious. The sex was already so good, what could heat sex possibly be like? Would Shane just die? Or maybe, potentially, hopefully, it meant heat could be okay for once.

And Rozanov, you know, liked him. Liked Shane. He was pretty sure. Shane wasn't always used to that, someone liking more than the idea of him. Shane represented a lot of things to a lot of people, but as a person, he was wound tight and struggled to find the right code to unlock any given conversation, usually a letdown. But he thought Rozanov actually felt some fondness or softness towards him when he acted like Shane was a marvelous and fascinating alien. When Ilya teased him in a way that said I know you.

So the late-night thoughts about wanting to be claimed because he had some unconscious compulsion to ruin his life were wrong. They were really just fears made knowable through desire. But maybe sharing a heat, just a normal heat, casually, like people do all the time, could be fairly reasonable. Maybe that was allowed. Shane would need to make a lot of contingencies for the multitude of things that could go wrong, but maybe it was doable. Maybe it could be nice.

Shane and Rozanov drifted away again, but they did that sometimes, especially after raw moments, when one of them got too tender or too close to the thing they danced around. Shane was half-expecting it and didn't text Rozanov either, forcing himself to be contented with his usual diet of Raiders games, Ilya's interview clips, and compilations of his best fights on youtube. Shane was always a little concerned that his reaction to the latter meant he was the worst kind of omega, tacky and gross and smug about their alpha's meatheadedness.

It would have been lame to text Ilya good luck on the lead-up to the Olympics, so Shane didn't. He didn't get up early to watch the games either because his sleep hygiene was vital to his performance, so he read about Russia's absolute collapse on the ice, losing to Latvia in a pitiful showing, on ESPN during his usual morning scroll. Rozanov, in the post-game interviews, looked damp and disoriented.

Shane knew what that felt like - that deep disappointment, that self-loathing, that wounded bewilderment. He knew what it was like to have the whole universe turn sideways on you, the rules of who you were and what you were capable of abruptly flip inside-out without your permission. He could have told Rozanov, 'Hey, it's okay. You find ways to survive it. You make a little room inside yourself for the hurt, and you never, ever go in there, and you build a life around it, because what choice do you have, really? It never goes away, but the edges get rounded down, and you keep going. You don't ever recover, but you can still keep going.'

Shane didn't text Rozanov that, of course, because that would be insane. He did, after much deliberation, text, "Hey, are u okay?" Concerned but not dire. Easy to engage with if Rozanov decided to text back.

Shane waited. Rozanov didn't text back. That was fine. Shane was happy to give him time.

He tried to find a similar tone for the next few texts he sent, increasingly feeling like he was hurling a message in a bottle into the ocean. Rozanov flew back to Boston, resumed playing with the Raiders, and didn't text. Rozanov played the rest of the season like a demon was chasing him - chasing him right to the cup, it turned out - and didn't text. He was probably focused, preoccupied. Shane stopped reaching out.

The Metros lost in the second round of playoffs because Miitka tore his achilles tendon. It worked out for the best for Shane, though, maybe, because despite all his careful preparation, he went into pre-heat a few days before the MHL awards again, weeks earlier than his scheduled hormonal break planned further in the off-season. Shane didn't bother to text Rozanov about it because everyone knew he was going to win MVP this year. He would be too busy. Shane probably would not have asked him to come no matter what, even if things had shaken out differently.

Chapter End Notes

So when I said there would be major canon departure this chapter, perhaps that was a little premature. Improv is a plane you learn to fly as you're building it, etc. Well, I have an outline now, sort of, so maybe next chapter will be better.

Ilya knows what a gremlin is because he is surrounded by American millennial jocks who think Gremlins was the peak of cinema and forced him to watch it. Ilya was shocked that the movie was made for children.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Shane came out of the off-season with the epiphany that what he had really been lacking all this time was a plan. Shane was disciplined and motivated; he could do anything he set his mind to, but he had gotten too comfortable thinking short-term and letting his handlers control the big picture. He didn't blame himself; it was the nature of being a professional athlete. You didn't last long if you weren't comfortable being ordered around. But it was time he became the master of his own destiny. Shane spent his summer bulking and coming up with a three-part plan that would optimize his future:

1. He was going to win the cup this year. That had been on his and his mom's agenda from the beginning: the only way to avoid the asterisk history would attach to his name was by playing on a cup-winning team. Ideally, he'd win three or four cups, but one step at a time. Shane wasn't captain, and there weren't any signals he was being groomed for the A, but Shane had pull on the team now, and the Metros were as well-positioned as they had ever been. He wasn't going to fuck around anymore. This was their cup year.

2. He was going to buy a plot of land and build the cottage he had been talking about with his parents for years now. Shane was going to maximize his financial and cognitive potential by diversifying his investment portfolio with a project that would keep him stimulated and fulfilled. He'd build his dream house, and one day he could retire there, and he would never have to talk to anyone ever again, other than his parents and maybe the Pikes.

3. He was going to follow Dr. Borland's recommendations for the medication changes necessary to prevent heat symptoms going forward. Shane was done with it. No more losing days' worth of his valuable time, no more close calls, no more knotheads dicking him around. Shane was tired of his biology calling the shots. He was taking charge.

Shane shared a slightly abbreviated version of this plan with his parents, who took parts one and two in stride but shared a look of silent dismay at part three. Shane had been expecting that, but he was still irritated when they hesitated before responding, clearly trying to massage their thoughts into a kinder shape.

"I think most of that is great, sweetheart," Yuna began.

"Really great, sport," David chimed in.

"But when it comes to your heats… You know my opinion about that, honey."

Shane jiggled his foot. His heats were the sorest subject between him and his mother. They frequently had collegial disagreements over the finer points of a brand contract or what charity events Shane should attend - essentially polite intellectual exercises. But Shane's heats were the only topic they had screaming matches over, where their relationship devolved into prosiac familial ugliness.

She hadn't been mad after his heat this summer. She was just worried. Shane felt guilty for thinking it would have been a little easier if she were furious.

"I told you why it won't work, Mom," Shane said.

"Look, honey, I know your doctor has some interesting ideas," Yuna said, her tone doing a lot of heavy lifting. "And I think a lot of it was worth exploring. But with this summer… look, the only good thing we can take from it is that it proved this method isn't working."

"I'm not talking about what I did last year," Shane said. "There are other protocols-"

"I'm sorry, Shane, I'm just not on board with you talking about winning the cup this year in one breath and trying new experimental heat treatments the next," Yuna said, voice starting to rise. "Go for the cup, absolutely, but not when you're putting your body through something like that! Especially when - and I know you don't want to hear this - but when there's a very simple, time-honored solution here."

Shane hunched forward in his chair. "Okay. Okay, one to four heats a year. That's what you want, right?"

It was the established starting whistle of this fight. Yuna looked grim; David was already well on his way to actively dissociating.

"It's not what I want, honey," Yuna said. "It's what the Canadian Medical Association recommends."

"All right, so I have one heat a year," Shane said. "That's what we agreed made sense. For the last three years, it's been coming around playoffs. That's unacceptable. You're right, Mom. Trying to time it for the off-season isn't working. So why not just get rid of it?"

Yuna took a breath. "Look, sometimes we just have to face facts. I know the original plan was to take suppressants and mitigate your heat symptoms as much as possible so you could ride out having just one heat a year, but I think we've reached the point where we have to acknowledge that you're not responding well to that protocol. So… common sense would dictate you add another heat, not take the only one left off the board."

Abstractly, he understood why she was gunshy. She was the one he had called, after all, on the fifth day of his heat, when things still weren't getting any better. By the time they got him to the ER, he was running a fever of 39.3, and that was after Yuna had dunked him in an ice bath, terrified he was on the verge of a febrile seizure. But just because she was scared didn't mean she was right.

"No way," said Shane. "Absolutely not. I can't afford to have a heat in the middle of a season."

"At most, you'd miss six games. That's a drop in the bucket. People go out on injury reserve longer than that all the time."

"They don't schedule it in. I couldn't do that to the team," said Shane. "And you know it's bigger than that. I'd be a joke. It's all SportsCenter would talk about for a month."

"Shane," David said. "If worrying about having a heat partner factors into this, well. I know it's intimidating. It would scare the heck out of me. But that's why they have professionals for that, people with education and training, who could really help you out. And it would be discreet."

"I'm not scared, Dad," Shane said. "I just don't want one."

"I just don't understand why you're being so stubborn about this," Yuna said, and ah, there it was, the dam was breaking. Shane had thought the worst thing that could happen was his mother being disappointed in him, but it turned out the actual worst thing was her believing he was fragile. If she were angry, it meant she thought he was strong enough to push back. "It's just heat, Shane! No one's telling you that you need to find a mate. Just a heat partner. Everyone has heat partners! Religious fundamentalists have heat partners! It's three days, twice a year, and you get it over with and move on."

"That's easy for you to say," Shane said, venomous. "That's always so easy for an alpha to say."

So that wasn't a great day, when Shane made his tough, poised mother, who only ever wanted what was best for him, cry. They yelled some more, and Shane went for an angry run around the lake, and the Hollanders crept back together later that evening for a sodden, quiet dinner without resolving anything.

Yuna found him on the porch later that night, scrolling his phone aimlessly while he hovered over a citronella candle.

"The blue light isn't good for your circadian rhythms," she said, her tone calling for a truce.

Shane looked at his mother, who loved him. Who showed that love through effort, who expected to be loved that way in return. His alpha mom, who had devoted her life to him, and who would always believe, in some small, unexamined part of her, that her opinions about him were innately more correct than his own. "I'll go to bed soon, Mom."

She came over and put a hand on his shoulder. "You know, Shane," she said. "Sometimes it's okay to just… be a person."

Shane said, "I know, Mom." But really, since when had that been true?

****

For months, it worked like a miracle, and Shane felt like a genius. Dr. Borland petitioned for special dispensation for his new hormonal regimen from the Ministry of Health, which might have made Shane uncomfortable once, but permission came through almost immediately because he was Shane Fucking Hollander and that meant something these days. He went to Borland's office once a week for the injections, took pills the size of a canoe three times a day, purged nightshades and alliums from his diet, and so much of the noise in his head just… went away. No worries, no urges, no dreams that left him soaked and heartbroken when he woke up. Just blissful quiet. Just his body behaving, finally an obedient tool. He had been teased his whole life about being a hockey robot, but the joke was on everyone else, because Shane was a hockey robot now, and it was amazing. It seemed frivolous to pretend he had ever wanted anything else.

Hayden had the A this year, and was close enough to Gauthier's ear that Shane's message about the cup became the thrust of the season. The Metros came roaring out of the gate of their 2014-2015 season with a win percentage of .80, and the mood was jubilant and savage. They were fucking warriors. They were Vikings on their way to Valhalla. There were murmurs at first about Shane missing the MLH awards for the second fucking time last spring. 'Unexpected medical issues' was the explanation his team had gone with; they might as well have paid a skywriter to announce 'Shane Hollander went into heat early again' during the award ceremonies. But that wasn't what anybody was talking about anymore.

The nausea crept back in, but they adjusted his dosage, and it went away. The irritability returned. Shane could track it to a precise moment: when the nausea came back a second time, and Hayden asked Shane if he was absolutely sure he wasn't pregnant, and Shane snapped back that if being nauseous meant he was pregnant, then he'd been pregnant for three fucking years. Hayden took his apology so gracefully that it made Shane even more irritable. His scent glands became infected, and he needed a round of antibiotics. They tweaked his dosage again. Everything was fine. It was working. He'd pay any price for his independence, to finally be free of the demands of his greedy, ignorant body.

It was worth it for hockey. Shane knew that because even as everything else started to go blurry around the edges, hockey remained a cool, clean joy. Shane sometimes felt bad for normal people, who weren't put on this earth for a purpose. What possibly motivated them to get through the day? Shane would sacrifice anything for hockey without question or pause because it was the love of his life, the thing that made him truly himself, the north star and the road it guided him on in one. Shane had honed himself into a weapon; he would prove that he was so exceptional at hockey that it didn't matter if he failed at anything else.

Maybe last year had happened because he had considered hockey a job for too long. Maybe he had lost the necessity and the fun of his sport amid the expectations of it. The fight to prove himself worthy of it; the mess of reconciling his designation with it. Maybe last year was a warning to never lose sight of what was important.

There was some noise about Rozanov being arrested for a DUI in December. Shane had deleted all alerts for Rozanov's name from his phone, so he only found out about it from the Metro's group chat. Rozanov had to pay a fine. Whatever.

They were well into the season - what all the pundits and hockey bros were labeling a legendary season - when they played the Toronto Guardians on home ice. Shane was locked in, like he always was these days, to the point that he didn't notice Dallas Kent smelled off until Kent said, "Gonna breed you 'til you scream tonight, bitch," at the face-off line.

Shane looked up, couldn't help himself. That was repugnant even for Kent, who had, in the years they had been coming up in the league together, positioned himself in the media as a rebuke to Shane's presence, a soldier in a culture war Shane profoundly didn't give a shit about. Shane had heard some awful stuff on the ice over the years, to the point it truly didn't bother him anymore, but even hockey players had some standards of decorum, and alphas usually drew the line at rape threats when there were witnesses around.

Kent grinned when he saw that he scored a hit. There was a dirty, bitter tang to his scent, strong enough to leak through his blockers. "Like that? Good boy. Stay good, and I'll claim you before I put a pup in you."

Shane lost the face-off.

It was a brutal slog of a game. The Metros got out ahead with an early goal, a beautiful wrister from Hayden, but Toronto's defense was a wall, and they spent the first period in a grinding, frustrating gridlock. Kent had it out for Shane, but that was nothing new. Shane was fully in his body and the pristine simplicity of his focus on the ice, so he noticed that Kent was developing a kind of manic edge, but only in order to adjust his play, to compensate when the checks got vicious. It was all legal, but the crowd was furious, the energy in the stadium swelling hot and sour on Shane's behalf.

At the top of the second period, Kent slammed Shane into the boards hard enough to wind him for a beat, arm a bar across Shane's back, pinning him in place. Shane jerked to get out of the hold, but Kent bore down harder. Shane heard him exhale as Kent put his gloved hand on Shane's neck and squeezed.

Shane's body went bright and cold, time slowing, as some ancient hindbrained part of him kicked in with the detached clarity of true panic. This was life or death. It couldn't be Kent. Shane wasn't his. Shane didn't belong to him. Shane had to stop it.

Shane shoved back hard, dropped his gloves, and punched Dallas Kent in the jaw.

The stands erupted, deafening.

Kent staggered back, caught by surprise, and Shane pressed his advantage, getting in a few more solid hits, screaming something, he didn't even know what. Then someone was on him, Pilto, pulling him back, except not just that, pulling Shane behind him, while JJ and Gauty launched themselves on Kent. As Troy Barrett, Kent's liney, went after them, while the rest of the Guardians paired off with the remaining Metros, who were, to a man, red-faced and screaming. Shane's teammates were spilling over the boards because this wasn't a normal fight. This was about an omega, their omega, in danger. The crowd was mostly Montreal fans, and the roar was a physical force in the arena as they bayed for blood.

"Get off the ice," Pilto was shouting at Shane, he was realizing. "Hollzy, get in the bin, you need to get off the fucking ice right now before there's a fucking riot."

Shane's ears were ringing. For a second, he didn't know why Pilto sounded so urgent and angry, like he was doing triage at a car crash. There was an awful smell hanging around them like a fog - acrid, alarming, terrified - and Shane looked around wildly for the source before realizing he was smelling himself. Shane was giving it off. He had only smelled something like it once or twice before, but he recognized it instinctively.

Shane had spooked. He had fucking spooked. Like it was fucking caveman times or Shane had been assaulted in a dark alley. Shane was in distress from unwanted alpha attention, and it shocked his pheromones into going haywire, driving the alphas in his immediate vicinity into a rage to protect him. If he didn't back away and calm down right now, they were going to frenzy.

Disjointed and jerky, Shane skated away and watched the alphas come back to themselves. He nodded as the beta ref handed him a ten-minute major. Kent was given one, too. The crowd was immediately apoplectic, calling for a game misconduct, along with Theirault. Pandemonium reigned for a few solid minutes more, but between the refs stopping the fight and Shane and Kent going more or less obediently into their respective bins, things settled down with just an uneasy lingering tension between the players and in the stands. Kent leered at Shane from his box, sticking his tongue between two fingers and waggling it. Shane ignored him.

Shane waited out his time in the penalty box sitting straight and stiff as possible. He tried not to jiggle his leg or tap his stick in front of the cameras. His eyes were wet and hot, as he was caught in a cloud of his own fear and tried to calm the fuck down. Shane had spooked in the middle of a game and nearly caused a fucking frenzy. This was the scenario every pundit and franchise owner had brought up when they talked about the dangers of allowing an omega in the MLH, but, frankly, it had seemed so unlikely that it had been mildly offensive to consider. This was so fucking bad. This was apocalyptic.

"Med check, Hollander. Now," one of the assistant coaches told him the second he was back on the bench. Shane nodded, swallowing hard, not bothering to argue. He knew he wasn't playing the rest of the game. Shane felt eyes on him as he made his way down the tunnel.

The medical team was concerned but matter-of-fact as they administered spook protocols, which, embarrassingly, turned out to be lavender oils, soft music, a blanket, and a cup of tea. Even more embarrassingly, it helped, and Shane was cleared to return after about fifteen minutes.

He got some wary looks back on the bench, some murmurs of 'hey, you okay, man?' and 'super fucked up, man, sorry.' In his head, Shane was screaming at himself to respond, to make a joke, but his throat felt tight and thick. He just sat down, hunched over, elbows on his knees. Hayden sat next to him whenever he could, for which Shane was pathetically grateful, taking in small gulps of his scent to stay tethered to anything steady.

It was a shitty game. The Metros won because they were full of hormonally righteous fury, and Toronto may have been a bunch of assholes, but most of them seemed pretty rattled. It was still no one's idea of good hockey. Jorge met Shane right out of the tunnel, and he, Hayden, and JJ walked Shane to his locker room. Hayden tried to speak at one point, but JJ nudged his shoulder and shook his head.

For once, Shane was grateful to have his own space as he closed the door behind him. He rested his forehead on the wall for a minute, trying to go through the motions of a relaxation visualization for a while, but he couldn't connect to it. He picked up his stick and smashed it on the bench, over and over, like a child, until it broke. That felt much better. Shane checked his phone, which was lava hot. Texts and voicemails dinged in like a stock ticker. An ongoing stream in his family group chat. Four missed calls from Lily. Shane turned off his phone.

Hayden trailed Shane and Jorge to Shane's car, making idle, awkward conversation with Jorge as they all buckled in. "Jackie says it's fine if I stay the night. That cool with you, buddy?" Hayden asked. His eyes were big and nervous.

Shane curled up in the passenger's seat, the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head. "Yeah, that's fine," he said, and rested his temple against the glass.

***

Shane took everyone's advice and avoided the press coverage until two days in, when Kimber, his head publicist, said, "So, not a big deal, but we're just going to have one tiny meeting with a crisis PR consultant." They had all been right, though; going online was still a bad idea.

Kent controlled the narrative immediately, a leak coming from the Guardian's head office that he had been dealing with unspecified hormonal issues recently and hadn't been cogent in his actions. There was an unspoken implication there, since a dysregulated alpha was much more likely to go off around a dysregulated omega. The speculation about Shane was intense, especially considering his obviously erratic breakthrough heats throughout the years. It was an omega's responsibility to be in good working order, since alphas struggled to control themselves in the best of circumstances. So, Shane bore most of the blame. Dr. Borland, with whom Shane met twice a week for a while after he spooked, agreed that Shane's fucked-up cycle probably did make Kent more aggressive, and it was mostly responsible for why Shane spooked so easily, but once they got this under control, it shouldn't be an issue going forward.

Shane had the general sense that in more liberal circles, he was being judged in a different light, but those weren't the circles he traveled in. In Shane's segment of society, there were two main camps in the discourse: 1) those who thought Shane was a biological weapon and needed to be taken off the ice immediately because he was maliciously sewing discord and disrupting the sacred unity of the hallowed halls of the MLH and 2) those who thought Shane had maybe been assaulted during play and that was kind of fucked up, and Kent should be held accountable, but it was probably also a sign Shane should be taken off the ice because he made the game too unsafe for himself and others.

Shane and Kent were both given two-game suspensions. They both issued apologies. Shane had long meetings with front office, his lawyer present. The crisis guy gave Shane a bunch of new scripts and had him go on 60 Minutes and talk about his respect for the game. The interviewer asked if he was pregnant four times in fifteen minutes.

At home, Shane built a nest.

It was a shitty nest because Shane was shitty at building nests. He didn't have much practice, since he didn't usually like to do it outside of heat. He wasn't sure why he was doing it now, and it didn't help much because it smelled wrong, incomplete, and Shane wasn't the kind of person to be naturally inclined to cuddle up with a pile of dirty laundry. It was still better to be in it than out of it, though, at the end of the day.

His parents stayed with him until he said he was fine and they could leave. Hayden came over to hang out when he could. Lily spammed him with texts for days: Jane. Jane. Are you okay? Jane. Come on. Tell me. Jane. Please. Just say something. Jane. What happened? Answer me and I'll stop. Come on, please. Jane. until Shane finally texted back, I'm fine. Quit it or I'll block you. Lily stopped after that.

The only bright spot was that, somehow, the Metros were still on fucking fire. They didn't bench him or shift him down lines because Shane did what he always did and poured every ounce of himself into the game. Their win percentage only dropped to .78. That was what mattered. The season. The cup.

Five weeks later, JJ sent Shane a link to that night's highlight reel, where, during the Raiders-Guardians game, Ilya Rozanov beat the ever-loving shit out of Dallas Kent.

Shane, feeling frozen in his abdomen, watched it five times in a row. Rozanov had waited six minutes into the game before he hooked Kent into the boards and punched him in the face until the rest of his team pulled him off, then fought off his teammates to go after Kent again. He got a game misconduct, obviously, and flipped off the arena as he made his way down the tunnel.

The Metros group chat immediately went bananas. Shane assumed a lot of people's group chats were blowing up right now. Reddit had already found a clip of the interview Shane had done in his rookie year, his fresh-faced little chirp about preferring to play against Rozanov rather than Kent at All Stars, and speculation was running rampant. Everyone loved a good feud over an omega. This was fun for the internet. It was a soap opera.

Suddenly, Shane understood how numb he had been since he had spooked, now that he was incandescent with rage.

He paced a few angry laps around his apartment, glaring at his phone, scrubbing at his hair. As a kid, Shane had a bad habit of picking at his lower lip and only realized when he tasted a bead of blood that he was doing it again. After a few minutes, he couldn't stop himself and picked up his phone, jabbing at Lily's contact.

It was after ten, so Rozanov might already be home. They hadn't spoken in over a year, had never called each other on the phone when they had been talking, but that was fine. Shane was just going to get some information here. He was surrounded by imbeciles, but Shane could be a fucking adult.

Rozanov answered on the third ring and hesitated before he spoke. "Hollander?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Shane asked.

There was a different quality to Rozanov's pause this time. "What?"

"You fucking heard me," Shane said, pacing around his kitchen. "What the hell were you thinking? Do you think, ever, or do you just let your fucking dick lead you around?"

"The dick thing," Ilya said, clipped. "Definitely."

"It's not a fucking joke!" said Shane. "You think I needed this right now, Rozanov? Do you have any idea how bad this looks?"

Another pause, a rustle. "I only punched an asshole, Hollander," Ilya said, haughty in a manner that was to Shane as transparent as glass. "I do that all the time. Don't know why you would call me about it."

"You're so full of shit! It's unbelievable," Shane said. "The internet's already having a fucking field day! Seriously, what's wrong with you? What did I ever do to you? The last thing I fucking need right now is for it to look like two knotheads are fighting over me!"

Rozanov's silence had an unexpected guilty quality this time, and Shane realized that, for Rozanov, there was some truth to the interpretation that two knotheads had been fighting over him.

"Oh, fuck you!" Shane exploded. "Seriously, fuck you! You don't text me for months, and now you- Where the fuck do you get off, thinking-"

"I'm sorry," Rozanov said.

Shane screeched to a halt. "What?"

"I am sorry," Rozanov said, a bit formal, a bit like a little kid. "I did not mean to offend you when I fought Kent. Or imply that you are weak. I know you are very proud. I'm sorry."

Shane wasn't quite sure what to do with that, stunned enough that he felt the anger start to drain out of him. "I don't need anyone fighting my battles for me."

Rozanov made a sound of mild skepticism, which may have been earned, but didn't linger on it. "You shouldn't worry about PR. No one can prove there is a feud. I will deny it, you will deny it, Kent will deny it. The internet will have fun for a day, but it will move on. Like I said, plenty of reasons to punch that guy. I am not the only one doing it."

"Maybe," Shane acknowledged. The number of injuries Kent had acquired on the ice since the whole thing broke had been unexpected and a little touching.

"Was fucked up, what he did," Rozanov said. "Normal people know it was fucked up. He is getting his licks in the rink now, since the league is too candy-ass to do what it should do about that piece of shit. This is what people will think, not anything about romance. We will not give rumors attention, and they will go away."

It made sense. For the first time in weeks, Shane felt himself relax a little, almost despite himself. Maybe it was something about Rozanov's voice, rumbling and self-assured. "Okay. Okay, maybe. Yeah."

"Besides," Ilya said, tone lilting. "Was a little sexy, no?"

"Fuck off," Shane said, but he was smiling. "Just don't do it again." Shane rested his elbows on the kitchen island as they lingered for a moment, breathing together.

"Are you okay?" Rozanov asked finally, a little tight.

"I don't know," Shane said. "I think so, at least for now. They're not benching me, and I have a no-trade clause in my contract. We're not sure if they'll extend it now, though."

"You have two more years," Rozanov said. "And you are second-best player in the league. It would be stupid to let you go."

Rozanov had said that a few times before, that Shane was the best player out there besides himself. He always said it so casually and confidently, like it was obvious for anyone with eyes to see.

"People can be pretty stupid," Shane said.

"That is true," Rozanov conceded. "And… your health?"

Shane blew out a breath. "I'm okay."

"They say," Rozanov said cautiously. "Your cycle. Maybe is bad."

Shane bit at his thumbnail. "It's… I don't know. It hasn't been great for a while. I'm getting it under control."

"Okay," Rozanov said quietly.

"You-" Shane had to clear his throat. "That drunk driving thing last winter. You shouldn't do that anymore. It's really dangerous."

Ilya's voice, when he replied, was also a little thick. "I know."

"For you and for the other people on the road."

"I know, Hollander," said Rozanov. "I won't do it again."

"Okay," Shane said. "That's good." There was no reason to stay on the phone, except that Rozanov wasn't hanging up. "Anyway, I should go."

"Okay," said Rozanov. "I will go back to being led around by my dick."

"Oh, fuck you, you deserved worse," said Shane.

"Is like, you know, metal detector? I follow it around, find hidden treasure."

"Good night, Rozanov," Shane said.

"Good night, Hollander," said Ilya.

****

Two days later, Shane got a priority express package from Lily in Boston. When he opened it, it contained a green hoodie, saran-wrapped clumsily and multiple times over to keep in the scent. When unwrapped, it smelled like it had been at the bottom of Rozanov's hamper for weeks. Shane made a little sound and sank to the floor, clutching it to his chest.

Thank god he was alone because he kind of greyed out, the world coming back into focus a few minutes later. Fishing through the box, he found a note scribbled on a post-it: 'To help with your cycle. But if it is not good, tell me and I will stop.'

Shane considered this as he took off his sweater, put on the hoodie, and lay down in bed. This was the boldest move either of them had made so far, the closest either of them had gotten to acknowledging the… well. The problem.

Because, okay, if you knew what Shane knew and what Rozanov also seemed to know, the source of Shane's condition was obvious. Shane was an unclaimed omega in semi-regular contact with - very possibly, very likely - his mate. His true mate, who had spent several years fucking him but not biting him. Omega medicine was largely an undiscovered country, in part because of bias, sure, but also because mating solved the vast majority of hormone issues most omegas had. Being claimed by Rozanov would probably fix everything, and any doctor would tell Shane just to go and do that. Having a true mate he didn't want to be bitten by would, in most circumstances, be reason enough to send Shane for a mandatory psych screening.

So, Rozanov knew about it. Of course, he knew. How could he not know? But he had never pushed. Right now, he was seeing if more exposure helped Shane's system regulate. It was a kind gesture on Rozanov's part; unexpectedly kind of him, really.

I should send it back, Shane thought, then fell asleep for six hours. Thank god it was a free day. He woke up feeling amazing, which sucked, and he jerked off a couple times, nose to the fabric, for consolation.

Still, though, it was kind of nice to be talking to Rozanov again. Shane texted, thanks, later that day. Rozanov just responded with a thumbs-up emoji, but Shane started getting packages once a week, mostly more sweats, but once a pair of boxers. Shane texted Rozanov a picture of his raised middle finger, then masturbated with them over his face until his body went boneless.

Dr. Borland was enthusiastic about reviewing Shane's numbers during his next few appointments. Shane was dismayed to realize that a man he always thought of as very cool and unflappable was actually kind of a buoyant guy who had constantly been forced to deliver bad news. Now that Shane's hormone levels were evening out and his kidney function was improving, Dr. Borland was getting downright chipper.

Shane made the executive decision not to think about any of this much. The thing with Rozanov could wait until after playoffs; any decisions about his heat - having it, not having it, who to have it with - could wait until the week before it was due. Shane kept most of Rozanov's clothes folded on the top-left corner of his bed. He was too nervous to weave them into a nest, but he wanted them close. For roadies, he snuck one t-shirt in his luggage in a ziplock bag and stuck his face in it when he got to his hotel room. He would love to wear it, jerked off thinking about wearing it, but walking around in a haze of that much alpha stink would be immediately suspicious, and probably in violation of the morality clause in his contract.

The Metros slammed into the playoffs like the hand of god. They won the first three games against Tampa and lost the fourth in overtime. Shane scored a goddamn playoff hat trick in the fifth, winning the game 4-3, and his team encircled him to embrace him like a brother.

First game against the Admirals in Montreal. Hunter was favoring his left leg. Bennet, the goalie, tore a ligament in his right shoulder the year before, and his reaction time was shit now. 3-1, Metros. Shane's scent glands got infected, and he had them drained. Shane tore a tendon in his knee, which swelled, angry and red. He soaked in an ice bath and slept in a pile of Rozanov's clothes. The Admirals won the second game, then the third, then the Metros came roaring back for a shutout in game four. Shane taped up his ribs and broken fingers, and spent as much time as he could in physio as his body became a series of constricted knots. He never, ever stopped eating. The dreams came back. Shane ignored them. The Metros won games five and six, Shane's point percentage lapping everyone else.

The Raiders lost to San Jose. Shane texted Rozanov sucks, man, that was a beautiful goal in the third, and then get used to it though, metros are gonna crush it every year.

Two days before the first game of the Conference Final, Shane went into preheat.

"Less than ten hours away from active heat," Dr. Borland confirmed, looking at the test strip Shane had pissed on. Shane had called his office the minute he woke up feeling feverish and horny, head full of tar. Dr. Borland was doing a house call.

"Ten hours?" Shane repeated. Usually, he had a day or two of preheat before the real thing set in, enough time to make some preparations. For Shane, that usually meant ordering protein bars in bulk and settling in on the bathroom floor with all his bedding.

"I was hoping we could avoid this," Dr. Borland said. "You were progressing well. But I think your body knows what's best for it, Shane."

"What do I do?" asked Shane. He was chugging water; thirst was a big part of preheat, too. Ten hours? Fuck, that was so close. He had skipped optional skate this morning, which itself was probably a warning to his team that something was wrong.

Dr. Borland sighed, gearing up for an unpleasant conversation. Shane beat him to it, "I can't. It's the playoffs. You know I can't."

Borland was a Metros fan, on the Metro's payroll. Shane trusted him to be genuinely conflicted. "Shane. We both know you've been walking a precarious line for a while here."

"It's the playoffs," Shane said. "What can we do?"

Borland sighed. "If - and this is a big if - if you promise me that the minute you're out of the playoffs, you let your heat come and find a partner to reset your cycle, I'm willing to up your suppressants to delay it for another few weeks."

"Yeah," Shane said automatically. "Yes, absolutely, let's do that."

Borland didn't look thrilled. "I mean it, Shane. This time, you have to go through with it. The only other alternative is putting you in a medically-induced coma for the duration of your heat." He added, because Shane must seem visibly intrigued by the idea. "Which would be extremely bad for your long-term health and playing potential."

Borland tried to keep a neutral face as he prepared the injection, but a scowl kept breaking through. Shane, a polite person, tried to look somewhat contrite, but between his eagerness to get this done and the heat turning his brain into soup, he probably didn't succeed. The effect was pretty instantaneous, though. In just a few minutes, Shane felt himself dessicating, like an infection draining out.

Dr. Borland ran a few more tests and left the injectors and some instructions for the next few weeks. "Seriously, Shane. I'm not kidding. Full heat with a partner, the minute you're done."

"Give me some time for the parade, at least," Shane attempted to joke, but Borland didn't take the bait.

"Immediately, Shane," he said. "Call your alpha the second the last game is over."

Now that he was clear-headed, Shane realized that, of course, Borland could smell Ilya's clothes from where Shane had thrown them in the closet. Too embarrassed to speak, Shane just nodded, looking away. Dr. Borland was a medical professional. He couldn't tell anybody. There were laws. He didn't want to go to jail, so he wouldn't want to tell anybody.

Dr. Borland sighed. "Kiddo, this all could have gone a lot differently if you had been honest with me."

Shane was surprised when he realized Borland must believe that had been an option. He rubbed his arm. "I really do appreciate everything you've done."

"You're a great player, Shane," Dr. Borland said. "Maybe we both got a little too invested in making sure the world knew that." He signed again and patted Shane's shoulder. "Wash his clothes. They're what's triggering your heat. Hey, congratulations though. He smells like quite the catch."

Shane had known both those things about Ilya before Borland told him.

****

They won the cup. The Metros won the cup. Shane Hollander won the Stanley Cup.

It was weird, he thought during his lap around the rink, bellowing and grinning like a lunatic, the crowd enfolding him in a roar of approval that felt like ascension to another plane; it was strange to know you were living the best moment of your life. Adrenaline sang through him. Everything hurt, and none of it mattered. Shane's mouth tasted like he had eaten a gun. He had entered the next chapter of his life as a Stanley Cup Champion. He was twenty minutes into a brand new universe, and the colors were already so different.

He cried with his parents as they hugged during the rush. Shane crushed his mom to his chest while she whispered, "I'm proud of you, honey. I'm so proud of you," and it felt just as good as he had always imagined. He was a little delirious, between his knee, now the size of a basketball, and the lingering effects of the suppressant injections. Shane had scored two goals and an assist in the cup-winning game. Whatever else they would ever say about Shane Hollander, they would have to include that. Shane Hollander was a cup winner. Shane Hollander carried his team through the playoffs. Shane Hollander was a champion. Shane Hollander beat all you fuckers at your own game because he was just that good. He was that much better at it than anyone else.

They let Shane into the main locker room for the celebration. He got the first round of being sprayed with champagne, along with Gauty and his A's. He gave all the night-of interviews. Shane went to the club and didn't even mind because they were celebrating him, and goddamn did he deserve to be celebrated. Among a stream of texts from everyone he'd ever met, Lily's stood out, 1-1.

Shane texted back, So far ;)

Then Shane turned off his phone, went back to the party, and didn't text Ilya, and didn't text, and didn't text.

****

He was being irrational, Shane told himself on the sixth day of not texting. He was being illogical. The greatest sin for a Hollander was impracticality. Shane reminded himself that he was being very impractical, trying to scold himself into doing the right thing, but found himself still unmoved.

Shane was alone in the presidential suite of a heat resort outside of Mont Tremblant. He sat on a stool by the kitchen peninsula, sweating, and half hard, his stomach in knots, glaring at his phone like it owed him money. Borland was threatening to tell the league if Shane didn't make this call by tomorrow. The MLH awards were in a week. Shane's knee was better after the latest round of cortisone shots, but it felt like his bones were made of lead and his head was full of cotton. He was in pre-heat. He was so definitely in pre-heat, and he was so fucked.

Shane was being unreasonable, he told himself. Shane was being difficult. He needed to make this call so he wouldn't get very sick. He might end up in a coma. And then, after waking up from the coma, Shane might get in trouble. Shane, to his recollection, had literally never been in trouble with an authority figure before, at least for not doing what he said he would do, and he was pretty sure it would strike him dead on the spot, like lightning.

Not calling Ilya was less a decision and more a slide into avoidance. At first, the celebrations were a pleasant distraction. Then, he needed a few days to focus on injury recovery and contract renegotiations, now that he was a fucking Stanley Cup winner. Then, not calling Ilya simply became easier than calling him, so Shane continued to ignore the issue until he woke up this morning with violent cramps and slick running down to his fucking ankles. He had made the drive to the resort he had booked weeks ago, for three months solid to give himself a wide enough window, while he still could.

Shane was under no illusions as to why he was dragging his feet. He was terrified. He was worried about roughly a thousand different things that may result from the outcome of this call, many of them contradictory. It would be horrible if Rozanov said no. It might be even worse if he said yes.

The thing was, this heat was going to be bad. He could feel it gathering like the tension before a fight. Shane was on painkillers, muscle relaxers, and a xanax, but he was already shaking and desperate. He had waited too long. Rozanov might not be able to make it here in time even if Shane called now. Even if Rozanov agreed to come.

They couldn't pretend they weren't what they were if Rozanov agreed to come. Shane had no playbook for that.

Shane almost had a seizure during his last heat, and this one was gearing up to be worse. Seizures could give you brain damage. He knew enough guys suffering from the aftermath of multiple concussions to know what brain damage did to you.

Shane shot out his arm and grabbed his phone before he could panic about it. His hand was shaking as he called Lily.

Rozanov picked up almost immediately. "Hello?" He sounded out of breath, gym noises in the background.

"Hey, it's Shane Hollander," Shane said in a tight, high voice, working very hard to sound casual and pleasant. "Do you have a minute?"

"I - yeah. Let me-" The workout noises went away as Rozanov must have stepped into the hallway or something. His voice was a little hushed and hurried. Shane probably caught him at the Raiders' gym. "Why are you calling?"

"Is this a good time to talk?" Shane asked, stalling like a coward. "I can call back."

"No," Rozanov said. "This is good. This is a great time."

"Okay, well, good," said Shane, wooden even to his own ears. "So… I'm about to go into heat."

Ilya didn't say anything for a full three seconds. "Ah."

"Yeah, I know," Shane said nonsensically.

"Hollander, I asked you to warn me first," said Rozanov. Shane couldn't really decipher his tone, except that it was edging towards the sharp, tense voice he used when Shane got too close to something personal. "I have plans."

"Oh, yeah. Okay. That's cool," Shane said, wincing. Plan B, then. That was fine. He'd go with one of the professional heat partners at the resort. Maybe he wouldn't flip out. Maybe they could sedate him. Shane's cock had been straining at his pants since the moment he heard Rozanov's voice, and it didn't even have the decency to wilt. "I get it. I just thought I'd ask since one time, you kind of offered, but that's fine, no big deal."

Rozanov swore under his breath. "No, don't - They will just be a bitch to cancel. Where are you? Send me pin."

"I'm in Quebec," Shane said.

"Of course," Rozanov said. "Of course you're in fucking Quebec."

"Yeah, I live here," Shane said, a little annoyed.

"When do you need me?" asked Rozanov.

"Soon?" said Shane, still trying to keep it casual. His shorts were getting soaked just listening to Ilya stride down the halls of presumably the Raiders' practice rink. This was going to be a disaster. "If that works for you. Maybe, like, as soon as you can? I think I kind of fucked up."

Ilya went quiet for a beat before he came back, all business. "I need to pack and make a few calls first. Can you wait six hours? Maybe seven?"

"Don't speed," said Shane, who knew exactly how long it took to drive from Boston to Quebec.

"Hollander, of course I'm going to fucking speed," said Ilya.

"No," Shane said, suddenly emotional. "Don't get hurt." His head ached. His stomach ached. His skin felt tight, like it could split at the joints.

Rozanov took in a breath, then spoke like someone being gentle with a volatile omega. "Okay. I won't speed, Hollander. I will be careful."

"Okay," Shane said. "I'll send you the pin. It's a nice place. Really pretty grounds."

"Even now, you are boring," Rozanov said, gentle still.

Shane palmed his crotch over his shorts, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "Please hurry."

"I will," Rozanov said. "Do you want me to stay on the phone?"

"No, that's okay," said Shane. Talking to Rozanov was clearly bringing on his heat faster. Shane didn't want it to hit when Rozanov was on the road. "Just get here soon, please."

Shane thought he heard a car door slam as Rozanov said, "I will be there as fast as I can, Hollander."

"Okay. So, see you soon then, I guess."

"See you soon," said Rozanov.

"Goodbye," Shane said before he hung up, since he was raised to be polite. Then he took a long, shaky breath, rubbing his face. His shorts and the chair beneath him were sopping.

Shane threw them in the special heat hamper with the hydraulically-sealing lid, then stood in a lukewarm shower and jerked off. He stayed in there for around an hour and a half before the dehydration made his headache unbearable. Shane took another round of Aleve when he came out. His whole body was on fire, but he made himself put on gym shorts and the softest t-shirt he had.

The presidential suite had both a bedroom and a nesting room. The nesting room was actually very tasteful, not a glorified closet like most of them, sophisticated lines but cozy and inviting with lots of warm wood tones and amber lighting. Still, Shane couldn't bear to go in there yet. He lay down on the bed and tried to watch TV, tried to tell his body that it was fine, that it could endure five minutes of anything, and then five minutes again after that.

Shane maybe lost some time because it was dark out when Rozanov came. Shane smelled Rozanov through the door before he saw him, making him think he was hallucinating. It had been all he had wanted for hours - Rozanov's strong, clean, alpha scent, cut through with the smell of new growth, like a sapling. When he entered the room, Rozanov wore every inch of the drive on his face, hair smashed down under a baseball cap. He was carrying a collection of duffel bags, crumbs stuck to his track pants. He scanned the room until he saw Shane on the bed. Shane watched his irises dilate in real time.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya said.

Shane sat up on his elbows. His hair was already matted down with sweat, and he felt flushed from his cheeks to the middle of his chest. He had been hard for hours, and he wanted to move, go to Ilya, except he was pretty sure he was glued to the bed with slick and his legs were shaky anyway. "Get over here."

Ilya dropped all the bags with a thud by the door as he staggered across the room.

"I'm going to say some crazy shit," Shane got out frantically while he still could. Ilya hauled him up by the front of his shirt and scented him immediately, face to Shane's neck. He wasn't wearing a patch, and Shane's whole body spasmed and hurt because his alpha was finally here, but wasn't inside him yet. "It's going to be a really bad heat. I'm not going to be in control of myself."

"It's okay," said Ilya, swinging his legs to sit astride Shane, wrestling off his jacket and shirt. "I'm here. I can take care of you."

"Don't bite me," Shane pleaded.

Rozanov froze, shock plain on his face.

"I'm gonna ask," Shane said. "I'm gonna ask you, but I won't be in my right mind. You can't do it. Please."

Rozanov's eyes flickered to Shane's neck. "Hollander…"

"Please," Shane said. "Promise me, Ilya."

Ilya's mouth bent in on itself for just a second, somewhere between tender and stricken. It passed just as quickly, Ilya's eyes going hard with purpose as he resumed tearing off his clothes, a determined set to his shoulders.

"I won't bite you," Ilya said. He paused and pressed their foreheads together. "I promise, Shane."

Chapter End Notes

The hockey here is fully a case of lazy screenwriters, and I would feel bad about that, except I wouldn't feel nearly as bad as I would feel if I forced myself to learn anything substantive about the game of hockey. Better men than you have tried to get me to care about the logistics of sports, Heated Rivalry!

Ilya not only sped the whole drive to Quebec, he bribed a police officer when he got pulled over. Shane will never know this.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Shane snatched the condom out of Ilya's hand and opened the nesting room door briefly to throw it into the main suite. He looked back at Ilya, pleased with himself.

Ilya was unimpressed. "I can just go out there and get it."

"I told you, I don't want one," Shane said.

"Shane," Ilya said, clearly trying for patience. "We have been through this. I didn't have time to get tested. I am not fucking you without a condom."

"I want to feel you," Shane whined. He wanted to be impaled, Ilya's dick blood-hot inside him. He wanted to be drenched in come. He wanted to be pumped full of it so that he could make a baby. He dimly remembered he couldn't actually make a baby because he was on like three different types of birth control, but right now that seemed like quitter talk. Thus far, Ilya had been unmoved by these arguments, so Shane tried a different approach. "What's the worst that could happen? So you give me an STI, so what? A couple rounds of antibiotics and I'll be fine."

Ilya was already reaching for the condom drawer again, apparently indifferent to this logic. Shane tried something else. He lounged back against the padded floor of the nesting room, trailing his fingers down his neck slowly, brushing over his chest, lingering on his nipples. Playing with them sent little frissons to his groin, so he kept it up more for himself than Ilya. "Don't you want to feel me? Your big knot stuffing me full of your come, and then when you pull out, it'll drip out of me. Then you could push it back in…"

Ilya swallowed, his face a mix of hunger and annoyance. Shane liked him so much. He was so happy Ilya was here.

"No," Ilya said, tearing open another condom wrapper.

Maybe Shane liked him less now. "Hey, earlier when you asked if I was on PreP, I think I was wrong. I definitely am, it's part of my suppressant cocktail."

Ilya got the condom out of the wrapper, and Shane made a plaintive, high-pitched sound. Ilya grabbed Shane's chin, shaking him back and forth a little, then bit Shane's shoulder.

Shane liquified, the complaint melting out of him. "Oh fuck, get in me, get in me, fuck me."

"Only with a condom," Ilya said, rolling it on. "You are not to be trusted right now. You are a horny little monster."

Ilya was climbing over him, pushing Shane's knees up and nudging the blunt head of his dick against Shane's hole, so he couldn't be all that mad. He looked like a Greek statue come to life for the purpose of fucking Shane. He was the best alpha in the world, and Shane had bagged him for now. He wanted Ilya for always.

"I want you to claim me," Shane said, and then gasped as Ilya's eyes went wide and he thrust his cock fully inside Shane in one surprised jolt.

So, that was the first time Shane said it.

****

The condom thing hadn't been an issue the first round, back on the bed, because Shane was too desperate to be fucked to negotiate stipulations. Ilya had wanted to make Shane come in his mouth first, to take the edge off, as he explained after Shane kicked him square in the chest. Shane had been furious and crying because what was Ilya doing? Why didn't Ilya want to be inside him? Didn't Ilya want him anymore?

"I want you, I want you," Ilya had promised, kissing his tears away, kissing him all over, and rolling Shane onto his side. Ilya came quickly when they fucked like that, but that was good because Shane wanted his knot anyway. Ilya worked him in shallow little pulses for what could have been hours, encouraging Shane to rock back against him, milk his knot, while Shane came again and again, until he was sobbing, until it felt like all the poison from the heat had been expunged from his system.

Ilya alternated between being the perfect alpha like that and being totally unreasonable. He made Shane get out of the bed, where Shane was comfortable, to spend the rest of his heat in the nesting room just because Shane was complaining that the lights were too bright and the main room of the suite was so big it was making him nervous. He tried to make Shane take a shower before they went into the nesting room, which made Shane cry because that meant Ilya didn't want Shane to smell like him, so Ilya must not like him anymore. Ilya compromised with a sponge bath, but then wouldn't let Shane suck his dick even though it was right there, claiming they needed to save Ilya's erection for later, which made Shane cry again until Ilya fucked him hard and quick, bent over the bed.

Afterwards, Shane still didn't want to go into the nesting room, although he wasn't sure why. Ilya played a mean trick on him then, because it turned out that at least half of Ilya's bags were filled with his dirty laundry. Ilya took a bunch of it into the nesting room, claiming it was because that's where Shane should build his nest, but Shane knew he was being lured in there. It worked, though, and Shane was pretty happy lying down under a pile of Ilya's clothes while Ilya fussed, getting a bunch of food and Gatorade - which Shane didn't want! - set up on the room's high shelves.

Shane liked it better in the nesting room, it turned out, where it was darker and more contained, but he still sulked about the principle of the thing.

Now, several fucks later, Shane was more rational and decided that he didn't want condoms.

"Bite me," Shane said breathlessly, impossibly full as Ilya rutted inside him. "Put your baby in me." Ilya didn't say anything, just fucked him harder and kissed Shane again and again. It was sweet and lit up a glow deep inside Shane's heart, but Ilya was probably trying to get Shane to stop talking.

***

"You're so handsome," Shane said dreamily, rubbing his cheek against Ilya's chest. They were scenting each other a lot, and it felt like a puff of joyful air every single time.

Shane was pretty sure it was still the first day of his heat. They were resting between rounds. Shane still felt like he was on fire, but it was more of a simmer now, a gentle percolation under his skin. Honestly, even with the heat, Shane felt fantastic. Maybe better than he had in months. His muscles were heavy with pleasant lassitude, and his hole felt good and used. The anxiety that usually girded his every waking thought had mysteriously evaporated, leaving him drifting on winds of new and pure insight. Shane knew it would get bad again when the hunger rolled back in, but that's why Ilya was here. Ilya would make him feel good. Shane adored him, and he was so handsome.

Ilya looked amused, combing his fingers through Shane's hair. "Mmhm. You think so?"

Shane nodded earnestly. "I've always thought so. I jerk off thinking about you all the time. Since we were seventeen."

"Maybe you shouldn't tell me these things," Ilya said, running his thumb across Shane's cheekbone. "You're not yourself, malysh."

Shane's eyes welled with tears, and Ilya pulled him up, tutting and kissing him. "No, no, hey, you're a fucking fountain today. Stop, don't cry. You're good. We're good here."

"I want to talk to you," Shane said. "We never talk."

"Talk about what?" Ilya asked. He sounded wary, but he was still cupping Shane's face in his hands, running his thumbs over Shane's cheeks and down the bridge of his nose.

"Anything," Shane said. "It's stupid. You're my mate, and I don't even know you."

Ilya's expression got mean again, in that way Shane was learning meant that he was shutting down around a difficult feeling. He looked away for a moment, and Shane kissed the column of his neck. The taste of Ilya's sweat made his dick - still hard, hard this whole time - spurt precome and his hole start to slick up. "Ilya, I need-"

"I'm here," Ilya said, rolling Shane over and pinning his hands above his head.

***

"We'll - we'll have so many kids," Shane panted, riding Ilya. "And they'll all be so good at hockey."

Ilya had his hands on Shane's waist, looking down at where he was disappearing into Shane's wet hole again and again, but that made him smirk. "How many, solynishko?"

"At least two." Shane braced his hands on the wall behind Ilya's head, giving himself more leverage to really work his prostate against Ilya's cock. "Maybe four."

"Why stop there?" Ilya asked. "Let's go for a whole team."

"Fuck," Shane groaned, grabbing his dick and stroking. "We'll make a dynasty."

***

Shane took the Gatorade bottle Ilya handed him and hurled it across the room.

Ilya was obviously losing patience. "Shane, you need to drink something."

"I don't like orange," Shane said. He had bought the Gatorade himself, but that seemed immaterial.

"All right, fine," Ilya said. "Then we can get you some water."

"You should claim me so we can be together for the rest of our lives," Shane said. "I'll drink some water if you do that."

A vein jumped in Ilya's temple. "You need to eat and drink, or I'm not fucking you anymore."

Shane let a smirk work its way across his face. He could call a bluff. Shane crawled forward, preening at how Ilya's expression collapsed into a kind of alarmed horniness, as Shane tucked his nose into the crease of Ilya's thigh, where the smell of him was so deliciously strong, and then rubbed it over Ilya's half-hard dick. Shane felt the remnants of his own slick stick to his face and chased his tongue out to lick at it.

Ilya groaned. He flipped Shane over onto his stomach, where Shane settled with a happy wiggle.

"One more round," Ilya said, spreading Shane's cheeks apart. "And then you have to eat."

"Can we skip the condom?" Shane asked eagerly.

"No," said Ilya.

***

"Give it back," Shane demanded in a whine, reaching for Ilya's flaccid cock.

"Malysh, you have to let him rest," Ilya explained again, attempting to hold Shane back by the shoulders.

"I want it," said Shane. This was so frustrating. He ached so badly. "I want him."

"He wants you too," Ilya said soothingly. "He likes you very much, but he is tired right now. He just needs to rest, and then you can have him back again."

"Hurts," Shane got out, and Ilya spread him open and worked him with his tongue and fingers until Shane was whining and crying and coming, and it was good, but it wasn't the same.

***

"How do you feel?" Ilya asked later, after having gotten it up again. They were tied together, Shane on his back, resting on a litter of pillows, legs spread, Ilya snug between them.

"Better," Shane said. "Less out of it." He was gulping down a Gatorade; once Ilya had convinced him to drink, he found he didn't want to stop.

"That's good," said Ilya. His hair looked crazy, curls wet and dark, mashed every which way. He was drenched in sweat, glowing under the warm light. His cross was plastered to his shoulder. Shane had tongued it into his mouth while they were fucking, and Ilya had made a sound like a wounded ox.

"Are you religious?" Shane asked now, nodding to it. "You don't act like you're religious."

Ilya looked down significantly at where their bodies were joined, then up at Shane again.

"You're not religious," Shane allowed. However, that had left an opening. "But still, if you want to make this, uh, like, kosher? It would be easy, you could just bite-"

"Shane, enough," said Ilya, sounding tired.

"I just want to be yours," Shane said plaintively. "Even when I'm not in heat, I want to be yours."

Ilya sighed and cupped Shane's jaw. Shane nuzzled into it.

"Let's make a deal," Ilya said. "When your heat breaks, if you still want to be bitten, I will bite you. I promise. Until then, let's stop talking about it, okay?"

Shane huffed, figuring that was as close to a compromise as they were going to get. For now. "But why do you wear that?"

"Why haven't you made a nest?" Ilya asked, one-upping Shane in whatever game they were suddenly playing.

"We're in my nest," Shane said, willfully obtuse.

"We're in a pile of shit," Ilya said, which was a rude way to describe his own clothes. "You have not made a nest of it yet."

"I've been a little busy," Shane said, rocking against Ilya to prove his point. It lit something up inside him, though. Shane arched his back and said, "Oh," and Ilya got the message, surging forward to fuck Shane on his knot while Shane writhed and begged for more, harder, there, please, Ilya, please.

***

Shane couldn't tell if it was nightime because the room didn't have windows, but he woke up and he hurt, he hurt so much, he was so hot, and he got scared because it felt like it had before, all those bad times, but Ilya woke up too and Ilya said nice things, and kissed him, and split him open on his thick cock, and Shane needed it, he needed it so much, and it felt so good, it kept him from flying apart, and Ilya was here now, and Ilya would take care of him.

***

By the second day, Shane felt more like himself, enough that he still thought it was pretty silly that Ilya didn't want to bite him, but he wasn't going to make a big thing about it. In fact, Shane wasn't thinking about being claimed at all right now because he was blindingly angry.

"Who is she?" Shane hissed, nose to nose with Ilya, the second Ilya's eyes fluttered open from a nap.

"Who?" Ilya croaked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Your tramp," Shane said, shoving Ilya's shoulder.

"What?" Ilya asked with genuine confusion.

"That girl," Shane said, climbing on top of Ilya and giving his morning wood a few cursory warm-up strokes. Shane was furious, but that was no reason to waste a perfectly good erection. "That skinny girl with big hair. Who is she?"

Ilya's eyes darted back and forth the way they did when he was thinking. He was positioning Shane automatically, though, spreading his legs and putting a steadying hand on Shane's hip. "You mean Svetlana?"

Shane snarled. Svetlana. It was an ugly name, all knobbly. "Her. Who is she?"

"She is a friend," Ilya said, a little strangled as Shane slid down his length until his ass was flush with Ilya's crotch. They both took a moment to adjust, but then Shane growled and smacked Ilya's chest. Ilya looked up at him. "Good friend. Childhood friend. Beta."

Ilya said it like it meant Svetlana wasn't a threat. Shane was unconvinced; alphas married and had kids with betas all the time. Shane started riding Ilya, slow at first, thighs working. "Do you fuck her?"

Ilya grunted, eyes growing hazy, hips moving. "Not - not for a while."

It wasn't the ideal answer, but it was better than Shane had feared. Shane took Ilya's hand, sucked his thumb in his mouth as he ground down, slow and agonizing on Ilya's cock. Shane brought Ilya's wet fingers to Shane's nipple, encouraging him to pluck, to feel. "No one else ever again. Just me."

Ilya threw his other arm over his face and groaned, surging up into him. "Okay," he gasped. "Okay."

***

Shane handled it more bravely the second time Ilya insisted he shower. He didn't outright bawl, just felt his eyes well up and lower lip quiver. Ilya sweetened the deal by offering to go in with him, and Shane finally got to blow him, even though Ilya refused to knot Shane's mouth or even come in it.

On his knees in the warm spray, Shane tucked his face against Ilya's hip and cried. Ilya stroked his hair back. "Sweetheart, it's okay. You're very good, but I need it for fucking you."

"It's not that," Shane hiccuped. "It's just so unfair that I can't suck your dick and get fucked by you at the same time."

Ilya blinked down at him, then started laughing, bracing his arm against the shower wall, while Shane whacked his leg for making light of his pain.

***

Shane was sporadically tearful throughout the second day, but for clearly valid reasons. He cried because his heat hit right after playoffs, when they were both at their skinniest, and Shane liked Ilya best when he was bulked up. He cried because Ilya shied away from fucking him on all fours because of Shane's hurt knee. He cried silently, wiping the tears out of his eyes, when they got out of the shower, and Ilya asked again if Shane was going to make a nest.

Ilya was sympathetic but firm. "A nest will help. Your heat will break faster."

"I know," Shane sulked. "I'm just not good at this stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Omega stuff," Shane said, annoyed he had to spell it out when it was so obvious. "Heat stuff."

"Well, sure, heat turns you into a lunatic," Ilya said. "But an omega can't be bad at heat stuff. All you have to do is get fucked. Pretty simple."

"Fuck off," Shane said, going to sit in the corner with some of Ilya's t-shirts on his lap.

"Nest though," Ilya said thoughtfully. "Makes more sense. You did not have a mother who could teach you."

Shane growled in warning, and Ilya held up his hands. "No disrespect to your mother. Yuna Hollander is the fiercest alpha in hockey. Best mother for you. But it's hard for omega to learn how to nest without an omega mama to teach them, probably."

"Okay, great," Shane said listlessly. He hated being bad at anything, especially in front of someone else. Honestly, Shane was used to being naturally good at most things. "So where's that leave me?"

Ilya sat down next to him and started sorting fabric. "I can show you."

"Really?"

"Yes," said Ilya. He was looking Shane in the eye.

"You know how to build a nest?"

"It's not rocket science," he handed Shane two shirts and demonstrated on two of his own. "See? You don't tie. You weave."

"But how do you know how to do this?" It was jarring to watch Ilya weave the clothes together, but also kind of touching. Like he was watching Ilya put on makeup or play tea party.

"My mother was an omega," Ilya said, eyes on his work. "I watched her do this a lot."

Omegas generally nested when they were in heat or when they were in distress. When they needed a little extra protection. Shane didn't say anything because Ilya wouldn't have answered any questions. He just followed Ilya's lead and wove.

***

The nest did help, and by the third day, Shane's heat was lingering mostly in small ways. He was still flushed and horny, but not desperate with it. They spent the day fucking slow and easy, Ilya's face buried in Shane's neck, scenting him with every breath.

Shane still asked to be claimed when Ilya was inside him; he couldn't help it. Ilya felt too good and too important not to beg. Ilya started responding by licking Shane's scent gland, making them both moan. It was a frustrating tease, but it took the edge off the worst of the desire. One time, as he knotted, Ilya bit the pillow beside Shane's head hard enough to rip a chunk out of it. He was ruddy and embarrassed afterwards.

They curled up together when they rested during the lengthening breaks between the waves of Shane's heat. At one point, Ilya cupped Shane's chin again, studying him. He said, like this was important information, "You are a very good fuck. And very pretty."

"Oh," Shane said. "Really?"

Ilya nodded. "I like these," he said, moving his thumb in a familiar pattern over Shane's cheeks and nose. His freckles, Shane realized. All this time, he'd been tracing Shane's freckles. "Right away, I liked these."

Shane tucked himself further into Ilya's side. "Ilya?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you really bite me when this is over?" Shane said. "If I ask?"

Ilya stared at the ceiling, throat and jaw working. "You won't ask, Hollander."

"But if I did," Shane said.

Ilya didn't answer for so long, Shane thought he just wasn't going to. When he spoke, he wasn't looking at Shane. "Yes."

Shane turned Ilya's head back towards him, kissed his forehead, kissed his mouth.

***

Shane woke up on the third day around dusk, knowing his heat had broken because his body felt like it was his again. He felt very worn and used, but also contented, lightly energized. Shane was alone in the nesting room, but even that was okay because he knew Ilya had stepped out onto the back porch of the suite to have a smoke, since it was right after heat and they were mates, and apparently it took a minute for that kind of thing to fade.

Shane would be tempted to stay in the nest except that it reeked. There were used condoms littered everywhere, sad and limp like leftover parade confetti. In the thick of heat, both those things had been unbearably sexy, but now they felt sordid and grimy. Shane made his way gingerly out of the room, grabbing a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts in the main suite. His skin and hair felt disgusting in a way that was going to be intolerable pretty soon.

Ilya turned around when he heard the bifold doors open. He had been leaning over the railing, watching the mountains. His eyes narrowed, assessing. "You look better."

"Yeah," said Shane quietly. "I feel better."

Ilya gestured with his cigarette. He was shirtless, track pants low on his hips. "It's finished, then?"

"Yeah," said Shane. He wasn't sure what to do. Shane's memories of his heats were always pretty hazy. His recollections of this one were mostly flashes of big, unwieldy sensations. What he did remember was tender and humiliating. They had both said way too much, and Shane wanted to ask a million follow-up questions.

The cherry of Ilya's cigarette glowed as the dusk settled. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," Shane admitted.

Ilya ground out his cigarette, nodded towards the doors, then walked through them. Shane followed and settled at the table in the non-ruined chair. The one Shane sat in when he called Ilya three days ago was apparently irreparably stained with his slick. Oh god, Shane was going to have to pay to replace that.

Thankfully, if Ilya knew what had happened to that stool, he didn't mention it. He rummaged through the cupboards for the post-heat foods Shane had brought, providing withering commentary on the selection, before settling on heating up some oatmeal and making a smoothie from a pre-assembled baggie of ingredients, mostly spirulina and kale.

Shane, watching him, couldn't think of what to say. Thank you for coming. You saved me. I'm sorry I made you do it. Am I hurting you? I think I've been hurting you, although I never meant to. God, you've hurt me, but maybe you didn't mean to, either. You'd mate me. You'd mate me right now. You said so.

"You should eat too," he settled on.

Ilya was prowling around for condiments, opening cabinets. "I did. While you were sleeping."

"That's good," Shane said.

Ilya put a ginger ale in front of Shane that Shane did not remember packing. Shane puzzled at it. "Did you stop at a convenience store on the way here?"

Ilya looked at it, then opened the fridge and scanned the shelves. "Brought it from home."

Shane cracked the tab. The sound was much too loud. Shane realized what was actually making this so uncomfortable: for the first time since they had known each other, they couldn't just fall back on sex to avoid a conversation. Shane wasn't going to want to fuck for at least a week, even though Ilya, in this light, looked so beautiful it could stop his heart.

"How do you feel?" Shane asked.

Ilya leaned into the refrigerator to continue studying its contents, resting his weight on a hand gripping the top of the frame. He was a perfect tableau of dirtbag nonchalance. "I spent three days fucking nonstop in a luxury resort. How do you think I feel?"

Shane was acutely aware of the sweat and come and slick flaking off of his skin. "I'm going to take a shower."

Ilya grunted, and Shane padded off. When he first got in the shower, he wondered if Ilya was going to join him, but in a minute, he heard blender noises.

Shane checked himself out. His dick and his inner thighs and his ass and his nipples were abraded and sensitive, his hole gaping wider than it ever had before, but nothing was torn, nothing was damaged. He was sore, but he welcomed soreness, usually. It was a source of satisfaction, a marker of accomplishment.

Shane felt good. He felt good in a way that made him realize he hadn't actually felt good in a really long time.

Shane rummaged through his luggage, which he had been too frazzled to unpack when he arrived and had since been virtually untouched. It was a relief to change into clean clothes again, to be clean all over again.

Ilya had laid out the oatmeal, with some fruit, and the smoothie on the table when Shane made his way back to the kitchen. "Thanks," Shane said, sitting down.

Ilya leaned back against the stool by the peninsula. "Post-heat is part of heat. Technically, I am still on the clock."

He could be so cute. Did anyone else know that? Ilya Rozanov told corny jokes sometimes. When he was excited, he would talk with his hands. Shane started with the smoothie. Ilya had been a heavy pour with the protein powder.

"I don't think I've said," Shane tried, after they had both been silent for a few long moments. "I appreciate you canceling your plans. I know this was last minute."

"It's okay," said Ilya.

"I hope it wasn't anything too important," said Shane.

"Hollander," Ilya said impatiently. "It's fine."

"Okay," said Shane. There was another long beat.

Ilya scratched behind his ear, then slouched back in his chair and slid one hand under his trackpants, gently rubbing his own thigh. "Your contract will be up in two more years."

Shane, not expecting this subject change, said, "Yeah…"

"Two years is a long time," Ilya said. "Especially for a hockey team. Like with the Metros. Last year, everyone but you was shit, and this year they are still shit, and now your defense won't stop pinching to save their lives, also."

"Fuck you," Shane said. "Say that to me when we're not holding the cup."

Ilya flashed him a twitch of a smile. He went on with a studied indifference, "Raiders - in two years, we might look very different. Players have been injured, might need to go on reserves, might not be so valuable when they get back. Other players have been making noise about retirement. We might need some depth in our center. In two years, your contract will be up." Ilya shrugged. " Free agency."

Shane stared at him. Even Ilya's alluding to roster changes to a player on a rival team was fairly shocking, and Shane had to work through that before he understood what Ilya was saying. His first thought was practical. "The cap space."

"There can be cap space," Ilya said. The extent of a captain's influence depended on many factors, like team culture and force of personality. Gauthier was a decent guy, but he was mostly responsible for the pre-game speeches. Ilya, famously, jockeyed with LeClaire for leadership of the Raiders. If Ilya wanted cap space for Shane, there would be cap space. "In two years, you come to Boston. A few months later, maybe, news comes out that you're claimed." Rozanov looked at the table and took a sip of water. "It won't be hard for the public to believe we decided to mate soon after we first played together and got to know each other. You play for the Raiders as claimed omega. No scandal."

No, Shane thought distantly, it would not at all be hard for the public to believe that Ilya Rozanov seduced an omega that quickly. He folded his arms over his chest, holding his sides. "And… that's what you want?"

"You've been sick," Ilya said. "This would fix that. I don't want you to be sick."

Shane blew out a long, careful breath, staring out the glass bifold doors.

After a minute of silence, Ilya scoffed, shaking his head. "Fucking hell, Hollander."

"What?" Shane said.

"Don't act too excited, fuck," said Rozanov, crossing his own arms.

"I should just say yes?" Shane said. "This is a huge decision. I have a team-"

"The Metros treat you like shit," Rozanov said. "They are a shit team you've carried on your back to a fucking cup now, and they still act like you're filling out their roster. They haven't even given you the A. The Raiders would treat you better."

"They would treat me like I was fucking their captain," Shane said. He hated when Ilya did this - when he identified and validated a petty bitterness Shane tried to let go of because his desires were unrealistic. "Don't act like this isn't complicated."

"It's not complicated," Ilya said. He sounded a little savage. "You would just rather hurt yourself than…" He shook his head and snorted out a breath, composing himself. "I'm not stupid, Hollander. I know why you have never wanted this."

Shane went still.

"You think they would take hockey from you," Ilya continued. "I know that's why you are scared. And you're right, they would find any excuse to take it from you if they could. But if we did this… I would not let them." He looked at Shane, finally. "I would not let them take hockey from you."

It was true. Under Ilya's protection, no one could say shit. If Ilya Rozanov wanted his hockey-playing omega on his team, he would be indulged. Shane could play for as long as he wanted unchallenged, assuming Ilya never changed his mind. Shane's hormone issues would go away, meaning he might start playing the best hockey of his career. His best hockey, as the headstrong little omega Ilya Rozanov had domesticated and brought to heel.

"I know you wouldn't," Shane said carefully. "And… thanks."

"But you are saying no."

"I'm not saying anything," Shane said.

"Well, then, can you please fucking say something, Hollander?'

"If I follow your plan," Shane said. "I'd be second to an alpha for the rest of my life. I'd be second to you."

They had never been considered rivals. Even before he spooked, Shane was set up in the media as having an ideological grudge against Dallas Kent. And Ilya was peerless, if known for taking particular delight in tormenting Scott Hunter. But Shane knew Ilya was his competition, and he thought Ilya knew it too. On Ilya's team, as Ilya's mate, it wouldn't matter how many cups Shane won. He would spend his entire career as a support, an also-there, a sidekick to the face of the league. They would never be equals.

He had always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team as Ilya, though.

"And that's what matters to you," Ilya said. "Winning."

"If I don't win, I lose," Shane said. "I don't get anything in between. You're asking for a lot."

"I am asking," Ilya said through gritted teeth. "For you to let me take care of you."

Ilya made it sound like an obligation. A role. Maybe that's why Ilya had campaigned to be Shane's heat partner last year. Maybe he considered it an audition. It seemed uncharitable to have qualms when Ilya had been so good and attentive to him this heat. But a bite was serious, a bite was forever, and Ilya could be mercurial.

"You didn't take great care of me last year," Shane said.

A flash of emotion crossed over Ilya's face before he tightened around it. "You didn't ask me last year."

"Fuck you," said Shane. "You didn't answer my texts for six months."

Ilya got up, found his cigarettes, and lit one. It was so infuriating that Ilya smoked on any number of levels. Shane opened the patio doors again, pointedly.

"What do you want me to say?" Ilya said, finally. "I thought I should leave you alone. You couldn't even decide if you wanted me as a heat partner, let alone... And Russia," Ilya shrugged. "Russia would not be so good for you."

"What do you mean?"

Ilya was squared up, defensive. "There is a saying in Russia: 'A proper omega is a porcelain doll.' Russia is… old-fashioned. My family is old-fashioned. They would not approve of me bringing home famously rebellious Western omega."

"Rebellious?" Shane asked, skeptical.

"To them, you are," Ilya said. "That's the problem. Shane Hollander cannot be a porcelain doll. Russia would not be kind to you. I can't bring you there. And the situation with my family is - complicated. I have to go back home when I can, to take care of things. So, better to let you go, if I have no place to keep you and you don't even fucking want this."

Shane's eyes burned. "So what changed?"

"You are sick," Ilya said. "Being apart makes you sick. So." He shrugged again. "Maybe I go back in the summers, but you stay here. We'll figure something out."

"And when you retire?" Shane asked.

Ilya's face was pinched. "We'll figure something out."

Shane had the pitiful urge to ask if Ilya even wanted this. If Ilya liked him, or if this was just another weight saddled on Ilya's big alpha shoulders. Shane had never really thought about that before, the responsibility Ilya might feel as the poster boy and assigned savior of the MLH, not to mention whatever he seemed to mean to Russia. Ilya never seemed that concerned, leaning into being an asshole or a clown. But he acted that way about Shane, too, and the thing with Shane at least burdened him enough for him to want to strategize about it.

"It's not that I don't want this," Shane said. Ilya's eyebrows went up. "I mean. It's not about you."

Ilya appeared mildly receptive to that. "Okay."

"Two years is a long time, though, you're right," Shane said. "I'm not saying no. But can I think about it?"

"Of course, you must think about it." Ilya was being sarcastic. "That is what Shane Hollander does. Thinks and thinks himself into a hole in the ground."

Shane squinted at him after a second. "So, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," sighed Ilya.

"And I'm probably going to try to schedule a second heat in this year," Shane said. "Maybe around Christmas. Would you want to…?"

Ilya still didn't seem pleased, but he was softening. "Yes. I will be there."

"Thanks," said Shane. "Thank you. I should have said that earlier, too. It was a lot better this time than it's ever been before. So, thank you."

Ilya stubbed out his cigarette and sat back down at the table. "Next time will be even easier. Your cycle will be better now, so you will probably be less of a crazy person."

Shane would argue he wasn't that bad, except he knew he really was. "Shut up."

"Funniest thing I've ever seen," Ilya said. "Shane Hollander throwing a princess tantrum about condoms."

"Oh god," Shane said, putting his head in his hands as the memory of doing that activated like a sleeper agent.

"It was cute," Ilya said. "You were my fussy little omega."

"That's gross," Shane said. "Never call me that again."

Ilya put a hand on the back of his neck. It felt shockingly good, presumably to both of them, since Ilya took a shuddering little breath too. It was like a drink of water after a run. They stayed like that for a long minute before Ilya got up to busy himself in the kitchen.

***

Ilya changed the sheets on the bed in the main bedroom, and they slept there curled up together that night. The next day, Ilya insisted that it was Russian tradition to spend all day in bed after a heat to recover. Shane half-suspected he was full of shit, or at least this was much less of a matter of national honor than Ilya claimed, but he was willing to humor him.

It was really nice, spending the day spooned up with Ilya. It felt the way everyone said nesting was supposed to feel, but had never felt for Shane. Ilya took his self-assigned job as caretaker seriously, massaging Shane's back, fussing over the pillows. For breakfast, he made them the driest scrambled eggs Shane had ever eaten, but Shane didn't chirp him for it, assuming this was the first time Ilya had ever cooked anything in his entire life. Ilya tried to hand-feed him, which felt a little goofy outside the biological urgency of heat, and they ended up turning it into a game where Ilya tried to throw pieces of egg into Shane's mouth from further and further away on the bed. Afterwards, Shane bullied Ilya into changing the sheets again.

To Ilya's delight and his own incredulity, Shane got hard again around mid-morning. They were both too exhausted for Shane to do anything more than rub himself off against Ilya's thigh, making airless little grunts with each rock of his hips. Ilya held him close, kissed his face, rumbled deep, soothing encouragement until Shane came, spilling over Ilya's hip.

"You are the horniest freak I have ever met," Ilya told him with the air of bestowing a compliment.

"Shut up," Shane said automatically, getting his breath back. He didn't consider himself particularly horny, was the thing. Outside of Ilya, Shane noticed people were attractive in vague, objective terms. True, that changed with alphas - there were sometimes bartenders or firefighters who caught Shane's eye. But Ilya was the only person who had ever made Shane ravenous and out of control. He'd wonder what it meant, except it was depressingly obvious.

"I like it," Ilya insisted, flopping on top of Shane the way he often did. "My sweet little omega needs me so much."

Ilya said with an ironic edge, letting Shane know he didn't have to take it seriously. Shane scoffed, but combed his fingers through Ilya's hair. "Don't flatter yourself. It's just been a while."

Ilya didn't go for the obvious joke about how they had just fucked nonstop for three days. Instead, he propped his chin on Shane's chest, peering up at him. "Has it?"

"Well, yeah," Shane said, trying to make this sound reasonable and natural, when it probably wasn't. When it was probably exposing something defenseless when left unguarded. "You know I can't do this with anyone else."

He wasn't sure how Ilya interpreted that, if he thought Shane was talking about his safety and reputation, or the other thing. Either way, Ilya hummed thoughtfully.

"I didn't know this, actually," Ilya said. "I thought maybe, but I wasn't sure."

Shane shrugged, uncomfortable for the first time in a while. "You're not going to tell everyone about it. Most people would."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something spiteful about how Ilya didn't have the same problem, how Ilya had famously fucked his way across North America the entire time they were in this thing together. That wouldn't be fair. They had never made any promises. And Ilya thought Shane was reluctant. Ilya thought Shane was only here now because he was surrendering to the demands of his biology. Shane couldn't even say that was wrong.

Ilya kissed Shane's nipple, running a hand over Shane's abs. "During heat," he said. "You were very jealous. Growling, showing your teeth."

"Well, yeah," Shane said. "That's heat."

"It's normal for omegas to be jealous," Ilya said. "Even outside of heat."

"Sure," Shane said.

"An alpha takes care of his omega," Ilya said. "If your omega is jealous, that's no good. They're unhappy. You do what it takes not to have an unhappy omega."

Holy shit.

"What happens if your omega is unhappy?" Shane asked.

"They get so whiny," Ilya said, wrinkling up his nose. "Oh, please, Ilya, you're the only one for me, let me be the only one for you too. Oh, please, Ilya, I'm so greedy, I need every inch of your wonderful cock all for myself. Ilya, please, no more fucking anyone else, or I'll cry and cry."

"I've never said any of that," Shane pointed out with that mixture of irritation and affection he often felt around Ilya.

"Maybe not," Ilya allowed. "But, it wouldn't be strange if you did. An alpha would expect that from an omega."

Shane swallowed, scanning the ceiling. Ilya wasn't saying anything revolutionary on the surface; civilization was basically founded on the principle that alphas and omegas were territorial over each other. But Shane was getting more used to the roundabout way Ilya sometimes introduced things. What would it be like to be exclusive? It would mean they were something. Ilya was saying he wanted them, at the very least, to be something.

"I'd hate to be strange," Shane said.

Ilya brightened and kissed Shane's shoulder. "You are very strange. But about this, you could be normal, if you felt like it, maybe."

"Okay," said Shane, putting a hand on Ilya's arm, drawing him closer.

"Yeah?" Ilya said. He didn't sound hopeful, more like they were making a handshake deal.

"Yeah," Shane said, and then Ilya was kissing him, licking into his mouth.

They napped a little and ate some more, but by midday Shane insisted on checking his phone, letting the real world trickle in.

Shane checked in with his parents, whom he had told he was doing a screens blackout to detox from the intensity of the cup celebrations, although he was pretty sure they did not believe him. The MLH award nominees had been announced on the first day of his heat. Before looking at his texts, Shane made a deal with himself. If Shane were nominated for MVP, he'd turn down Ilya's offer about the Raiders. He knew he'd never win MVP, but it would mean something if he were at least nominated. It would be an acknowledgement. A gesture.

Shane read the sympathy text from Farah before he saw the official release. Gauthier was up for it from the Metros. Shane read his nomination blurb. Shane's assistant coaches and teammates lauded Gauty for being a great leader in the room. Several of them discussed how his natural, calm alpha authority was an inspiration. Gauty's point total for the season lagged significantly behind the other two nominees. He'd probably still win, though, considering the legendary run the Metros had this year.

"What is it?" Ilya asked, watching Shane.

Shane looked up and put his phone down. It probably wasn't worth talking to Ilya about it. Ilya had no frame of reference for what it was like to love something that would never love you back.

"Nothing," Shane said.

A few hours later, Ilya's phone rang and rang. Ilya kept hanging up, then eventually turned it off and slammed it onto the nightstand with a scowl.

"You should answer that if it's important," Shane said.

"It's not important," Ilya said. "Just my brother being pissy."

Ilya had mentioned having an older brother once or twice. This was still the most information Shane had ever received about him. "Is it anything serious?"

"No," Ilya sighed. When Shane just kept looking at him expectantly, he rolled his eyes, groaning laboriously like this was the biggest hardship anyone had ever endured, but continued. "I was supposed to fly back to Russia last week for big meeting with his bank, give him access to some funds. I postponed, now he is angry."

If Ilya had intended to go back to Russia last week, he would have meant to stay for the entire summer. Shane's voice cracked. "Those were the plans you cancelled?"

Ilya shrugged, already closing off around this. "It's not a big deal. The bank can wait a week."

"You were going to miss the MLH awards?" Shane asked, sitting up.

Ilya looked a little amused. "A night of dry chicken and well drinks in the armpit of America? I will pass, thank you."

"Yeah, but…" Shane said. Maybe some remnants of his heat emotionality lingered, because Shane's throat felt tight. It would have been the first opportunity they had to see each other outside of a game all season. Even if he wasn't nominated for MVP, they couldn't avoid giving him the Rocket Richard again. This was Shane's year, and Ilya hadn't wanted to be there for that.

Ilya saw whatever was on Shane's face and sighed. He pressed Shane's head down to rest against his chest. Ilya had made his brother angry by coming here and helping Shane. Ilya's brother wouldn't approve of Shane. He and the rest of Ilya's family lived in their homeland, a place Ilya assumed would break Shane because Shane had never fit the mold of what he was supposed to be. A place Ilya planned to move back to one day.

"It's different now," said Ilya. "Okay?"

"Okay," said Shane. "Sorry."

"It's fine," said Ilya, petting his hair.

****

Shane was still too sore to be fucked the next morning, but they rubbed off on each other, Ilya collecting Shane's slick to coat their dicks, making it an easy glide. The sex was a little awkward, morning-groggy and fumbling, but Ilya mouthed at Shane's neck, and Shane thought, he'd bite me right now if I asked. He wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, grinding up against him until the heat built low in his stomach and overflowed, and he cried out and came.

Shane did not need to clean very often in his daily life, but when forced to, he took the task seriously. He was diligent as they got ready to leave the suite, throwing away condoms and food wrappers, stripping the bed and the nesting pad.

"They pay people to do this," Ilya kept saying.

"I don't like leaving things messy," Shane said. For some reason, that made Ilya come over and kiss him.

They lingered as check-out loomed, making out a little, arguing over who should keep what food. But the suite had stopped feeling like theirs after Shane had cleaned up. Shane didn't want to open the door, though. He didn't want to smell fresh air because it wouldn't smell like them. Ilya, he was realizing, smelled brighter and greener when he was happy, with something pleasantly oceanic mixed in.

"You can keep sending me your clothes," Shane said by the door. Ilya was holding his bags, ready to leave, his energy twitchy. "If you want."

Ilya kissed him one more time, sucking Shane's lower lip into his mouth, before withdrawing, resting their foreheads together. "Wear them yourself," Ilya said. "Then send them back."

"I guess I'll see you in December?" Shane said. "Or maybe earlier. If you wanted to meet up after a game or something."

"I will probably want to keep fucking you, yes," Ilya said. "Let's assume that."

"Fuck off," Shane said, pleased.

Ilya cupped the back of Shane's neck again. Shane's legs went wobbly.

"I'm glad you called," Ilya said.

Shane leaned into the touch. "Me too."

Ilya left first, carrying his many bags to his garish lime green sports car, the muscles in his back flexing. The car was a two-seater, very low to the ground. It didn't look at all safe. Ilya threw his stuff in the trunk and didn't turn back around to answer Shane's wave before he drove off.

Shane went back into the suite, getting out his phone so he could check out on the resort's app. He wrote a note to please go ahead and charge his card for the full value of the chair he had ruined. He looked around. Shane liked real estate and design; he always had. This was a nice space. Even empty, it suited him.

Shane sat there and thought about a lot of things.

When Shane got into his own car, he drove straight to his parents' house in the suburbs of Montreal. His dad answered the door when he rang the bell, wearing his half-apron. He was probably in the middle of making lunch.

"Shane," David said, surprised but equanimous. He was a sanguine man, a gentle man. "Well, hello. Everything okay, kiddo? Usually, you call before you stop by."

"Can I come in?" Shane asked. "I need to talk to you and Mom about something."

Chapter End Notes

Ilya and Svetlana last had sex like three weeks prior, but 1) Ilya's not stupid enough to tell Shane that 2) for Ilya, that's a pretty sizable drought.

Next up, Rose Landry!

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Yuna thought he should do it.

"I mean, it just stands to reason," she said. She was half a glass into her scotch at that point, and they were all two hours deep into the conversation.

"You're saying that?" asked Shane, kind of aghast.

It had been a grueling afternoon. Everyone had cried. Everyone had apologized. Yuna had to step out at several points to compose herself as Shane saw the computer in her head tabulate all the ways she had made him believe he could never share this secret with her, and her deep grief over that. It was pretty horrible. He wouldn't have preferred her to feel betrayed, exactly, but he hadn't come over here today to examine how imperfectly they all loved each other either.

Yuna made an expression that conveyed she knew how deeply traitorous this opinion was as a Metros fan. "Some things just take precedence, honey. You've won a cup solo - the world knows you can do that even if you do play the rest of your career with - with your alpha. You don't have anything left to prove. And this is about your health, Shane."

"It's pretty romantic, when you think about it," David reflected, thoughtfully.

"No, it's not," Shane pointed out.

"I'll be honest, Shane. Your mother and I know you're independent and that you've never needed a partner to make it through this world. But we've also never wanted you to be lonely. Having a true mate… that's really significant. And," David hunkered closer, conspiratorially. "That it's Ilya Rozanov..."

In a million years, Shane would not have expected the conversation to go in this direction. "You both hate him!"

"Well, now we have more information," Yuna said. "If he's your mate, he can't be that bad. We raised you with more sense than that."

Shane had never considered this interpretation of events before. His parents must have a rosier view of true mates than he did, since they weren't acting like Shane had received a prison sentence. "Maybe."

"And like your father said, we're talking about Ilya Rozanov," Yuna said. "Like him or not, that's an alpha, you know?"

"Oh my god," said Shane, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well," said Yuna. "There's really only one thing that matters. Is he good to you?"

Shane gave her the courtesy of really thinking that over. "I don't know if that concept really applies." He added, grudgingly, "I think he's been trying to be lately, though."

"Well, there you go," said Yuna. "You met so young, and being soulmates is so big… maybe it just took some time to settle. Maybe he's ready now."

"What if I'm not ready?" Shane asked, annoyed.

"You shouldn't do anything you don't want to do," said Yuna. "But Shane… you look better today than you have in years. Clearly, some part of you thinks this is good for you."

Shane crossed his arms and looked away. If the eruption of his confession weren't so fresh, he might have said something about how this was why he hadn't wanted to tell them in the first place. He had told David and Yuna he kept it a secret because he had been so freaked out that he spent years pretending it wasn't happening, which was true. But this was part of it, too. There was always going to be that sliver of divide between Shane and his mother, because he was supposed to be an alpha like her, and he wasn't. They would see the world just a little bit differently forever, and there was nothing either of them could do about that.

"So you'd really be okay with that?" he asked, a little flat. "Me moving to Boston to get claimed by a Raider?"

"We don't want you to do anything that would make you unhappy, Shane," David said. "But if this would make you happy, don't let fear of our disapproval get in the way."

"Besides," said Yuna. "There would be some advantages to shopping around your contract. You're an adult now. If the Metros insist on keeping the language this rigid, it might be best to part ways and move on. The way they didn't stick up for you during the Dallas Kent situation… well, you know that's never sat right with me. Not to mention, think of the golden opportunity of two of the MLH's finest being true mates! Godiva, Tiffany's, Swarovski… we could really do something here if we play our cards right."

His mother loved him, and this was her way of processing information, Shane reminded himself. "Yeah, that's a good point."

"For now, the most important thing is keeping him as your heat partner," she said, maybe sensing his dissatisfaction. "Your health is always going to be the number one priority. And hey, maybe that's a chance to get to know him better and really figure out this decision."

"Yeah," Shane conceded. "That makes sense."

Yuna took his hand. "No matter what, Shane, we are so proud of you. And we love you so much."

He did know that. And sharing the defining secret of his life with his parents had made him feel freer, lighter. As a kid, he had been so afraid that Ilya would derail their plans, everything that all three of them had worked so hard for. Maybe he hadn't been able to see that his parents would be happy for him, that they would take this as a guarantee he would always have love and care in his life. Shane knew they worried about him: their odd, inflexible child.

"I know, Mom," Shane said. This had gone well, and he felt unburdened, and his parents' advice was solid. He just wished they were slightly less relieved. "I love you, too."

***

When he met with Dr. Borland four days later, he told Shane that his numbers were so good that if they stayed steady for a month, they could go back to meeting quarterly. Like Shane was a normal person, or at least a normal high-performance athlete.

"Really?" Shane asked, then felt a little bad that he sounded so excited.

Dr. Borland picked up on his tone but seemed amused by it. He was also in a great mood. "Really. I don't think I've ever seen a heat turnaround work this quick this fast. Looks like there's something else you're exceptional at, Shane."

Borland told Shane he could go off all but three of his supplements and that he would readjust Shane's suppressant cocktail so the side effects would be much less harsh. As he was writing down Shane's new prescription, he said, in a jocular, offhand way, "So, should I expect an invitation to a collaring ceremony soon?

Shane felt his shoulders cave in, an iciness invade his chest. "No."

Borland looked up, clearly aware of the misstep. "Well, nothing wrong with an extended courtship," he said lightly. "I'll have this sent directly to your pharmacy. Save you a trip."

***

True to his word, Ilya didn't attend the MLH awards. He flew to Russia two days after leaving Quebec. Shane was surprised by how aware he was of Ilya's absence at the award show. All the congratulations Shane received came across as sincere, but still hit Shane in a hollow place. Gauthier, MVP award in hand, came over and squeezed Shane's shoulder. "Thanks for everything, Hollzy," he said. "Couldn't have done it without you. No hard feelings, right?"

He had mentioned Shane briefly in his acceptance speech, along with his A's, their coaching and support staff, and the rest of the team. Shane had won the Art Ross. Which was no small feat, as Yuna said repeatedly. He knew a tangible achievement in hand was better than demanding the universe grant him an impossible wish, but his stomach still curdled with resentment.

"No hard feelings, man," Shane said. "It's a team sport."

History is going to remember me, he thought at Gauthier's back, as Gauty wandered away to gladhand some more. Who gives a shit how many trophies you get? I'm the one who will matter. You'll be a footnote.

After that, the off-season dwindled into a sleepier cadence. Shane got to pour more attention into the construction of his cottage than he could during the season. He found it genuinely fun. Shane liked thinking about how the space flowed, how he could mold it to fit the rhythms of his life. The architect discussed the nesting room they were including, the details droning unheard through Shane's head like white noise. He woke up again when they started talking about the well. If this were going to be Shane's safe harbor, he really wanted good drinking water and to shower without the vegetal smell of the lake.

Shane texted Ilya the blueprints of the cottage, expecting a reply like, I will fuck your boring ass in every room of this house, which he got. But Ilya also wanted to know why the well needed to be at a certain depth in order to drink the water legally.

Shane planned to spend half the summer in Montreal attending to business, then half with his parents at their family cottage in Lanaudiere; his typical off-season routine. Early in June, he had to fly to LA briefly for the GQ Gala launching their issue on The Top 30 Omegas Under 30, where he met Rose Landry. Shane was fourth on the list. Rose Landry was second, after the Princess of Denmark, who was a former reality show contestant and thirty-five if she were a day.

Rose found him as he was doing his best to lurk in the periphery of the room. "Shane Hollander," she said. She was pretty, wearing a red dress. "Oh, have I been wanting to meet you."

"Same here," said Shane, which was true inasmuch as Shane ever wanted to meet anybody. Then, an actual truth: "I'm a big fan."

"Would you be surprised if I said I'm a big fan of yours, too?" asked Rose.

"Maybe a little," Shane admitted. He was acutely aware of the many omegas in whom he had ignited an interest in sports, but Rose was the delicate type, with big eyes and a long neck. In the media, Rose Landry was presented as slight but earthy, a relatable omega waif. It was pretty surprising she was unclaimed, considering she already had an Oscar nod.

"I'm a Michigan girl," she said. "With three hockey-playing brothers. One alpha, two betas. And me, the omega little sister. You're all we talk about every Thanksgiving."

"Oh, wow," said Shane. As Michigan fans, he doubted they said anything complimentary, but Rose's enthusiasm seemed sincere. "I'm very flattered."

"My brothers were giving me so much grief that I'm two spots ahead of you in this bullshit list," Rose said. "They said I must have bribed the editors."

"Sorry, that was me," Shane said, mulling over her calling the awards bullshit. Shane also thought these awards were bullshit, but acknowledging that felt a little transgressive. It was an intriguing knot in the conversation. "I didn't want to be in the top three this year."

Rose Landry beamed at him. "You're funny." She leaned forward a bit, bringing him into her confidence. "Hey, so are you getting tired of the rancid knot-energy in here?"

Shane felt a fissure of shock travel through his body, like he usually did when someone said something that could get them in trouble. Shane looked around a little, mostly to see if they were overheard. No one was listening, plus the sweep did confirm her point. For a gala celebrating omegas, they were outnumbered by alphas and betas three to one, and the atmosphere was self-congratulatory and greasy.

"Uh, yeah," Shane said. "I guess so."

"Do you want to steal a bottle of champagne and hang out in the bathroom?" Rose asked.

"Uh…" They were here to circulate, but Shane had done his full round. This option had never occurred to him before, but he realized that he did, indeed, want to do that. "Okay. Yeah."

Rose sweet-talked a beta waiter into giving her a bottle, while Shane stood behind her, feeling mildly exhilarated and untethered. He had been an obedient kid, but this felt like they were indulging in childlike naughtiness. Rose also treated their caper in the spirit of mild mischief, exaggeratedly looking around as they scurried out of the ballroom and through the hallway.

The bathroom was the very fancy kind that had a little lounge area by the sinks. Rose immediately curled up on a settee. "I hope we can become friends. I'm filming a movie in Montreal in a few weeks, and it would be great to have someone cool to hang out with."

"Oh, yeah," said Shane, unused to being thought of in those terms. "That'd be nice. What's the movie?"

"X-Force," Rose sighed, taking off her heels. "Just two more to go and I'll be free."

"You don't like them? You were so good in the first one," Shane said.

"I can't even begin to tell you how much blue paint you end up eating," Rose said. "It dyes your tongue and your gums."

"Oh," said Shane. "Yeah, that's got to be gross."

"Anyway," Rose said, shaking it off and tucking her feet underneath her. "Those movies are a disaster, I don't want to talk about them. So, are you gay?"

"Uh…" said Shane.

Rose looked up, face changing as she saw the bewildered horror in Shane's expression. She held up her hands, placatingly. "Oh, no, no! I'm sorry! I didn't mean, like- I'm gay! Not that I'm hitting on you! It's just that you know how it is, all the cool omegas are queer, I just assumed… Let's start over. Hi! I'm not hitting on you."

"Hi," Shane said, brain straining to absorb all the information Rose had just presented to him. "You're gay?"

"Not all the way gay," Rose said. "I should be so lucky. I'll still mess around with a beta. But I'm getting that you're not? Which is fine, by the way! That's totally fine."

"No. Sorry," Shane said, stunned into default Canadian politeness. He had never met a gay person before, he realized. It felt weird both to meet one and to know this was his first time. Even so, he still understood exactly the size and shape of this secret for someone in Rose's position. She was sharing it on a personal level now because she was going to come out eventually. The news would be so soft-pedaled that the public would accept it with barely a peep. "I'm straight."

"Like, straight-straight, though?" she asked. "What about betas?"

Shane considered it. "Yeah, no betas. Just alphas."

"Woof," Rose wrinkled her nose. "My condolences."

"What do you mean, all cool omegas are gay?" Shane asked.

"Oh," said Rose. "Maybe it's an LA thing. It just feels like all the omegas I know have sworn off alphas and are in vegan polycules running a consulting firm or a dog masseuse business together."

"What's a polycule?" asked Shane.

She told him, and he said, "Huh." Over the time it took them to work through most of the champagne, Shane found himself saying 'huh' and 'really?' and 'oh wow' a lot, because while Rose Landry looked like a normal person, she was as fascinating to observe as a rare, exotic bird. Rose was gay and didn't ever want to be claimed. Rose had dated other omegas, mostly female omegas, although she said she preferred beta men to beta women. She said she had omega friends who had only ever dated other omegas. Shane had, technically, known this was possible, but had understood that only blue-haired, whiny socialists would behave in such a fashion. Rose was an actual functional, successful adult.

"So, you're straight," she confirmed again, eventually. She had drunk more than half of the bottle herself - Shane nursed about a glass - but she must have a tin leg because her speech was still impeccable. "Sorry, I just always thought most omegas in sports were queer. But you're like, for real straight? Just alphas?"

"I think so," said Shane. "I mean, I don't think I've ever really thought about it before. But yeah, I am." The thing with Ilya made it all a moot point anyway, and the thing with Ilya had always been woefully heterosexual. Male omegas were traditionally supposed to end up with male alphas, although most stories were about how they were tamed or tricked into it.

Shane was sitting on the ground next to her, leaning back against the settee. Rose's manicure was very intricate, with different colors swirling together, and Shane was perpetually distracted by it. Maybe it was hypnotizing him a little bit.

"Huh," she said. "Wow. I mean. Does that suck for you?"

"Yeah, it kind of does," Shane said.

"Because alphas can be horrible," Rose added, unnecessarily.

"My best friends are alphas," Shane said. Talking like this felt a little thrilling and illicit, like Shane would be fined if anyone found out about it. "But, yeah. A lot of them are pretty awful."

"And they're so weird about you!" Rose said, sitting up and drawing her knees in. "I mean, omegas are weird about you too, but alphas are so weird about you!"

"Omegas are weird about me?" Shane asked.

"Oh, like, they think you're way too aspirational," Rose said. It wasn't the only way omegas could be weird about Shane, he knew, but it was definitely one of them. "Like that Hockey Body Summer hashtag omega guys were doing last year."

Shane had been peripherally aware of the trend, but last summer he had been making plans to chemically castrate himself over a broken heart. A hashtag hadn't been his top priority. "Oh yeah. I guess. I don't actually, uh, know a ton of other omegas."

She didn't seem surprised. "I'd say you're not missing out on much, but I don't know what it's like to spend a lot of time with a bunch of alpha hockey players."

"It's okay," said Shane. "I mean, they're jocks, but I'm a jock too. I know how to give it back."

"Uuugh," said Rose, making Shane snort out a laugh. "I mean, good for you and I believe you, but also, ugh."

"You really think so? Alphas are probably nice to you," Shane said without rancor. "You're perfect."

"Awww!" said Rose.

"You are. You know you are," Shane said. He was enjoying this conversation in a brand new and exciting way. They were each meeting someone else in the public eye who knew what it was like to be a high-powered, career-focused, unclaimed omega, and he could tell it was making them both slightly giddy. "You're the kind they want to take care of."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Rose said. "But that can break bad, too, actually. Once you get knocked off that pedestal, alphas can be real mean assholes."

"Oh," Shane said. He said the next thought that occurred to him. "Have you been okay?"

Rose gave him a curious, wry little smile. "Have you?"

"Yeah," said Shane. "Mostly."

"Then yeah," Rose said. "Same here."

Shane had to swallow down a lump at the look she was giving him. If she were a hockey fan, she had seen Dallas Kent try to cuff him, same as everyone else. He held up the bottle to Rose in a toast. "To doing it by ourselves."

She swiped it from him. "I'll drink to that." She took a swig, then asked as she handed it back, "Are you actually by yourself, though? You're not seeing anybody? It's kind of hard to picture."

"Why?" asked Shane.

"Well," said Rose. "I guess I just assume you lead a difficult life? My life is difficult. Don't get me wrong, I love it, and I'm thankful every day I get to do what I do, but sometimes it feels like I'm constantly fighting the entire world to be the person I want to be. And I'm a girl in the arts! There was a place for me before I showed up. I can't even imagine what it's like for you. I just hope you have someone in your corner, even if it's not romantic."

Shane blinked. He couldn't talk for a second. "Thank you. I appreciate that. I think I'm doing okay."

Rose took the bottle and poured Shane the dregs. "Then let's toast to that too."

They toasted, and Shane asked. "Are you seeing someone?"

Rose shook her head while she finished her drink. "Nah, in between ports. I'm trying to sort out my own stuff first, you know?"

Shane did very much know. "Yeah, definitely."

"Don't get me wrong," said Rose. "I'm so bad at it. It's like the most omega thing about me - it's so hard for me to be alone. And my parents take advantage of that when I complain about being lonely and try to get me to find a church in LA so I can meet someone."

"Oh," said Shane. "Do your parents know you're gay?"

"Oh yeah," Rose said. "I told them when I was in college. I did, like, three semesters of college."

"Better than me," Shane said. "I didn't even graduate high school. Were they okay with it?"

She shrugged. "I mean, they're sweet Midwestern church people, but in that cooler way, not that awful way, you know? So, I think it's been an adjustment, and they're, like, attempting to reach acceptance, and they'll get there, but right now they're just in this uneasy middle place."

Shane had a limited idea of how all those words hung together, but he gathered that the conclusion was mixed. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"How are your parents?" asked Rose. "Like, with your career and everything?"

"I wouldn't have my career if it weren't for my parents," Shane said. "They're incredible. I'm really lucky to have them."

"Oh, that's so great," said Rose. "I read an article about your mom once - she did an interview somewhere. She seems so badass, just so confident and elegant."

"That's Mom," said Shane. "All the time."

Rose raised a significant eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Now it's your turn because you've been so cagey. Are you seeing anyone?" she asked, wiggling closer like a little cat. Shane got the impression she was the harmless kind of gossip.

Shane liked Rose - he had maybe never before simply liked someone as much as he was finding he liked Rose - but he couldn't trust her with the truth after only ninety minutes of hiding in a bathroom together. "No. After I retire, maybe."

"Is that rough?"

"Sometimes," Shane admitted.

"It makes sense," Rose said. "But that's a shame, because I bet people are hitting on you right and left. I bet hockey players are hitting on you right and left."

Normally, Shane would demure, but he thought Rose would see through it. "Oh yeah, constantly."

"Are they lame about it?" said Rose. "Do they ask you out using sports analogies?"

"Sometimes," Shane acknowledged. Rose laughed, and he went on to explain, "If they're on my team, they try to be respectful. Other teams, they're just doing it to get under my skin, so yeah, they can be pretty lame, but that happened more when I was younger. Anyway, most of the time they're joking."

"You're a total babe, though. They'd absolutely tap it for real." Rose laughed again when Shane made a face. "I'm glad we're in the same boat. People can get so weird when you say you're not looking for a mate. Sometimes I think about getting a tattoo over my scent gland, like people do, but my agent says I need to be more established in my career first. I don't want to get labeled as difficult."

"People get tattoos?" Shane asked, aware his voice was higher than it should be.

Rose pulled out her phone and started scrolling. "My friend Kayla has a cool one, see? It's funny because she's actually partnered, but Abel is a beta. They got matching tattoos on their necks instead, as part of their commitment ceremony."

None of those words, in that order, made any sense to Shane, but the photos were real: a smiling couple with lotus flower tattoos on the side of their necks. They were maybe a little crunchier than most of the people Shane associated with, but they were still ostensibly real, actual people. "What do they do?"

"Kayla used to be an actress - we met in a scene study class - but now she's going for a degree in early childhood education. And Abel is a civil engineer."

Shane felt strange as he scrolled through the carousel of commitment ceremony pictures of two strangers, and he wasn't sure why. Omegas and betas got together sometimes, although often with an air of having settled on the omega's part. Betas conventionally stuck with other betas, but when a male beta took a female omega, he usually collared her too. Honestly, Shane thought the tattoos and the commitment ceremony were pretty embarrassing on their part, but otherwise they were clearly normal people with reasonable jobs. They looked happy.

"So, the tattoo is to show that she's not going to get collared?" Shane asked.

Rose looked at him with a drop of sympathy. "Yeah, exactly."

Shane thought about what any of the Metros' WAGs would say about Kayla's neck. Most of their collars were diamond-studded. Jackie loved to talk about how the WAGS designed their gemstone collars like they were playing elaborate games of chess against each other.

"Wow," said Shane, handing Rose back her phone. "That's really something."

"You should see pictures of other friends I have," Rose said, scrolling with purpose. "Like, my friends Omar and Quentin. Omar is Quentin's claimed omega, but they both wear collars."

"Why?" asked Shane.

"To make it fair," Rose said, like it was obvious. "They're equals, after all."

Before Shane could see the pictures, and he realized he desperately wanted to see them, a beta, identifiable as one of their handlers from the lanyard around her neck, opened the bathroom door and looked at them with relief and annoyance. The speeches must be starting.

"Sorry!" Rose called to her cheerfully. "Give us one more minute." She pressed her phone into Shane's hand. "Give me your number. I want to hang out in Montreal. We should be friends. Like, real friends. I think we're already real friends."

"I think we are, too," Shane said. He looked forward to texting Ilya about this later. He thought maybe Ilya would be happy that Shane made a friend today.

****

Rose moved into a sleek, upscale rental in Montreal a week and a half later. It had been provided by her studio, which was a shame because Shane would have loved to go on a Zillow hunt for her. Instead, Shane sent her a list of the best restaurants and bars in her neighborhood, gleaned from Yelp, as well as a general Welcome to Montreal packet, listing the city's most notable museums, nightclubs, parks, theaters, and reformer studios, since Rose was a self-described pilates junkie. Rose responded to that email with, You're the only good man in the world. Thank you forever and I'm dragging you to some of these clubs before I'm done with you!

Shane was dedicated to not being dragged anywhere after eleven pm, but he and Rose fell seamlessly into each other's lives. Their downtime didn't overlap very much, but when it did, they spent it together. Hanging out with Rose was effortless. Rose usually ubered to his place, where they watched movies, since they were both big movie people, and researched interior design choices for Shane's cottage. Rose taught Shane pilates, and Shane taught Rose yoga. At Rose's insistence, they tried baking together, which didn't end well because Shane hadn't known you were supposed to use overripe bananas in banana bread. Mostly, though, they talked.

They were papped together going out to dinner once or twice. The media was unsure what to make of them, settling on vague headlines about unlikely new friends, like they were a puppy and a goat at the zoo. Ilya said he was happy for Shane, and Shane thought he mostly was, but he was getting sulkier by the minute. He texted Shane a Troitoi photo of Shane opening a door for Rose, captioned simply 🤪. It took everything Shane had not to text back, I know you know we're soulmates, you unbelievable jackass.

Hayden was also a little jealous, but that was much less aggravating, in part because Hayden was also being relentlessly hounded by Jackie, who wanted to meet Rose Landry with an alarming intensity. Shane kept trying to get the four of them together for dinner, but Rose's shooting schedule made it difficult

Shane ended up telling Rose about Ilya about a month into her stay in Montreal. Rose had made them margaritas because it was the off-season, and Shane liked the salt. She put on The Princess Bride since Shane said he had never seen it. The movie, like ninety-five percent of fairy tales, was about true mates. It was really only a matter of time after that. He kept Ilya's identity a secret, but Shane told her he had a mate, which was more than enough to leave her flabbergasted.

"Wow," said Rose. "Wow."

"Yeah," Shane said.

"Is that who you're texting all the time?" Rose asked.

Shane ducked his head. "Sometimes it is actually work stuff. But yeah. Mostly."

"That's amazing. That's so special," she said. She shoved his arm lightly. "Wow, Shane! Look at how special you are!"

This was not a take Shane had considered. "Thank you?"

"You have to tell me what it's like," Rose said, leaning in. "Do you get any of the spooky stuff? Like the emotion bleed or the dreams?"

"No emotion bleed," Shane said, adding mentally, thank god. "But the dreams sometimes. Yeah."

"Oh my god, Shane!" Rose said. "That's incredible! You know, I've never met someone with a true mate before? It's so cool."

"I guess," Shane said. "It's really complicated, though."

"Oh wow, yeah, it's got to be," Rose said, eyes wide. "Does anybody know?"

"Just my parents," said Shane. "I told them earlier in the summer."

"What are you going to do?" Rose said. "You can't get claimed yet."

Shane felt such a warm rush of appreciation for her. "We just started being heat partners. And we've been scent-bonding with clothes. I was having some health issues before, but that helped a lot. So, we'll see."

"Is that enough, though?" Rose asked. "Will you get sick if you don't mate?"

Shane shrugged, trying to look diffident. "I don't know. I hope not. I'm thinking of shopping around for a new medical team, though, in case things go south again."

"And your alpha's, like, cool with it?" Rose asked. "Not claiming you?"

"I mean, it's tricky," Shane said. "We weren't anything for a long time. I think we're sort of giving it a shot now, though? It's hard to say. I don't think he always wanted this either."

"You don't want it?" Rose asked, gently.

"It's complicated," Shane said. "Would you want it?"

"I think a big part of me would," Rose said. "But yeah. I'd also be conflicted. Your career."

"Yeah," said Shane. "My career."

Rose's mind was clearly working. "So, you share heats - do you share ruts?"

"Err…" said Shane, abruptly realizing he had never thought about that even once.

"Shane!" said Rose, scandalized.

"It hasn't come up!" Shane said. It was a ridiculous excuse, which he knew even as he was saying it. It made him sheepish to understand he had been thoughtless regarding Ilya, when Ilya was most of what he thought about. "I told you, we didn't, like. Talk. For a long time."

"You should ask him about it," said Rose. "If you're actually giving this a shot."

"Yeah. Probably," said Shane, trying to tuck the subject into a dusty corner of his mind. The image of Ilya blazing feral and glorious in a rut was… challenging. "Do you think giving it a shot is crazy? Or is it crazy that I didn't want to for so long?"

"Honestly? I don't know how much it matters. You don't really get a choice either way," Rose said sympathetically.

"That's the thing," said Shane. "Everyone talks about how amazing and romantic it would be to have a true mate, but I never got to decide if I even wanted this. It's unfair."

When he was younger, it had felt so unjust that it had made him sick with rage, how the arc of the universe eternally bent towards Ilya Rozanov. That Ilya didn't just get everything Shane had ever wanted; he also got Shane. It felt like some kind of ironic punishment for Shane's hubris.

Rose rested her chin on her arm over the back of the couch. "You could say that about all of us who don't have a soulmate, though. A lot of people would choose to have a true mate, but don't get to have one. Everyone's locked into something."

Rose had a bedrock practicality that Shane appreciated. But omegas almost always had a practical streak, even the ones like the WAGs, who had traded their agency for security and dressed it up in frills. "I know I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I think I'm just trying to convince my brain to accept that it's happening."

"Is he nice?" Rose asked.

"He's an asshole," Shane said automatically. "But, yeah. No. He's nice."

"And if he's your soulmate, I know you think he's hot," Rose said.

"That's, uh. Yeah," Shane said, stilted but still feeling liberated at finally being able to admit it. In some ways, it felt like Shane's purest truth. "That's safe to say. He's…uh. It hurts to look at him, he's so hot."

"When you're ready, I want to see pictures," Rose said. "But, like, if he's nice and hot... There are worse starting points to a relationship than that."

What Shane wanted to say but could barely even articulate to himself was that lately he had been thinking of Rose's friends Omar and Quentin, the claimed omega and his alpha. An alpha in a collar seemed categorically absurd to Shane, borderline fetishistic, but the image lingered. Rose had eventually shown him photos of them. They were LA gym guys, lounging around their bungalow in Playa del Carmen in matching collars of thin, black leather. Rose told him Quentin was a dentist and Omar was a graphic designer. In quiet moments, his mind would drift there, all the way to California, where two employed, law-abiding citizens were just living their lives like that.

"I hear you," said Shane. "But we're really bad at talking."

"He's your mate," said Rose. "How bad can you be?"

Shane snorted. "Pretty bad."

"Maybe it's something that would get better if he claims you," Rose said. "If you want that, eventually. When the bond stuff kicks in." She gasped, an idea occurring to her. "Oh my god, Shane, what if you get bond powers?"

Shane fought the urge to shush her. "Don't be one of those people. That's not real."

"Oh, I'm definitely one of those people. I think it's real," Rose said, but she also believed in horoscopes and reiki. "My aunt knew a couple in high school who had a true bond, and she said the omega had telepathy."

"There's never been any proof of bond powers," said Shane. He had damn well made sure there was no documented evidence of bond powers over many late-night, panic-fueled research sessions. Also, Jackie and Hayden swore they never felt anything like that, beyond the well-established stuff like the pre-claiming dreams and the increased awareness of each other during heat. "They're as real as Bigfoot."

"Killjoy. Maybe I also believe in Bigfoot," said Rose. "Anyway, just like, keep talking to him, maybe? See if it gets better?"

"I guess," said Shane glumly.

Rose patted his arm. "Hey, people can always surprise you."

***

"No, this is stupid," Ilya said the next morning during their Skype call. "That is a stupid idea. We are done discussing it now."

That wasn't the answer Shane had hoped for when he brought up the topic of sharing Ilya's ruts. Still, Shane had to note that it was better than Ilya going for Shane's soft underbelly in some way or just hanging up the call.

"Oh," said Shane awkwardly. "Well, okay."

"Ruts aren't like heat," Ilya said eventually, when Shane couldn't think of anything else to add. Ilya was in his dark, musty-looking bedroom in Moscow. Ilya was still in Russia for two more weeks, so when Shane called him in the early morning, he caught Ilya in the middle of the afternoon. Still, whatever light shone in Ilya's family home looked artificial and wan. "Mine are short - only a day or two. I jerk off for a few hours, eat a steak, take a cold shower, and I am done."

"Okay," Shane said again, trying not to feel wounded. "If that's what you want."

"Is easier this way," Ilya said, enigmatically.

Shane had learned not to push when Ilya used that particular tone, but he couldn't quite help himself. Honestly, the hypocrisy rankled him, considering what a stink Ilya had made about Shane's heats. "Do you usually do them by yourself?"

"Shane," said Ilya, waspish in a way he wasn't with Shane much anymore. "Enough. You do not want to share a rut with me yet. You would not like what I would want to do. Okay?"

"Oh," Shane said, getting it. He could feel his face heating up.

"Yes, Hollander," Ilya said. "Oh."

Maybe Shane should have been touched that Ilya was sticking to his promise not to claim him. Instead, Shane just felt uncomfortable acknowledging the intensity of the biological pull between them. Still, though, he didn't want Ilya to suffer in silence. "We could try Skyping during your rut, if you want. It wouldn't be the real thing, but you wouldn't have to be alone."

Ilya sighed. "My rut is in four months. We will see."

"No pressure," said Shane. "Just let me know what you decide."

"Yes, fine. Enough now, though, you are wasting my time," Ilya said with an imperious little hand gesture. "Where are my glasses?"

"They're my glasses," Shane reminded him.

"Whatever, put them on," Ilya said. "I've been waiting all day."

Rolling his eyes to mask how he was wildly pleased, Shane put on his glasses. The first time Ilya had video called Shane while he was wearing his reading glasses, Ilya seemed, for lack of a better word, enchanted. Weeks later, it still turned his smile soft around the edges.

Shane had always known, on some level, that he made Ilya a little stupid.

"I don't know why this is such a thing for you," Shane said. "I look like an accountant."

"Maybe I like you as an accountant," Ilya said. "Maybe you are my accountant, and I am ordering you to cook the books."

"But Mr. Rozanov," Shane said as he lounged back against the pillows. "I'd never break the law."

"Mm, well, bad news for you then," said Ilya, running a hand over the cut of his hip, spreading his legs to draw attention to the bulge of his crotch. "I'm a criminal."

"A criminal?" Shane said, trailing his fingers down his neck. "How terrible. What kind?"

"I'm a thief," said Ilya. "I've fenced many valuable items. I've been watching you, and I know you're the best in the business. Can cover my tracks for me."

"Mr. Rovanov," Shane said. "That sounds dangerous. Why should I help you?"

"Like I said, I've been watching you," Ilya said. "Casing you. I've seen how bad you need to get fucked."

"Sir, I'm a professional, and this is getting out of hand. Please leave my office," Shane said, taking off his shirt.

"I could leave," Ilya said, rubbing himself slowly over the fabric of his sweatpants, already erect. "Or I could tell you what I see when I watch you from the fire escape, getting yourself off."

Shane was slicking up to the point he could smell himself. "What do you see?"

Ilya's eyes went heavy and dark as he touched himself. "I see a gorgeous little slut fucking himself on a dildo. And he does it over and over, gets come and slick all over himself, but he's never satisfied because it's not as good as my dick."

"Fuck," Shane hissed, shoving his hand down his pants, wrapping it around his cock.

Ilya made a rough, pleased noise. "That is you, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane said breathlessly, staring at Ilya's moving hand on the laptop screen.

"Yeah?" Ilya prompted again. "You're the pretty omega fucking himself raw on a dildo, wishing it was my cock instead?"

"Can I see it?" said Shane, already moving his hips in rhythm with his hand.

"Answer the question, malysh."

"Yeah," Shane said, hearing how desperate he sounded. "Yeah, it's me."

"I watch you from the window while you make yourself come," Ilya said. "You're so greedy about opening yourself up. You don't know it, but you're making yourself ready for me. I can pick the lock and come right in, just slide inside you easy as anything, you're so wet and open from fucking yourself for so long."

"Oh fuck," Shane grunted, squeezing the tip of his dick hard to compose himself.

"Would you like that?" Ilya said, ruthless. "If I came in there and took you?"

"Yeah," Shane panted. "Yeah. Fuck, Ilya. I want you to fuck me so bad. Let me see you."

Ilya shook his head. "You first. You get my cock as a reward. Fuck yourself on one of your little friends. Show me how much you need it."

Shane scrambled for his nightstand drawer, which he had unlocked before starting the call. He grabbed the black dildo. It was bigger than Ilya, but somehow Shane could never get it as deep inside him. Or maybe it just never felt as right. Shane kicked off his sweatpants, sodden already, and drew his knees up, getting into position and looking at Ilya expectantly.

Ilya's erection was enormous, and he was rubbing it slowly, expression glittering and hungry. "You don't even need to stretch first, do you? Your hole is so greedy for it."

Shane understood that as an order. His body wasn't quite ready for it, even slick and willing as he was, and he had to spend some time working the dildo inside himself until he adjusted, relaxed, and welcomed the fullness. It hurt, but the pain meant accomplishment, satisfaction, and only added to his desire to do this for Ilya. To win at this, if that's what Ilya wanted him to do. He forced his breathing to steady as he flexed around it, dick leaking precome where it rested on his stomach.

"Good," Ilya murmured, his voice tethering Shane from where he had been floating away. Part of him stayed there, that calm, fuzzy place where Ilya sent him. "You did so well. My good omega. My pretty little omega."

Shane cracked his eyes open. Ilya was naked on the bed now, stroking his cock in a long, slow, inviting slide. The low light emphasized the deep cuts and grooves of Ilya's arms, a body carefully and sublimely honed for purpose. Shane's mate was so beautiful.

"I wish you were here," Shane said. "I wish you could fuck me."

"Fuck yourself how you want me to fuck you," Ilya said. "And suck on your fingers like you're sucking on mine."

Ilya brought Shane to two shuddering orgasms like that, murmuring instructions and praise. He seemed pleased with himself when Shane came with his dick untouched, although honestly, that never took that much skill. Shane lay collapsed and splayed on the bed afterwards, groggily following Ilya's commands to show his neck, touch his jaw, trail his fingers through his slick, and suck them clean in his mouth. Ilya's commands got more frantic and greedy as the wet sounds of Ilya stroking himself started to unravel. Ilya moaned from deep in his chest and spilled into his own fist. Shane watched Ilya's knot swell and licked his lips as Ilya idly palmed it.

Ilya laughed at him a little. "What would you do with my knot if you were here?"

"Suck on it," Shane said, too fucked out not to be honest. "Try to get it in my mouth."

Ilya swore as his cock twitched. "I'd stuff you so full. Your face turns so red. I'd play with your tits while I fucked your throat."

"I'd let you," said Shane, sluggish and warm in the afterglow. "I'd let you do anything to me."

Ilya paused, studying Shane as he cupped himself lightly. Shane stared at him right back, wishing the dildo felt half as good inside him as Ilya did. He only had a few more minutes before the come and slick started to feel unbearable, and he would have to get off the bed.

"I should shower," Shane said. It had gotten awkward between them again, like it still did sometimes.

"Yes," Ilya said. "You've made yourself very dirty for me."

Shane rolled his eyes. "See you tomorrow?"

Ilya made a vague, affirmative noise, and Shane hung up the call.

***

As a result of Rose's influence, Shane hired a stylist and grew his hair out one inch. Back in LA since her shoot wrapped, Rose sent him links to various online noise about his glow-up. All of it referenced their friendship and hypothesized Shane's new look meant he had an alpha in life. Shane told her to stop spamming him because he didn't need to see any of it. Mostly, he said that on principle, but he also heard parallel chatter in the Metros' team chat and on the rink every day. It was playful ribbing - had Hollzy finally found an alpha desperate enough to try to wear him down? If he was getting claimed soon, when was Hollzy going to do the right thing and retire already?

Shane's place on the team, among the guys, had felt a little stiff and fragile since he spooked. He had thought that had blown over during playoffs, definitely after the cup. Still, as the preseason got underway, Shane noticed the barbs were a little sharper, his inclusion less automatic. Shane was keeping an eye on it, but he had weathered worse storms before. They were coming off a cup win after a truly legendary run. The atmosphere on the ice was still vicious and blustery, but threaded with unspoken anxiety about how their upcoming season would need to prove the championship wasn't a fluke.

They were on a flight to Tampa for an exhibition game. Shane was watching a movie Rose had recommended, some moody neo-noir Shane wasn't a hundred percent following, when he heard a burst of laughter and the tail end of a phrase that involved the word 'breeding.' He took out his headphones, watching the movie obliviously play on in silence as he listened.

It was Drapeau and Langfield talking, mostly. Langfield - Fieldy, the team was trialing - was a recent trade from San Francisco, where he played right wing with an offensive eye and a resulting blocked shot percentage of 3.4. They had tried him on Shane's line during practice, but their play styles hadn't meshed well enough to bother with further experimentation. Right now, Langfield was holding court in the front of the plane, which he seemed to like to do.

Langfield was describing a date he went on with a beta, but apparently, one of those betas who was insecure about not being an omega and used essential oils to mimic a scent. Langfield had told her not to worry, her pussy was as good as any omega's, and the dumb bitch had been delusional enough to believe it.

"Beta pussy is BTMF," Drapeau chimed in. "Better Than My Fist. Good enough for a roadie."

"Oh, you know it," said Langfield. "A beta will scratch the itch until the next time you can get an omega ass up."

Drapeau laughed, maybe a little uneasily, but Langfield took it as encouragement. "Because brother, you know there's nothing better than that moment an omega gives it up and gets so fucking wet for you. Betas just don't get horny enough for it, you know? Nothing's as hot as when an omega stops struggling and begs for your knot. A beta wishes she can scream like an omega when they get all slutty for it."

Shane unbuckled his seatbelt and walked to the front of the plane to stand in front of Langfield, arms loosely folded. "C'mon, guys."

Langfield and Drapeau looked up at him, caught out. They were chagrined and polite about it. Drapeau leaned back a little. "Sorry, Hollzy. You were being too quiet again. We forgot you were back there."

Shane kept his attention on Langfield. "It's okay. But Langfield, just so you know, we don't do that here. I don't care what it was like in San Francisco. That's not how we talk on this team."

Langfield's smile was frozen on his face, friendly and condescending. "Sorry, Hollzy."

"Seriously, Langfield," Shane said. He should let this drop now, but Langfield's tone put him on edge.

Langfield cast a glance around at all the other alphas who were watching them now. "Okay, sweetheart. I heard you, it's fine."

Hayden and a few other players made noise at the same time Shane said, "Whoah, you are not calling me that."

"Relax," said Langfield. "It was a joke."

"Then why am I not laughing?" asked Shane. He had been on this team for six years. His jerseys outsold his teammates by a considerable margin. No one else of his stature would ever be challenged like this. "You wouldn't call Drapeau or Comeau that. So you don't call me that."

Langfield scoffed, looking around again in a bid for support. The plane was tense, for now just watching. Langfield said with the bite of a challenge, "What are you going to do about it? Spook again?"

The team got loud at that, but everyone stayed in their seat. All his teammates - all these alphas he had known for years, including Gauthier, his fucking captain - stayed in their seats. Shane felt his anger as a jagged spike, as the blue core of a flame. He refused to be helpless here.

Shane leaned in slowly, grimly vindicated when Langfield's eyes got wide, as he swallowed when Shane got close. "Hey. Langfield. It's cool you can pop a knot like every other asshole in the league, but you were negative thirteen last season. You're on your third trade. Meanwhile, I'm Shane fucking Hollander. Tighten your fucking edges before you try to come for me."

"Fuck you, omega bitch," Langfield spat.

"Not even if you fucking paid me," said Shane.

Langfield started towards him, and Shane squared up, and people exploded into action after that. JJ lunged over to pull Shane back as Drapeau and Gauthier moved to have a hushed conference with Langfield.

JJ sat Shane down heavily next to Hayden and wedged himself in the aisle seat. "Fucking shit, man."

"What an asshole," muttered Shane.

"A real fucking cocksucker," JJ agreed.

"Think we can trade him back?" asked Hayden.

Langfield kept shaking his head as Gauthier continued with what sounded like a quiet lecture. The rest of the team and support staff were mostly either darting glances between him and Shane or pointedly absorbed in their previous activity.

"Hopefully, Gauthier is reading him the riot act," said Shane.

"Gauty's good at this part," Hayden said. Shane had private doubts about that, but Hayden continued. "Brace yourself, though, buddy, you're getting it next. Theriault's going to want you to apologize when he hears about this."

Shane turned to him, brow beetled. "You think I need to apologize?"

"No, of course not," said Hayden. "Not, like, apologize. But he'll want you two to make up. You know, shake hands and move on. Play nice."

Shane didn't know why that was so distasteful to him. Langfield hadn't said anything Shane hadn't heard a million times before. Maybe it was because it was always the Langfields of the world who gave him shit. Good players had less to prove and wider bands of tolerance. It was middling prospects like Langfield who were insecure and aggressive about it; snarling little hyenas who tried to climb on top of Shane to improve their place in the pecking order.

Shane was the Metro's superstar center. He had once-in-a-lifetime hands, and his hockey IQ was unparalleled. They had built the goddamn team around his genius. Everyone knew it; the press openly acknowledged it.

Shane stared stormily out the window, trying to stop himself from slouching in his seat. He observed a small, hard part of him that knew there was no goddamn way Shane was playing nice to smooth things over with a fucking plug clinging to the third line. A part that believed he was not going to apologize for shit.

"Hey," Hayden said anxiously. "You're right, you know. That's not how we run our locker room. You know that, right, buddy?"

"Yeah, of course," Shane said absently. "For sure."

The fallout from the scuffle did, in fact, end up being more about Shane refusing to apologize in kind when Langfield was dragged in front of him, hat in hand. Shane gathered that his team thought this was diva behavior, that maybe Shane was actually just being bitchy and temperamental and causing problems for no reason. Even Hayden eventually said something about how Shane had been the one who went up and started shit with Langfield in the first place. Hayden claimed he hadn't heard what Langfield and Drapeau had been talking about. Shane had nodded, throat so tight he couldn't speak, and tried to avoid Hayden as much as possible for the rest of the roadie.

That was what clued Ilya in that something was wrong. Obviously, Shane wasn't going to tell Ilya about the fight during their nightly Skype calls, but he apparently noticed that Shane wasn't talking about hanging out with Hayden anymore. Ilya was in the middle of the pre-season himself in Boston. He had been casually discussing what cool, laidback fun guys all the Raiders were, in a poorly disguised sales pitch that Shane tolerated because he found it endearing.

"But serious," Ilya assured him, when he noticed Shane's attention was drifting. "Serious professionals like you. Not like Pike, too busy breastfeeding his seventeen children to practice."

"You're weird," said Shane. "And he only has three kids." Jackie had told Shane she thought they weren't done yet, whatever that meant. But only three for now. "And he puts the work in."

"You haven't talked about him so much lately," Ilya said with a shrug. Like Shane, he was lounging in bed post-coitally, rumpled and half-dressed, though he was at home and Shane was in a hotel room in Chicago. "I thought maybe he finally became so boring and bad at hockey that even you had dropped him."

"No," said Shane. Then, surprising himself, he added, "But I'm pissed at him, I think?"

Ilya still had to wheedle the story out of Shane, who wisely elected to give him an extremely truncated rendition. Ilya's expression still turned flat and hard as he morphed into the aloof version of himself, all set jaw and fidgety hands.

"You are surprised?" Ilya said. "Of course they want you to apologize."

Shane felt a stab of betrayal. "Anyone else in my position would have put him in his place, same as I did."

"Yes," Ilya said. "But you aren't anybody else." When Shane didn't answer, he added. "I can't be the first person to tell you that."

"Fuck you," Shane said. "Obviously, I know that. But I've been on this team for six years. I won them a cup. I've earned the right."

"You think they like knowing you won them their cup?" Ilya said. "That it took an omega to get them there? Solynishko, they resent you more now, not less."

Shane wanted to argue. He wasn't sure he agreed with Ilya entirely, but Ilya was hinting at a deeper foundational truth that Shane had always tried to ignore because it left him with limited options. "They don't have to like me. They just have to respect me. Find me useful."

"Those are different things," Ilya said. "Respecting you and finding you useful."

"I know," Shane said irritably.

"You have always been Mr. Good Manners for a reason," Ilya said. "They aren't going to be happy if you start fighting back, even if you earned it. You know this."

"So what would you do?" Shane asked.

"I'd beat his ass so hard his mother could feel it. Are you fucking kidding me?" said Ilya. "Fuck that asshole. You're Shane fucking Hollander. Why should you apologize for putting some little nothing in his place?"

Shane felt himself smiling a little. "Shane fucking Hollander, huh?"

"Hollander, they're all scared shitless of you," Ilya said. "That's why they act this way. They hope that since you are polite little Canadian golden boy that you'll be happy eating crumbs in your box, because they know they couldn't stop you if you ever decided to leave."

"You think I'm in a box?" asked Shane.

Ilya tilted his head to the side, thinking about it. "Yeah. When you want to go unnoticed."

Shane tried to go unnoticed a lot. "So why are they scared of me?"

"I just said - you are Shane Hollander," Ilya said plainly. He seemed annoyed, if anything, that Shane was making him repeat himself. "You are the best hockey player any of them will ever see, besides me. You read books and shit. Everyone wants to fuck you, and you don't even care. You're fucking terrifying."

Ilya wasn't flattering him, Shane knew, at least not intentionally. Ilya didn't blow smoke or mince words. Shane felt a little more expansive from the way Ilya described him, like after a good vinyasa sequence, when Shane could feel the space widen between his vertebrae.

Sometimes, he thought maybe he would have chosen Ilya if he had been given the choice. He had always worried that meant his hormones were clouding his judgment. These days, he mostly wondered what it meant if they weren't.

"You're right," Shane said. "I'm not saying shit. Fuck them."

"Good," Ilya said. "But also, no. Fuck me. I bet you're ready again now. Put my shirt on."

Shane made an annoyed sound as he complied.

Ilya nodded seriously, then tapped at his temple. "Glasses back on, too, please."

***

Hayden caught him after practice a few days after they got back to Montreal, cornering him with an invitation to dinner that Shane couldn't really turn down without an explanation he didn't feel like going into.

"Great, right on," Hayden said, clapping Shane on the shoulder when Shane said he'd have Jorge drop him off at Hayden's house at seven. "Hey… I just wanted to ask. Are we good?"

Shane had been replying to a text from Rose when Hayden had ambushed him, and he finished it up with an eye-rolling emoji. "Yeah, man. Of course."

"Oh, great," Hayden said, relieved. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I felt like our vibe was off this week."

Shane would have to text Ilya too, let him know he'd be late for their call. Montreal was playing Boston in nine days. Shane felt it buzz under his skin. "Our vibe is fine," he told Hayden. "Don't worry about it, man."

Chapter End Notes

All bad gender and political opinions expressed are Shane's and not the author's. He is baby! He is learning!

Look, is this entire story a backdoor Saturday morning cartoon pilot about the power of friendship? Probably.

I think we're looking at about two more chapters here, although this one ended up being much longer than I expected. Thank you all for your kudos and lovely comments!

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Talking multiple times a day meant that even Shane and Ilya eventually stumbled into subjects that weren't hockey or sex. So far, though, they had still been pretty mundane - Shane had a lot of opinions about the correct way of doing anything that Ilya reportedly never heard before and largely disagreed with. And of course, there was always travel and logistics. They realized in September that they had an overlapping thirty-six-hour window of unclaimed time. With their schedules, it made the most sense for Shane to fly to Ilya. It would be the first time they had made plans to travel to each other since Shane's heat. The first time they made plans to meet up without the excuse of being in the same city for a game, other than the heat.

Shane chartered a private jet to Boston, not an indulgence he often allowed himself, but it was the most discreet solution. He used his usual fake name for the booking. Shane took a car from the airstrip and had it drop him off at a business center in Newton, about fifteen minutes from Ilya's new house, then switched to an Uber that dropped him off three blocks away. He was, he reflected on the walk, very good at hiding.

Ilya answered the door shirtless because Ilya was shirtless by default in any private space he occupied. He grinned at Shane, that slow, crooked thing. "Hi."

Stepping inside, Shane felt himself grin back. They had met up once so far since his heat, after a game, and spent those two stolen hours fucking too frantically to really do much else. Even after Ilya popped what felt, to Shane, like the biggest knot he'd ever had, he fed his fingers into Shane's mouth and had him suck. Ilya moved his hips to rut his knot in gentle thrusts against Shane's prostate, making him beg, making him grind back against him desperately, coming on Ilya's knot two more times until he was too much of a puddle to think.

"Hi," said Shane. "Hello."

"Hello," said Ilya, prowling closer, one hand coming up to cup Shane's neck, thumb stroking.

Shane made a rough little sound in the back of his throat. Ilya's smile turned dazzling. He pulled Shane into a kiss, one of those kisses where it felt like Ilya was trying to take as much from Shane as he could, push as much of himself as possible inside that now empty space.

They ended up fucking right there in the foyer, Ilya knotting Shane on his hands and knees, pants around his thighs. Ilya had a condom in his pocket when he answered the door. He absolutely planned it, that piece of shit.

"You asshole," Shane said in the comedown, cheek mashed to the tile. "You didn't realize you'd be stuck here too?"

Ilya was not the slightest bit contrite, leaning back as much as he could while locked inside Shane. "Hey, I am not mad at the view."

"So," said Shane after a pause. "How are things?"

Ilya laughed silently, shoulders shaking. "Good," he said. "Better now."

***

So it was a really promising start. It was progressing well, too. After Ilya's knot went down and they cleaned up, they went to Ilya's kitchen and got out the ingredients for omelets. They were going to cook together. Ilya would give him a tour of his new place afterwards. Maybe they were even winding up to have an actual conversation for once. It was all very exciting until Svetlana Vetrova let herself into Ilya's house by punching in the security code to the door, and destroyed Shane's life.

"Oh, look, it's Shane Hollander," she said, putting her purse down on an entryway side table that seemed designated for that purpose, and kicking off her shoes. Svetlana Vetrova had her curls pinned up in a loose ponytail, framing her face in a way that made her look like a sensuous flower. She was wearing jeans, ankle boots, and chunky gold jewelry, and she spoke with a lighter accent than Ilya. She was the coolest and most glamorous person Shane had ever seen. She locked eyes with Shane, and she was neither surprised nor impressed.

"Ilyusha," she said, voice flat, gesturing to Shane. "Shane Hollander is in your kitchen. Did you know?"

Ilya immediately tore into a river of loud, rapid-fire Russian, which Svetlana answered in equally loud Russian, if clearly much more sarcastic. Shane had to put his face on the counter. He was suddenly dizzy, and he didn't want to fall over. The marble felt cool against his forehead, which was good, but his chest was gripped in a vice. He couldn't breathe - why on earth had he come here? Why did he ever let himself think he could have this? Oh fuck, oh god…

"Shane," he heard Ilya say, a little muffled over the ringing in Shane's ears. Ilya nudged his shoulder and said, in English now but clearly not addressed to Shane, "See, what did I fucking tell you?" and then softer, meant for Shane again, "Shane. Hey, it's okay. She's a friend. She would never tell. You're safe, okay?"

Shane shook his head. He just didn't know how to believe that, and it was still hard to breathe. Impossible to breathe.

"Hey. Hey," Ilya said, slightly urgent. And then Ilya molded his hand to the back of Shane's neck and squeezed. Rocked it back and forth a little.

Cuffed him. Ilya cuffed him.

It immediately turned time gooey, filled Shane with a thick, liquid placidity. They had flirted with this so much over the years, but had never quite crossed the line. When Dallas Kent had tried it, Shane's body thought it was dying. With Ilya, he felt narcotized. It was a melting, almost spiritual calm. It was also a little terrifying, but the terror felt blotted, far away.

"Better?" Ilya asked after a minute. He had an arm around Shane's shoulder, pulling him in and rubbing his bicep as Shane found his way back to himself.

Breathing slow and shaky, Shane managed a nod. He pushed himself up off the counter, letting Ilya help him, although he was pretty sure he didn't need it.

Ilya met his eyes, looking earnest and appealing. "Sveta is a friend. She will not tell anyone. She does not want to hurt you."

"He is telling the truth," Svetlana Vetrova said into the ensuing quiet. Shane had no answer for either of them. "I'm not a threat to you, Shane Hollander. Ilya is my dearest friend."

"Okay," Shane said, voice scratchy. He hugged his arms to his chest. "Um, yeah. Okay."

"Are you all right?" Ilya asked again, in a slightly different register.

Shane shook him off, just a little to have some air. "I'm fine. Thank you." He looked at Ilya. "Don't do that again without asking me first, please."

Ilya's brow furrowed. "You were having a panic attack."

There were different schools of thought on cuffing: whether it was appropriate to do it between friends; whether consent could be implied or had to be explicit, especially if the omega was in distress; whether it was uncouth to do it in public. Shane had been cuffed by his parents, and other older relatives, and even Hayden and JJ after the cup win, but it was different with Ilya. It was a key in a lock with Ilya.

"Even if I'm having a panic attack," said Shane.

Ilya did not look like he was going to let that drop, but Svetlana interrupted, "I didn't mean to upset you. This isn't a trap. I was coming over to pick up some packages I had delivered here. My doorman's on paternity leave and the new guy is shit. This one," she gestured at Ilya. "didn't tell me he had plans."

"You were supposed to be out of town until tomorrow!" Ilya said. Svetlana snapped back in Russian. Ilya looked mildly chastened.

"Did she know?" Shane asked Ilya. "Did you tell her?"

"He told me nothing," Svetlana said. "I didn't know for sure. But I had very strong suspicions."

Shane felt whatever blood remained drain out of his face. Ilya grabbed him again. "Because she is very smart person and knows me very, very well. No other reason. Normal people are not suspicious. Don't worry, she is leaving now."

"She is not leaving," Svetlana said, pulling out her phone. "We are ordering brunch."

"Brunch?" asked Ilya, incredulously. "The hell, Sveta?"

"This is a special occasion," Svetlana said. She was still the most poised person Shane had ever seen, but he could hear the anger creeping in around the edges of her words. "I'm meeting your soulmate, Ilyusha. Family breaks bread when you bring your omega home. Do you want dim sum or something from the diner?"

***

They went with the diner, since it was easier to accommodate Shane's diet from that menu. They had Shane sit down on the couch with a glass of lemon water while Ilya and Svetlana Vetrova set the table. They murmured to each other softly and intensely in Russian for a few minutes before finally switching to English, extending the conversation to Shane. Svetlana Vetrova knew where Ilya's plates and cutlery were stored. She was clearly very caring, fun, and funny. She was a more profound threat than Shane had even anticipated.

The Vetrova was from Sergei Vetrov, apparently, for one. Ilya mentioned that, trying to coax Shane out of his shell; Svetlana was hockey royalty. Not just that - she knew hockey, in a way Shane would have gravitated towards like a moth to flame with anyone else. She worked at a luxury car dealership and dripped with the same effortlessly artful European cool Ilya did. They clearly had similar tastes and interests. Which Svetlana would be free to pursue - she was one of those betas for whom being a beta meant she didn't have to answer to anyone. She and Ilya just fit together, comfortable with each other, navigating the kitchen like two equally gorgeous people who knew the space and each other's bodies well. But mostly, she just made sense for him. She was a good match for Ilya in a way Shane knew that he himself was not.

No wonder Ilya hadn't wanted Shane for so long. Ilya had met his true love as a child, and they surely had some enchantingly Slavic adolescent romance. He and Svetlana had probably been going to get married, until Shane bumbled into Ilya's life like a maple syrup-scented dork and fucked everything up with his inconvenient biology. And now Shane had met Svetlana, after years of worrying about her, and could not have made a worse first impression if he had engineered it in a lab.

Ilya reluctantly got into the spirit of the exercise, trying to facilitate introductions by mentioning things Shane and Svetlana had in common. So far, that list included only a love of hockey stats, which was at least enough scaffolding for some awkward conversation until the food arrived.

Svetlana plated her dish, then rummaged around in the bag. "Ilyusha, they forgot to put strawberries on my waffles. Go buy some for me."

Ilya looked at her, hard. "You don't need strawberries."

"You know I like fresh fruit in my breakfast," Svetlana said.

"You want me to go to the store?" Ilya asked. "Now?"

"Yes," said Svetlana. They stared at each other in an obvious stalemate for a few long beats before Ilya lost, making an explosive, exasperated noise.

"Fine," he said, getting up. He bent down and kissed Shane gently on the mouth, tilting Shane's chin up to meet him. Ilya kept his fingers there as he pulled away to tell Shane, "I will be back in twenty minutes."

"Okay," Shane said dumbly.

Ilya grabbed his keys off the counter and gave Svetlana a warning look before saying something sharply in Russian. She responded in kind, and Ilya sighed, shaking his head as he slammed out the door.

Ilya's absence settled into the room with them, making the space feel both bigger and smaller, certainly less sturdy for Shane. Svetlana smiled at him and went over to a potted plant, fishing out a carton of cigarettes. "He hides them in case of emergency," she said, taking one out of the carton. "Do you mind?"

Shane absolutely minded, but she had more right to assert herself in this space than he did, which was the point. "Go ahead."

She lit up from a burner on the stove, then wandered back to the table, using the lid of the takeout coffee cup as an ashtray. Somehow, she even made that look ingenious and hip. "It's how I would know when you dumped him, actually. He'd start smoking again. When you two were back together, he'd always try to quit."

Shane felt his eyes bug out a little. Svetlana looked mildly satisfied. "I didn't know it was you, back then. Just Jane." She pronounced 'Jane' very elaborately.

Shane cleared his throat. "When did you know it was me?"

"I never had proof," she said. "But when he broke Dallas Kent's eye socket for you, a picture started to come together."

"He didn't do it for- I didn't ask him to," Shane said lamely.

She narrowed her eyes. "Hm. Maybe you really don't think you did."

Shane hated her. Objectively, he realized that she was probably a perfectly lovely person, but a primitive mammalian instinct hissed and spat at this trifling beta trying to invade his territory. He wanted to throw her cigarettes in the trash. He wanted to smash her face into that fucking waffle.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Shane.

She sat back in her chair, studying him. "They say Shane Hollander is such a good guy. Not just a simpering little omega, but a good sportsman, a good man. So tell me, good guy Shane Hollander, are you going to stick around this time?"

"What are you talking about?" Shane asked.

"You've been back together since just before the playoffs," Svetlana said, making Shane sputter at her accuracy. "That's probably the longest run you've had so far. He's letting himself get his hopes up. If you drop him again now, it will break him. You need to know that."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Shane said, hearing himself get mean.

"I have been here after you left," she said. "I've picked up the pieces when you've panicked and bolted. He ties himself in knots over you. Do you know what he told me when I bailed him out after he drove his car into a telephone pole?"

Shane winced. "No."

"I was yelling at him for being reckless and stupid, sabotaging all the good things he had worked so hard for. The Olympics had crushed him, and his cup season exhausted him. I thought maybe it was just that. But he said, 'I still can't claim him, so what does it matter?' She ashed onto the coffee lid. "He was very drunk and high, of course. He wouldn't have mentioned you otherwise. But that's how he thinks. He thinks he has to earn you."

She said the last part contemptuously. Shane blew out a long breath, trying to think his way out of how his heart had just dropped down to his feet.

"I appreciate you looking out for him," Shane said. "You're a good friend. But you don't have the whole story. It's a very nuanced and complicated situation."

She shrugged. "It probably is. I have sympathy for you, omega. You've picked an impossible life. But I think you've also been selfish and scared, and it has hurt my friend."

Shane could tell her that she was wrong, that for every time he had backed away, Ilya had done it before and more cruelly. Something kept him silent, though. Part of him had always reveled when he could pretend Ilya was more desperate for Shane than Shane was for him, and now it was beating guiltily in time with his pulse. Shane had enjoyed being able to overwhelm Ilya. He was so often overwhelmed himself.

"Our parents were close," Svetlana said. "Did you know Ilyusha is the first alpha in his family for generations? It works like that sometimes - many, many betas and then when an alpha comes along, he's as strong as five put together. You think that would have made his Papa happy - pretty omega wife, strong alpha son. Some men, it would make them happy. Some men, they get what they want, and it makes them worse."

Shane still didn't know anything about Ilya's family. Svetlana must have assumed that. "Was his father bad to him?"

She shrugged again. "Grigori Rozanov is an asshole. Nothing Ilyusha will ever do will be good enough for him. But many Russian parents are assholes. The problem is, Ilyusha takes him seriously. I'm not sure he believes him. But he does take him seriously."

Of course he did. Ilya felt deeply. Ilya carried things with him. Ilya worked diligently and loved devoutly, and he tried so hard to hide it. Ilya had been told, apparently for his whole life, that only certain parts of him mattered by a world that didn't understand that Ilya's strength was fed by his kindness.

"I don't want to hurt him," Shane said. "I've never wanted to hurt him."

Svetlana didn't seem convinced, but she recognized the olive branch. "Then make up your mind, Shane Hollander. Either way. But make it up soon."

****

Somehow, the day still passed after that. Ilya came back a few minutes later and slammed a jewel box of strawberries by Svetlana's plate with a murderous glare. She smiled at him benignly and stayed for only about another thirty minutes, objective clearly achieved. Shane never figured out how she knew about the soulmate part of it. Maybe it was just obvious if you knew Ilya as well as she did.

Shane was a little quiet, and Ilya was a little twitchy for the rest of the visit, but one thing about a relationship built entirely on snatches of forbidden time was that you learned to compartmentalize. After Svetlana left, they fucked again and watched a movie, and ordered more takeout for dinner, and Shane didn't ask, are you in love with me? Am I ruining your life? What happened to your mother?

Shane wanted to talk to Rose about it, but he planned to do it in person after his game in LA the following week. The season was starting strong, but anything would be something of a letdown compared to last year, and the Metros were tense and restless. Shane saw himself turning down more invitations than usual, being less gracious when someone told an off-color joke in front of him. He didn't think it was a good thing, but he didn't know how to stop it.

Shane had successfully dodged another invitation to the Pike's for a solid six weeks, but eventually Hayden trapped him into going to dinner. He spent the drive to the Pikes' house talking to Jorge about the girl he was seeing, whom Jorge clearly liked a lot, but who wasn't his girlfriend because she was a Protestant beta. Jorge, as he frequently declared, wasn't prejudiced or anything, but if he brought home a beta, his mother would have a heart attack and die, right there in the kitchen, to communicate her preference that her son claim a Catholic omega. Shane and Jorge had been having variations on this conversation for about six months. Shane hadn't met Vanessa, the beta in question, yet, but he thought she must either have paralyzingly low self-esteem or be a goddamn saint to put up with this.

"You want to join us?" Shane asked as they pulled into the driveway. Jorge was a good hang, and Shane would appreciate having a buffer.

"Nah, that's okay," Jorge said. "I'm gonna work on my sudoku. Give Jackie my love, though."

The door was unlocked, so Shane let himself in. The house was immediately and eerily quiet, settling into Shane's spine uncomfortably when he was used to being attacked by upwards of three children the minute he entered the foyer.

"Hello?" Shane called.

"We're in the kitchen," floated Jackie's voice. The Pikes' big, open-floor-plan McMansion with its vaulted ceilings made her sound like she had snuck into a museum after hours.

Shane hung up his coat and walked into the kitchen. Jackie and Hayden were sitting at the table, catty corner to each other and facing Shane. They both looked unnervingly somber.

"Hey," Shane said. "Where are the kids?"

"I dropped them off with Hayden's sister for the night," Jackie said. "We need to have a grown-up conversation. Please, Shane, sit down."

"Uh, okay," Shane said, sliding across the table from them, unsure what to make of this level of formality. If they were betas, Shane would assume they were going to tell him they were getting a divorce. For a second, he wondered if they were somehow getting a divorce - what if soulmates could get divorced? Oh god, what if soulmates could get divorced. "What's up? Is everything okay?"

Jackie turned to Hayden, took his hand, and gave him a nod. Hayden took a deep breath and turned to Shane.

"So, after I invited you over earlier, I was texting with Jackie about how I think you're mad at me, even though you keep saying you're not," Hayden started, rushing too much to let Shane interject. "And we ended up having a phone call, and, uh, it came out that maybe I hadn't told Jackie all the details about what happened on the plane a few months ago."

"So I didn't have the full picture," Jackie said.

"And… so, I do this thing with the kids sometimes," Hayden said. "Jackie points it out. When they're fighting, I think the best thing to do is to end the fight as soon as possible, which usually means not taking sides and telling them to kiss and make up. But Jackie points out that sometimes one of the kids is in the wrong. Like if Ruby ripped up Emma's activity book, I can't just tell them to go off into separate corners and cool off. Ruby needs consequences, and Emma needs an apology. I get that."

"Okay," said Shane, almost a question, because Hayden paused and seemed to expect him to fill the space.

Hayden was actually sweating. "And when I told Jackie about what happened on the plane, she was upset."

"Really upset," Jackie said.

Hayden looked at her, and she squeezed his hand, which he clearly took as fortification. "She said if she was trapped in a metal tube in the sky with a bunch of alphas talking about omegas and betas like that, she'd be really scared and upset. And I told her you knew it was just locker-room talk and you didn't take it personally, and she said, then why did he go up and try to stop them? We know you hate rocking the boat."

"And I asked her if she thought you were angry with me because I didn't stand up for you enough, and she asked if it reminded me of the thing I do with the kids. And I thought, yeah. It kind of does." Hayden cleared his throat. "And I just wanted to say, I'm sorry, Shane. I'm really sorry, man."

"I'm sorry too," said Jackie. "We're both really sorry about all of it."

"And I shouldn't have said that thing about every story having three sides, yours, theirs, and the truth," Hayden said. "That was shitty. They were being assholes, and that was the whole story. I'm sorry, buddy."

Shane just sat there for a few seconds, blinking. The speech sounded researched and rehearsed, awkward but heartfelt. Man. Hayden. Sometimes, Shane forgot he was genuinely well-intentioned. He forgot that Hayden really did care about Shane.

Part of Shane was touched and saw new texture to Hayden. And part of him thought, okay great, but what are you going to do, Hayd? What are you actually going to do? It wasn't the biggest part, or the part he was going to act from, but it was there.

"Thank you," said Shane. "Really. Thank you."

Both Pikes visibly relaxed. Hayden said, "Jackie also says I shouldn't ask you to forgive me, because that puts you too much on the spot."

"You're kind of putting him on the spot now," Jackie pointed out.

"Shit!" said Hayden.

"Swear jar," said Shane, since Jackie liked to keep up the practice to reinforce the habit even when the kids weren't home.

Hayden brightened considerably. "Yeah. You caught me. So... do you want to stop talking about it now?"

"Yes," Shane said immediately. "Absolutely."

Dinner was understandably a little awkward after that, but not too bad. Shane elected not to stay for drinks or a board game afterwards, figuring they all needed some space. When they were done eating, Jackie walked him to the door and stood in the entryway while he put on his coat.

"He's lucky to have you," Shane told her.

"He's a good guy," Jackie said. "He's just never had a reason to think other people don't always see things the way he does."

"I mean it," said Shane. "You're a really good partner. Really intuitive."

"Thanks," said Jackie, but she seemed tetchy.

Shane tried to cajole her out of it. "Hey, maybe when the kids grow up, you should be a therapist. You'd be great at it."

Jackie's mouth twisted. "You know, Shane, I don't think being claimed young means I wasted my potential."

Shane's shoulders went stiff. "I..."

Jackie sighed and rubbed her face. "Sorry. Sorry, that wasn't fair. It's been a long day. I'm still pretty furious at Hayden for sitting on that for so long. And then, it'll probably be fine, but my mom got some borderline test results back, and she's going to need another scan…"

"It's okay," said Shane. "That's rough. I get it."

"I shouldn't have lashed out," Jackie said. "There's just a lot going on."

"Maybe I could watch the kids this weekend. Give you some time to be with your mom?" Shane asked. The Pikes had access to a fleet of ruthlessly competent nannies, but they always enjoyed the handful of times Shane could babysit. Jackie said it was still hard leaving the kids with strangers. And Shane really didn't mind it. He usually put on a Disney movie for background noise, and the four of them would play Legos.

Jackie looked up from behind her hand, giving him a weak smile. "A couple of hours would be really nice. Thank you."

"I don't think you wasted your potential," Shane said, kind of nervously.

"Yeah, you do," said Jackie. "And it's fine. Normally, it's fine. It's just…" Her eyes were a little watery, and she scrubbed at them with a knuckle. "It kind of hurt my feelings that Rose Landry didn't want to meet me."

Shane felt entirely out of his element, but at least there was a solid explanation here. "She wanted to meet you. She just had a lot of late-night shoots, so-"

"She was posting pictures on Instagram of you two hanging out pretty late," Jackie said. "I know it's stupid. She's a big, sophisticated movie star. Of course she doesn't want to spend time with some omega mom."

"Next time she's in town, we'll get together. I promise," said Shane. "And she's really not that sophisticated. One time, I saw her eat a poptart that her cat had stepped on."

Jackie nodded, looking down at the floor and biting her lip. "Just don't tell her I had a meltdown about it, okay?"

"You're not having a meltdown," Shane told her. She wasn't, but Jackie still looked pretty bedraggled, and he didn't know what to do. She was right, he realized. Shane had always thought of Jackie Pike as a cautionary tale; an example of what could happen to him if he weren't perpetually vigilant. Of course that would sting. Jackie had wanted to be an actress, and she had been watching Shane and Rose play in a pasture she was locked out of, even if she had closed the gate herself.

"I just want you to be happy," Shane settled on lamely.

"Not everyone is built for Shane Hollander's version of happy," Jackie said. She sighed and got up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "You sure you don't want any leftovers to take home?"

"That's okay," said Shane. "I'm good. Thank you, though."

She squeezed his arm, composed again now. "Give Jorge my love, okay?"

"He's back with Vanessa," Shane informed her.

Jackie rolled her eyes. "Honestly, girl. What are you doing?"

"Maybe you should talk to Jorge," said Shane. "He'd listen to you."

"I know better than to get between an alpha and his mom," Jackie said. She squeezed Shane's arm. "We're good, right?"

"Yeah," Shane said, meaning it for the first time in a while. "We're good."

****

After losing the game in LA, Shane lay on Rose's couch, head on the armrest, watching her unsuccessfully attempt to crumb-coat a cake after they had eaten dinner. She said she was doing the hard part tomorrow but wanted to get the prep out of the way tonight with the blithe authority of a total novice.

"I mean, she does sound like a complete bitch," Rose was saying, about Svetlana. They were still rehashing that conversation. Rose's main insight was that Shane and his alpha should talk more about where they saw their relationship headed. Shane couldn't tell her about the Boston plan without revealing Ilya's identity, so he alluded to a timeline leading to claiming that Shane had mixed feelings about. "But I don't think she's after your man. If nothing else, she sounds pretty direct."

"Maybe," Shane said moodily. It was nice to share it with Rose, but Shane didn't feel any more settled about the situation. He decided to change the subject. "You could buy a cake at the grocery store for…" Shane realized he didn't actually know. He had been to a grocery store maybe five times in his adult life. He hazarded a low guess, "Fifty dollars."

"It's important to have hobbies," Rose said. "I want to be well-rounded."

Shane assumed people said things like that to cope with losing. Rose was a success, though, so he wondered what was going on here.

"But cake decorating?" said Shane. "It's kind of omega-y, isn't it?"

She looked at him, amused. "Yeah, I'm an omega, Shane."

"Yeah," Shane said. "But you're not an omega-y omega."

"Oh, you sweet, little baby," she said.

"Excuse me?" said Shane.

"Don't be that guy," said Rose.

Shane knew she wasn't upset because she still used one of their private shorthands; they said 'don't be that person' or 'don't be that guy' to each other a lot. "What guy?"

"Don't be the guy who pretends to be above all the typical omega stuff," she said. "Like, 'ooh, I hate domesticity, and emotions, and sex.' There's nothing wrong with domestic stuff, and emotions, and sex just because omegas are good at them. I'm a lesbian. I like omegas."

"I'm not saying it's bad," Shane said uncomfortably. He had been implying it was bad, and they both knew it. "The domestic stuff's just never been my thing."

"Shane," said Rose. "Please. You love domestic stuff."

"I don't cook or clean," Shane reminded her.

"You're so clean," she said. "You just pay other people to do it. And you love houses. You've had the time of your life building your cottage."

Shane felt weird. He experienced the change in perspective like an actual physical click. She wasn't wrong that those were omega traits filtered through his own particular lens. Maybe there were different angles to consider here. Maybe this wasn't the only place that was true.

Rose peered at him. "Oh no. Did I break you?"

"Rose, do you think I'm selfish?" Shane asked.

"What?" said Rose. "Of course not. You're amazing! What's this about?"

"What his friend said," Shane said. "I've always been really focused on what I wanted and didn't care about anything else."

"I wouldn't say that's selfish," said Rose. "Determined, maybe. But that's a good thing. It's what you needed to be. That's what you deserved to be."

"Yeah," said Shane. He could never actually regret being blinkered by his ambition. But maybe he was understanding another layer of what he had sacrificed. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right. You're great. Shut up." Rose stepped back, evaluating her work. She had frosting striped down one cheek. "What is going on here, though? I feel like I must be doing something wrong."

"I can ask the internet," Shane said, getting out his phone. "Okay… Did you chill it for fifteen to thirty minutes before you started?"

"No," said Rose.

"Do that," said Shane.

"Got it," said Rose. She opened the fridge. "Oh man, I'm going to have to make a lot of room in my freezer."

Shane got off the couch. "I can help you, but then I have to head out if I don't want to miss curfew."

"How are things with your team?" Rose asked, hovering behind him as he got started. "We didn't get to that, yet."

"They're fine," said Shane, rummaging through an alarming amount of freezer-burned organic breakfast burritos. "Your teammates are just your coworkers at the end of the day. We're all doing a job. Everyone wants to win, and that's all it has to be."

"Okay," Rose said. Shane was going to ignore her tone. "Oh, any news on Jorge?"

"Yeah," said Shane. "They're back on again."

"And she still hasn't met his mom?"

"He said he'll know when the time is right," Shane said.

"Vanessa," said Rose, rolling her eyes. "Girl. What are you doing?"

"Oh, that reminds me," Shane said. "Let's really make an effort to meet up with Jackie Pike the next time you're in Montreal.

***

The window for Ilya's rut came and went, and he never mentioned it. That was fine. It was a delicate balance between them, trying to respect what made the other skittish.

Shane tapered down his suppressants the week before to trigger a heat during the Christmas break. Ilya didn't care about Western Christmas, and Shane's parents said they completely understood Shane's rationale for skipping it this year. Yuna had made some remarks about wanting to meet Ilya afterwards, but Shane was conveniently going to forget about that until she forced the issue.

The lead-up to this heat felt completely different. Shane realized he was in preheat gradually, only really sure of it when he was so parched he drank water directly from the faucet. He texted his new doctor's office to let her know. Dr. Chen was also an omega, working out of a research institute in Minneapolis. They mostly did phone visits, although he had to fly in for bloodwork. She was kind enough to sign the additional NDAs Shane had foisted on her before he told her about his situation. It made her very eager to work with him - she was already discussing doing a research paper on this, anonymously and with his consent. She had him log his temperature and heart rate frequently. Shane respected anyone who respected data.

On the drive up to the heat center, Shane listened to the news on the radio, mostly because the sound of people's voices was centering to him right now. The news cycle was stuck on a proposed Alabama law that would criminalize claimed omegas not wearing their collars in public. The southern states were going through a reactionary backlash in many respects. Shane knew Massachusetts was supposed to be different, but he had also heard the Supreme Court hadn't been omega-friendly in a decade.

It was sleeting outside, Shane's windshield wipers squeaking a mechanical, consistent rhythm. It had snowed two days ago, and dirty sludge from the snowplow had been scattered over the fresh snow on the side of the highway.

Ilya's odious purple car was parked outside their suite. Ilya was in the kitchen, loading up the refrigerator. He sniffed when Shane entered. "Oh, you-"

"I don't want to talk," Shane decided, putting his bags down. He felt very prickly all of a sudden. He might be further along than he had thought. "Leave me alone. Where's your stuff? I'm going to make a nest."

Ilya, wordlessly and wisely, pointed to his bag in the corner. Shane hauled it into the nesting room and slammed the door.

When Ilya knocked about two hours later, the nest was lumpy, not a Pinterest contender, but perfectly serviceable. Shane wasn't satisfied, but he was going to do some research before his next heat, really sharpen his game.

"Very pretty," Ilya said, crouching down next to him.

"Where have you been?" Shane demanded.

Ilya looked surprised. "You told me to-"

"I don't care," Shane said, wrestling off his own shirt. "I need to suck your dick. Take off your pants."

"Ah, there's my princess," Ilya said, unbuckling his belt.

***

They spent the rest of Shane's preheat in the nest. Ilya watched a Fast and the Furious sequel on his laptop, stroking Shane's hair while Shane cradled Ilya's dick in his mouth. He was drooling. His jaw ached, and his eyes ran, and he felt blissfully coralled and anchored by the weight of Ilya on his tongue.

"No tantrums this time," Ilya murmured at one point, between explosions. "I didn't bring condoms."

Shane, head pillowed on Ilya's thigh, whimpered. Ilya chuckled. They hadn't gone without condoms yet, because normal, responsible Shane still wanted every possible form of birth control available. Now, though, Shane slid off of Ilya's dick, working his jaw a few times before he could say, in a croak, "Do you want to?"

Ilya shut the laptop screen and pushed it into the corner of the room. "Fuck," he said, trailing his hand between Shane's thighs. "You always get so wet."

In preheat, Shane still needed some prep. Ilya spent a while fingering him with his long, blunt fingers until Shane's body went loose, and heavy, and greedy, riding Ilya's hand. Ilya took him on his back, knees hooked over Ilya's shoulders. Shane didn't feel much of a difference without the condom at first, although it was clear Ilya certainly did. Ilya had to go agonizingly slow, mouthing something to himself, face contorted.

When Ilya knotted, though, Shane felt it spreading him apart in hot, shuddering pulses, locking him in place with visceral immediacy. And when he came, every thick spurt of it felt like a bomb going off in Shane's brain. Shane loved Ilya's come - always wanted it in his mouth, rubbed into his skin; and now it was plugged inside him, held there. A little bit of Ilya, just for him to keep. It was unbearably good.

Shane felt his body go from a flush to a boil, felt his slick gush down his thighs, instantly and furiously needy. Ilya must have smelled his scent change because he looked wicked about it, still getting his breath back. "Did I just fuck you so good it triggered your heat?"

Shane was furious that Ilya was wasting time asking stupid questions. He unhooked his legs, pushed Ilya's shoulders hard until he went down on his elbows. Shane came with him, on top of Ilya now, and closed his eyes to concentrate as he rode Ilya's knot.

Ilya made a broken little sound, eyes heavy as Shane used him. "You gonna come again, Hollander?"

Shane braced his hands on Ilya's chest, bouncing. "Depends - depends how good your dick is."

Ilya lifted the corner of his upper lip, between a grin and a growl, hands on Shane's hips, meeting Shane's thrusts. "You're going to come."

"Then let's make a fucking baby, Rozanov," Shane said, and they were off to the races.

***

It was a much better heat than the last time. Shane didn't hurt at all. He just felt amplified, like his emotions and his body were made of big, bold colors. The world had narrowed down to Ilya and his cock and all the places Shane could put it. Even when he wasn't in heat, sometimes that was all Shane ever wanted the world to be.

They were both fascinated by Ilya's spunk in relation to Shane's body. Ilya kept eating it out of him, pushing it back in to him with his tongue or his fingers, keeping Shane full even after his knot went down. Shane could feel it inside him, thicker than his slick, clinging to him like a promise.

"I see why people like this, now," Shane said brightly during a break, drinking a bottle of water.

"Yes." Ilya kissed his shoulder. "All it took was not being the most stubborn man on the planet for once in your life."

Shane bit at him and missed, teeth clacking. Ilya grabbed him by the chin and held him in place as he kissed Shane, more of a bite back, tugging on his lower lip.

They made out for a while, then settled back down. Ilya wrapped himself around Shane. Shane looked down at his stomach, running a hand down his abs, and frowned. "I just hope I don't get huge when I'm pregnant."

"Mm," Ilya said, tracing Shane's naval. "No. You are an athlete. You'll show very late because you have muscles in the way. Then one day - pop! Cute little bump."

Shane would get sad if he thought about how it probably wasn't going to happen this heat because of all his dumb hangups, and he didn't want to be sad. He played with Ilya's hair, curls delightfully frizzled. "Hey, Ilya?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Ilya let out an annoyed little sigh, but Shane already knew he was going to cave. "What?"

"When did you know?" asked Shane.

Ilya did him the courtesy of not playing dumb. He was quiet, though, for a moment. "Know?" he said, finally. "Or suspect?"

"Both, I guess," said Shane.

Ilya still took a beat to answer, running a hand up and down Shane's body. "I knew in New York. When we skipped All Stars. I thought 'maybe' the night of the draft. In the gym."

"Why then?" asked Shane.

"It was the first time I could really smell you," said Ilya. "Before that, you were a very beautiful boy who stank like a hospital from all the crap you put in your body. Very confusing. When did you know?"

"Right away," Shane said. Omegas tended to sniff things like this out first. "The first time I saw you. But I told myself I wasn't sure for a while. Like, years."

"I thought you probably scented it at World Juniors," Ilya agreed. "You looked terrified."

"I was," said Shane. "I thought you were going to bite me at center ice."

"I didn't need to," Ilya said. "We dominated you that game anyway."

"Because you played dirty and I was having a crisis, asshole," said Shane. "I beat you the next year."

"Yes," Ilya said. "Right after you were the number one overall draft pick - oh wait. Sorry. That was me."

Shane rolled his eyes and pushed at Ilya's shoulder. "If I were an alpha, I would have been first, and you know it."

It was the first time Shane had ever said it aloud. Ilya didn't act like it was heresy. Shane knew he wouldn't.

"Maybe," Ilya acknowledged, head pillowed on Shane's shoulder. "Since you are my match."

It was the kind of sweet little thing you could say in a heat den. Shane felt another wave of desire creeping in, but he wanted to stay in this moment a little longer first. "I promise I won't ask you to bite me this time. I know I was annoying last heat."

"That's nice," Ilya said dryly. "You told me you would stop asking me to claim you back then, too. Maybe five times, you promised. Then you'd say, 'Oh, I changed my mind. Please bite me, Ilya."

"Well, I really want it!" Shane said. "Honestly, I still think you should do it. You're being kind of a baby about it."

"Look how long you held out," Ilya observed. "You really are a hero."

****

Shane's heat broke on Christmas, which Ilya said was the opposite of a Christmas miracle since it meant they had to stop fucking. The heat center offered a room service five-course Christmas menu, so they ordered it to be delivered at seven for dinner, then spent most of the day curled up, watching movies on Ilya's laptop. Ilya was elaborately and huffily annoyed that Shane insisted on pausing when Rose called. Shane suspected that if they weren't fresh off of heat, he would have pulled some shenanigans, but since both of them were tapped out for at least the rest of the day, Ilya just made sullen little noises as Shane spent forty-five minutes on the phone.

"Finally," he said, flopping back dramatically when Shane hung up. "What the fuck was that?"

"She called to wish me a Merry Christmas," Shane said. "But it ended up being an emergency situation."

"It didn't sound like an emergency," Ilya said.

"Her brother brought home his girlfriend to meet the family, and she sucks," Shane explained. "And Rose thinks he's going to propose. We had to strategize."

Ilya's mouth curled, unconvinced. "You are sure she does not just want to fuck you?"

"No, gross," said Shane. "She likes girls better, anyway."

Ilya still smelled unhappy and jealous. Shane rubbed his hip. "Sorry. Hey, I almost forgot. I got a present for you."

Ilya made some noise about the unnecessary pomp of western Christmas, but he perked up predictably and sat on the edge of the bed as Shane went through his bag. Ilya raised his eyebrows when Shane handed him a gift-wrapped rectangle. "A book?"

"Open it," said Shane.

Ilya did, doing a surprisingly dainty job with the wrapping paper. When he revealed a Russian to English dictionary, he smoothed his fingers over the title with a frown. Ilya looked up at Shane skeptically. "Is this a prank?"

Shane suddenly felt shy. "No. It's for me, actually. I was thinking maybe I could learn Russian this year."

It was immediately and obviously a mistake. Ilya went dark and flat. "Why?"

"Well," said Shane, rubbing his own arm. "You know. I have a lot of downtime when we travel, and it's good to have a project. And.. for us."

"Okay," Ilya said tonelessly. "Great."

"I guess it's kind of corny," Shane said. Svetlana probably gave amazing gifts. "I know it's not a real present. I can get you something bigger."

"Shane, it's-" Ilya stopped himself. "It's fine. Learn Russian if you want. You want to go back to the movie?"

"I don't have to," said Shane. "If you don't want me to. I just thought - I don't know. I thought it might be nice."

"Your present to me is homework for yourself," said Ilya. "Sure. Go nuts."

"I said I didn't have to if you don't want that," Shane said.

"I don't want anything," said Ilya. "I don't care. You know, I could teach you all the words you need. 'More', 'harder', 'please.' Don't need a book for that. But whatever, do what you want."

Shane had hoped they were past this. He had hoped Ilya didn't need to make the thing between them ugly anymore. "It was just an idea. You don't have to be an asshole."

"I said fine, learn Russian!" said Ilya. "Knowing you, you'll be fluent in a week. Great."

"Why are you so upset?" asked Shane.

"I'm not upset!" Ilya said. "You just always fucking push!"

"I push?" Shane said incredulously. Ilya had been a terrier nipping at his heels for half a decade. "Oh, that's rich."

"You want to know everything!" said Ilya. "All the time, every day, questions, questions, questions! You're always pushing! Why do you even fucking care?"

"You know why I care," Shane said, tightening up. "How can you even ask that? What the fuck are we doing here, Ilya?"

Ilya sighed noisily and shook his head. They were sitting on the bed together, but not close at all. He uncrossed his arms to clench his fingers in the duvet. "Let's just let this be what it is, okay?"

Shane found himself sitting hunched over, gaze fixed on the wall. "What is it?"

"We're trapped in a bond together," Ilya said. He looked superior, tired, and bruised. "We make the best of it. It's fine."

"Bullshit," Shane's voice was heating up, thickening. "Don't act like that. You know it's more than that."

Ilya shrugged. "Is what it is."

Ilya really could be brutal. Shane thought about what Svetlana had said. How Ilya thought he had to earn him. Ilya saw being an alpha in terms of his responsibilities and his ability to live up to them. He thought about how Ilya had disappeared after the disaster of the Olympics. How Ilya left before he could get punished for not being worthy. If Ilya thought love was that conditional.

"I think we can be more than that," Shane said. "I want to be more than that."

Ilya gave him a hard look. "You want to speak Russian? Fine. Learn how to say," Ilya said something too rapidly for Shane to decode it.

"What does that mean?"

"It means, 'Ilya, I'm fucking miserable!'" said Ilya. "Omegas don't get fancy professional sports contracts in Russia. They don't get to decide if they get claimed or not. You want us to be more? You'll be shut in a house taking care of a mean, sick old man, and you'll hate it. It would fucking kill you."

"Your dad's sick?" asked Shane.

Ilya looked up sharply and swallowed, jutting his chin out and gripping his cross in his fist, squeezing for a moment before letting go.

"Ilya," said Shane.

Ilya looked in his direction, if not meeting his eyes, and nodded, one short, sharp nod.

"I'm sorry," said Shane. "Is it serious?"

Ilya hesitated, then nodded again. He looked away.

"What about your mom?" asked Shane.

"Dead," Ilya said. He said it emotionlessly, like it wasn't something he was used to saying.

"I'm sorry," said Shane. He had thought maybe. He had hoped to be wrong.

Ilya shrugged. "I was young." He finally looked at Shane, drawn but no longer hostile. "She was a gymnast before they made her quit."

"When she presented?" Shane asked. "She was an omega, right?"

"Yes," Ilya said. Sometimes it was strange to watch Ilya in repose, when his body was so clearly made for motion. "In Russia, back then, you present as omega, you quit your sport. No exceptions. She'd make these scrapbooks of newspaper clippings of her favorite gymnasts and keep them in a special drawer. She'd show me them all the time." He looked at Shane. "Sometimes, I think she would have collected clippings of you."

Shane swallowed. "Is your dad going to be okay?"

Ilya's mouth twisted, and he shook his head, blinking and looking away.

"Hey," Shane said gently, because Ilya was silently crying.

"Sorry," said Ilya, choked up. He stared at the wall, like if he couldn't stop crying, he could do the next best thing and stay very still. Shane did that, too, sometimes.

"It's okay," Shane said, and moved to hold him. He leaned in for a kiss, soft, open-mouthed, then stayed there, rocking them together as Ilya clutched him close. Ilya's shoulders kept shaking and the moment felt so fragile as something inside of Shane swelled big enough to choke him.

They sat like that for a long time before Ilya murmured something into Shane's neck that Shane didn't catch until Ilya repeated it. "You want more? Like you said?"

Shane's chest seized for a second. "I do. It scares me how much I do."

Ilya untucked his face to look at him. His expression was collapsed in on itself, an open wound. "You're supposed to be mine. I would stay here with you if you were mine. I would be so good to you."

"Ilya…" Shane said.

"Tell me you're mine," Ilya said urgently, circling Shane's wrist with his fingers. "Shane. Tell me. Do you want to be mine? Are you mine?"

"I'm yours," Shane said, cupping Ilya's face. His wonderful face. "I'm yours. I'm yours, Ilya."

***

Ilya slept fully sprawled on top of him that night, like a giant dog. It was absolute heaven. Some part of Shane had always known he needed to be smothered by a blanket of a two-hundred-pound man to quiet his brain. Even that couldn't stop his thoughts entirely, as he catalogued every piece of Ilya he could see - his lush mouth, his chiseled arms, the perfect nip of his waist, the ass that Shane - who spent his life around hockey asses - couldn't believe was real. The humid puff of his breath on Shane's neck, the smell of him, heady and steadying at once.

They had spent the rest of the day in bed except for when dinner came, and they moved to the table, because Shane would prefer to be mauled by a bear rather than sleep in a bed where two people had eaten a five-course meal. Ilya kept touching him, and not in his usual way of mauling him and gripping and massaging him hard enough to bruise. He kept wanting to hold Shane's hand. He pulled Shane into his lap on his way back from the bathroom. Ilya kept scenting him by pressing his face fully into Shane's neck and inhaling audibly.

After they brushed their teeth, jockeying for space in front of the sink, and Ilya making a game of pushing Shane's elbow down when he tried to floss, they got back into bed. Shane rested his chin on Ilya's shoulder and made his eyes big.

"Hey, would you…?" he said, looking minutely over his shoulder, towards the back of his neck.

Ilya looked intrigued and cautious. "You are sure?"

"Yeah, I think so," Shane said. "It would help me wind down for the night."

Ilya gave him a little smile, reached his hand back, and cuffed him, more gently than he had in Boston all those months ago, but enough that Shane felt his body crumple exquisitely. He stayed that way for a good few minutes while Ilya stroked his hands through his hair and down his back.

So yeah, Shane asked an alpha to cuff him. Shane had had so much outrageously filthy sex in his life, but somehow that felt like the sluttiest thing he'd ever done. Right now, he was lying under his alpha, whom he had asked to cuff him the day after they shared their second heat. You don't come back from that.

Shane had been running from this for longer than he played professional hockey. It didn't feel like he was surrendering now - he was happy; he was so fucking happy. He wanted this; he would fight for it. He would have to, he knew. At some point.

He'd let Ilya bite him now. That's what they just agreed on. Right? That's what this meant. He chose Ilya. Choosing Ilya meant choosing Boston. A public claiming. The press. The outraged Montreal fans. The smug and leering Boston fans. Endless social media speculation. God, Reddit would go over timelines with a fine-toothed comb. The comments from the Metros, to him and to the scrum. Moving to another country with worse politics. Would he lose brand deals? Would he get more brand deals? He'd have to say goodbye to Hayden and Jackie. Fuck, he'd have to say goodbye to his parents.

He'd play great hockey in Boston. He'd be with the love of his life. Ilya would cut off his own leg before he let harm come to Shane; he knew that. Ilya seemed like he was saying he would retire in the States, so Shane didn't have to live in Russia. It would break Ilya's heart. Oh fuck, his mother's grave must be over there. How sick was his father? What was the illness? Was its progression fast or slow?

Shane would belong to someone. He would belong to Ilya. He already belonged to Ilya in a way that sang through him like a joyous bell. So it was fine if people knew that. He loved Ilya, and Ilya had to love him back, even if they had never said it. He couldn't imagine not spending the rest of his life with this man. For the rest of his life, when Shane spoke, people would glance at Ilya for his approval before answering him. Shane saw it all the time.

He'd play the best hockey of his career in Boston. They would be a truly unrivaled dynasty. The rafters would drown in banners; they'd be talked about for generations. The history books would deconstruct Ilya Rozanov's tenure as the Raiders' captain, which hit its stride when they recruited his omega, Shane Hollander. They'd call it a brilliant strategy on Rozanov's part.

He could live with that. That would be enough. No one got everything. Ilya was going to make an unbearable sacrifice for Shane, so Shane could learn to bear this. He could sacrifice in return.

A year and a half left now before any decision was final.

Ilya snuffled in his sleep, startling Shane, who had been staring at the ceiling. He smiled, stroking Ilya's hair until he settled again. He wanted this. He could do this.

Chapter End Notes

So when I said there would be about two more chapters, I actually meant two more chapters after this one. I apologize if I have ever given the impression that I know what I am doing.

Rose took two Designation Studies classes before she dropped out of college and now she thinks she knows everything.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shane wouldn't say he was panicking about All Stars this year because there was no need to panic if you had a plan, and Shane and Ilya had a plan. At least Shane had a plan, and Ilya was going along with it and offering surprisingly prescient critiques.

"It would look more suspicious if I ignored you entirely, solynishko," Ilya was pointing out now, from where Shane's phone was propped up on the toilet tank. They were on a video call, since Ilya liked to watch Shane shave. Shane only had to shave once a week at most, so they took advantage when they could. "And you are on enough suppressants to murder a bear. No one will smell anything if I say hello to you at the bar."

The league was doing another East Meets West match-up this year, meaning they would be competing. They didn't need to strategize as heavily as they would have if they had been forced to spend time together as teammates. Shane stayed focused on the razor as he got to the hinge of his jaw. Ilya wasn't wrong - Dr. Chen had assured Shane his new suppressant cocktail would mask his body's response to his boyfriend. Shane was still paranoid, though. Feeling nervous about being sniffed out was nothing new for Shane, though. He had worried about that long before he and Ilya were official. Ilya affected him so totally that Shane never knew how no one smelled it on him. How no one just read it on his face.

Shane rinsed off his razor. Ilya also wasn't wrong that it would look strange if noted fuckboy Ilya Rozanov completely ignored the famous omega in the room, especially since part of the reason Shane dreaded All Stars was that alphas treated the weekend, as Rose put it, like a Shoot Your Shot Event. "Okay, so at the bar you come over and say hi for maybe ten minutes."

"Should I hit on you?" asked Ilya.

Shane got started on his left side. "Maybe just be kind of suggestive? We don't want it to stand out, but you have a point that people would think it was weird if you were blanking me."

Shane had been prepared for Ilya to suggest that Shane skip All Stars altogether if he was so anxious about it. Especially when Ilya clearly thought his duties as Shane's alpha included shielding Shane from potential danger and pain. Over the past few years, as Shane's presence at All Stars became expected, he himself thought about skipping the weekend like everyone else did. Still, Shane always hung in there because it was an honor to represent the best of the league, and also, he had to admit, in a petty little crevice of himself, spite. But still, he was worried, and Ilya didn't like that, but hadn't said a word to stop him from going.

"You're right," Ilya purred, holding his phone close to his face. "Blanking you would be insane. That jaw is a fucking vision. First thing in the morning, and you are already this stunning. Fuck, my heart can't take it."

Shane ducked his head, only partially hiding his shy, pleased smile. As Ilya had become more effusive, Shane had noticed certain patterns in his compliments. Ilya enjoyed Shane's maleness in a way Shane found flattering. It was no secret that part of what made male omegas such a flashpoint was that they were guys who didn't make alphas gay to fuck. But Ilya was never weird about it in any of the myriad ways alphas could be weird about it. He just seemed like he liked all parts of Shane equally.

Shane said, "Definitely don't say that in front of anybody."

"I'll wait until nighttime," Ilya said. "When we'll be alone."

Shane finished, rinsing himself off with a damp washcloth. "Should we play it by ear? It might not be safe to meet up."

Ilya's expression went a little less easy. The major appeal of All Stars for both of them was three days in the same location together.

"Okay," said Ilya. "If you think that's best." Since Shane accepted the intention of his claim, Ilya could be cautious with him sometimes, like Ilya had gotten a wild animal to eat out of his hand and didn't want to startle it off. Shane didn't know how he felt about it.

"It'll probably be fine," said Shane. There were some perks to All Stars. It was being held in Raleigh this year, so at least the weather would be decent. JJ was the other Metro coming with him, and Carter Vaughn would be there. Carter, JJ, and Shane were all friendly; they had a group chat called Minority Report. So Shane would have a social base of operations. Dallas Kent wouldn't be there this year. And, of course, two consecutive nights with Ilya. Despite Shane's fretting, that would be hard to give up. "As long as we're careful."

"We are very careful," Ilya said. "And hockey players are very stupid. It will be fine."

The vast majority of hockey players were indeed very stupid, and so was the media, except that reporters could also be canny. Since the Metro's championship last year and this year's season shaping up to indicate, at the very least, a deep playoff run, Shane noticed reporters' questions were coagulating into one of two new types. 1) What were the special omega qualities of Shane's playstyle that gave the Metros their edge? 2) Hadn't Shane already proven he had the chops? What was left for him to do? Both categories were present at the All Stars press conference.

Shane was a lot more worried about the second question than the first. If they were the beginning beats of the jungle drums of retirement pressure.

After the media portion of the day was over, Shane had to socialize. All Stars was being held at the Raleigh Hilton, blurring it into the same anonymous smear as all the other endless hotels in Shane's life. As he stood at the vestibule of the bar, Shane reflected on how often he dreaded entering a room. Specifically, the moment when all the alphas in a space instinctively picked up on the intrusion of an omega, and then when their conscious recognition kicked in, and they realized the omega was Shane Hollander.

Ilya was already in there. Shane could sense it, which was new. He made a note to tell Dr. Chen. She was a good doctor. She was remarkably patient with his emails sent at two in the morning about his new concerns after researching the effects of being claimed as true mates or on an elite athlete. She always reassured him that what he found was a fringe or discredited study or, once in a low moment, creepypasta.

Shane took a breath and walked in.

Ilya was at the bar, talking to Cliff Marleau, a Raiders' defenseman. As Shane found a table and settled down, he saw that the two of them were being shamelessly flirted with by the unclaimed male omega bartender. Marleau was very into it. Ilya's response was much more desultory, but the bartender was lavishing him with significantly more attention.

Fortunately, JJ found Shane quickly and came over with a wave. While they talked, Shane told himself to ignore what was happening at the bar, but kept getting glimpses out of the corner of his eye. The omega was cute in the way males typically were - short with a wiry build and a sweet face. He kept finding ways to expose his throat to Ilya, an only vaguely subtle invitation. Shane would bet he traded his coworkers every conceivable favor to work shifts during All Stars weekend.

Shane forced himself to focus on the conversation at his table when Vaughn and a few other Admirals joined them. They were talking about the new trend started by an influencer - one of the big deal ones who was married to a recording artist and had her own reality show - of flaunting special presents she had received for claiming and childbirth on Instagram. Bite presents and push presents, the guys were calling them. Vaughn was trying to point out that claiming and childbirth both hurt, so he could see why an omega wanted extra compensation. That was Vaughn for you. The other alphas at the table were entirely dismissive of the idea: wasn't being claimed and having kids reward enough already, since omegas never shut up about wanting those exact things? It showed what omegas were really after. And their particular omegas had lifestyle expectations - they wanted expensive shit like cars to show off to their own Instagram followers, so why not get sponsored by the brands and not take their alpha's hard-earned money?

"What about you, Hollzy?" someone asked, inevitably. "Would you go in for that shit?"

Shane snapped back to the table from wherever he had gone off to. He gave them a short, boring answer that also happened to be the truth. "No, probably not."

"Right on," said one of the Admirals. "See, that's how to do it. You're a class act."

"Hollander doesn't need anyone buying presents for him," said Vaughn, probably trying to help. "We got an omega here who makes his own cash."

"No, Hollzy just doesn't like fancy shit," JJ said. "The only push present he would want is a hockey puck."

There was a joke here about how Shane only wanted the cup and the Metros got it for him last year, but Shane felt too clamped down to tell it. He wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves, but it wouldn't be worth the energy. He just smiled thinly and let the conversation continue to wash around him.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as the omega bartender laughed at something Ilya said, leaning his elbows on the table and tilting his head to show the underside of his jaw. He was probably the type to moan 'alpha' during sex like it was porn. He probably presented on the first date. Shane literally felt the hair raise on the back of his neck. If he had claws, they would be lengthening.

Before he could do anything truly embarrassing, St.-Simon from the Raiders came into the bar, trailed by his omega holding a child who could have been three or four. In sharp contrast to the polite indifference he had been showing the bartender, Ilya's eyes lit up.

"Lapochka!" he said, reaching out for the little girl. "There she is! Mama, give me this baby, we have important business to discuss."

The omega handed her over easily, and Ilya settled her on the bar, facing him, so they were at eye level. The girl was delighted and bashful, giggling at Ilya from behind her hands. Ilya affected a concerned expression. "But this isn't the lapochka I met last time. She is much too big. And her hair is long, that lapochka only maybe hair to her chin."

"It's me, Ilya!" she squealed, completely overcome with joy.

"Hm, maybe," Ilya allowed. "There's only one way to know for sure. Do you remember our secret handshake?" She nodded and led Ilya through an elaborate, messy fistbump that they were clearly half-making up as they went along, until Ilya nodded seriously. "Yes, okay. You pass. It's you. Now, our important business: have you been to the pool yet?"

Shane honestly might black out. This was a component of his All Stars dread he hadn't consciously factored in; that he had seen before, but maybe hadn't allowed himself to name. Ilya was good with kids. Ilya genuinely liked children in a way Shane thought Ilya secretly didn't like most adults. And Ilya could get away with playing with kids because people construed it as pack-oriented and authoritative, didn't read weakness in it the way they might in another alpha. Ilya had spent every previous All Stars he and Shane had attended together making friends with all the other players' kids, acquiring a gaggle of little ducklings whom he corralled effortlessly using methods completely alien to Shane.

The omega bartender was laughably obvious as he tried to surreptitiously take pictures of Ilya and the girl on his phone. Maybe Shane should report him to management. Maybe he'd get fired.

"Hey, St-Simon," one of the Admirals at Shane's table called over, alerted by the ruckus. "You give a push present for that one?"

"Fuck no, man!" St-Simon said. His omega's smile stayed frozen on her face. "No one was doing that shit back then. Thank Christ."

"What about you, Rozanov?" the Admiral asked. "Would you fall for that bullshit?"

Ilya addressed the little girl first, gravely. "Excuse me. This will only be a minute," Then he called back to the Admiral. "I don't have an omega, Rassmussen."

"C'mon, you know what I mean," Rasmussen said.

"I know what you mean. Who the fuck cares?" Ilya said. He turned to the girl again. "Sorry lapochka, ignore all rude words." Then to Rasmussen again. "If she wants a present, whatever, give her a fucking present. She deserves it for having to put up with your unwashed ass for the rest of your miserable life."

St-Simon's omega discreetly plucked the little girl off the bar and whisked her away.

"Oh, here we go," Marleau said good-naturedly to the room at large. "Don't let Roz get on his fucking pulpit."

"Go fuck yourself, Marly," Ilya said, equally pleasant.

"You should hear him in the locker room," Marleau said. "He gets such a stick up his ass sometimes. You should have heard him last time he caught some of the rookies talking about-" Marleau, who had a head made out of granite, visibly remembered himself, glanced over at Shane, and froze up. "Stuff."

If Ilya felt the clench of panic Shane did, he didn't show it. He shrugged. "Whatever. If people are going to talk shit in my barn, they better be able to back it up. That's all. It's how I've always run things."

Shane forced himself to wait exactly fifteen minutes after the conversation had moved on before he quietly fled to the bathroom. Shane checked under the stall doors to make sure it was empty before sitting down on a toilet and putting his head between his legs. He was going to be on the roster with Marleau and St-Simon soon. And Ilya wanted to have kids. They'd never talked about it, but he must, right? He must have known that little from Raiders barbeques and wedding receptions among a throng of his teammates children. He was so good with her, warm and sincerely engaged.

Shane wished he had packed one of his pregnancy tests, just for reassurance. When she had found the bulk package of pregnancy tests in Shane's bathroom, Rose had asked him if he had ever thought about some form of sterilization, if he was so freaked out about accidental pregnancy that he took tests about twice a month just to assuage his anxiety. Shane had mumbled some excuse about surgery recovery time, but honestly, it had just never occurred to him. Kids seemed entirely theoretical to him, not something that he could access seriously, but the idea of the option being closed off permanently felt like coming to the edge of a steep and mournful cliff.

Did Shane want kids? He definitely didn't want them now. He didn't even know if he could do it. He liked kids fine - he loved the Pike children - but he wasn't made to be a parent the way Ilya clearly was.

Shane could feel Ilya as a fixed point on the map, throbbing in his brain. Okay, so this was going to be part of mating for them, then. An increased awareness of each other. Okay. Shane couldn't remember if that indicated emotion bleed was on the horizon. Maybe Ilya would soon always know when Shane was upset, and Shane would never again have a moment to himself to goddamn think.

Shane did a little visualization - inhale calming light, exhale his anxiety as gray smoke - until his heart rate calmed down. He went to the sink and washed his face in cold water, practicing a smile in the mirror.

When he got back to the table, JJ asked if he wanted to check out the golf course. Shane was thankful that JJ could tell he was getting overwhelmed. It was good to have the reminder that JJ had his back. He felt Ilya's eyes track him as they left the bar together.

Shane cared about golf in the dutiful way in which he knew he was expected, but JJ had apparently developed an actual passion for it at some point recently. Shane thought it was kind of sweet, considering JJ was an extremely cool guy, and even Shane thought golf was pretty lame. It allowed Shane to contribute minimally to the conversation, letting JJ ramble on about bogeys and the course's walkability. Ilya's presence faded from Shane's head the further they walked away. This probably wasn't a precursor to emotion bleed. And emotion bleed probably wasn't that bad. What did he have to hide from Ilya, anyway?

"It's good it's the two of us this year," said JJ, dragging Shane's attention back. North Carolina was humid and smothering, the air sticking inside Shane's lungs in an unfamiliar way. He had no idea who would want to golf in this. "Family men like Hayd and Gauty take vacation, but us single boys should live it up while we can."

Shane didn't think of All Stars as living it up, but honestly, JJ would know more on that front than he did. "Yeah, totally."

JJ nudged his shoulder. "See, yes, you know I'm right. You're quiet, Hollzy, but once I get you to leave your house, you're a good time."

Shane doubted that, but said, "Thanks, man."

"We have good times together, right?" JJ said. Something about the way he swallowed made Shane abruptly realize JJ was nervous. "We get each other."

"Sure," said Shane.

"So, I was wondering," said JJ. "Have you thought more about what we were talking about a few months ago?"

"What were we talking about?" Shane asked. He didn't understand the question and had felt tilted at an angle before this conversation had even started. He could read from JJ's expression that this response was somehow offensive.

"What we talked about at team dinner after the game in Buffalo," reminded JJ, voice betraying a thread of dismay.

Prompted, Shane remembered something, vaguely. JJ had asked if Shane would ever share a heat with a teammate now that his cycle had balanced out. Shane had said he didn't think it was a good idea to do that with teammates and JJ said they were friends, too, which Shane had agreed with, and JJ asked him to at least think about it, and Shane said sure, and had promptly dropped it from his mind, because the unattached guys on his team said things like that sometimes and it didn't ever matter.

JJ was looking at Shane like maybe it mattered.

"Oh," said Shane, suddenly very aware of his posture. "Oh… no. That's still not a good idea, I think."

JJ's face fell. "Oh."

"Because we're friends," Shane continued awkwardly. "And because of the team. It would be complicated. Thank you, though."

"It wouldn't be complicated for the team," JJ said with worrying authority. "Does that change things?"

"Oh. Uh, no," Shane said, trying to figure out what to do with his hands. "Not really. It'd still be complicated. For me."

JJ's scent was turning a little sour. "Because you have an alpha already?"

"No!" said Shane, probably too emphatically. "No, of course not. Just - we're friends. I don't like crossing streams."

"Ah, okay," JJ said, nodding a little. "No crossing streams because we're such good friends."

There was a bitterness to JJ's voice, a twist to his mouth that Shane had never seen before and was alarmed to see now. JJ's whole thing was being unbothered. Vaughn would bitch in their group chat about microaggressions, and Shane would chime in when appropriate, and JJ would agree it was bullshit, but was still always carefree and untouchable, protected by an aura of easy, swaggering charisma.

"We are," said Shane, bewildered and on his way to feeling a little hurt. Shane didn't have many friends, and the ones he did have were hard-fought. He liked being friends with JJ. "No hard feelings?"

"Mon chum Hollzy," JJ said, in that way that was meant to sound like he didn't care but still made it clear that he was wounded, and that his being wounded mattered. "Of course not. No hard feelings. Got it. Very cool. I'm going back inside to grab a drink then, buddy."

"Okay," Shane said tonelessly as JJ made his way past him. He was disoriented and had that hangdog realization that he had disappointed someone. It warred with how he also felt indignant that JJ was disappointed at all. JJ acted like Shane hadn't held up his end of some bargain, but Shane had never made one with him.

Shane's flowchart of life indicated that when he got stuck somewhere, he should either work harder or acquire more information. He didn't see how to work harder at this, so he found a quiet place under a tree near a water feature, sat down, and called Hayden.

Hayden was a good sport, picking up Shane's call while he, Jackie, and the kids were in Aruba. He was also kind enough to stay on the phone with Shane for nearly thirty minutes as he apologetically explained that, yeah, JJ had a crush on Shane for a while now, and the whole team knew about it.

"I told him not to," Hayden said. "But everyone else was egging him on about using this weekend to make a move."

"Why?" asked Shane, genuinely perplexed.

"They think it's cute," Hayden said. "They think you two getting together would be a good idea."

JJ had been Shane's friend for over six years. "I don't like him like that, though."

"I know," said Hayden. "That's why I told him not to do it. The other guys got in his head, though, I think. They, uh… okay, I don't think this."

"What?" asked Shane.

"They thought it was a good sign that you let JJ cuff you," Hayden said.

"It was the cup celebration!" Shane said, aware he sounded shrill. "You cuffed me! Guys were drinking beer out of shoes!"

"I told him not to take it that seriously," Hayden agreed. How much conversation had there been about this? "The team just likes the idea, you know? You and JJ get together, become a little Metros family, really lock down the dynasty."

"Great," said Shane. "Well, that's my future taken care of."

"No one really means it," Hayden hastened to add. Shane wouldn't have thought they did, but he also apparently hadn't known that his team was comprised of meddling aunties. "It's just a joke. We all value and respect your autonomy as an omega."

Shane closed his eyes around a flash of annoyance. Hayden had been doing some reading since their fight, and it wasn't fair that it irritated Shane this much. "Okay. Should I talk to him?"

"I'd just let him cool down," Hayden said. "Give him a couple days."

Shane wasn't comfortable leaving this unresolved. "Are you sure? Maybe I should tell him how I really appreciate our friendship, even if it's not romantic."

"Shane, buddy," said Hayden. "Remember when I told you that your goal song couldn't be Get on Your Feet by Gloria Estefan?"

Shane hadn't been wedded to it; he just didn't know much music, and that was his mother's favorite. Hayden had been emphatically against it, though. "It's like that?"

"It's like that," Hayden confirmed. "Just give him some time. He'll get over it."

Shane wandered back inside in a bit of a mood. He checked his phone and saw JJ had left the Minority Report chat. Hopefully, he was just licking his wounds. Hopefully, some aspect of those nearly seven years of friendship with Shane had been sincere. Back at the bar, Shane ordered a ginger ale from the omega bartender, who didn't bother hiding his smirk at the choice. Shane was absolutely going to get this man fired.

Ilya slid into the seat next to him and said, neutrally, "Hollander."

"Rozanov," Shane greeted in kind.

"We are being seen in public," Ilya murmured, staring straight ahead of him. "And I am going to do a terrible job of hitting on you."

Shane felt something in his chest unfurl. Despite everything, it was so good to be close to Ilya. Like something righting itself. "Terrible? Really?"

"Just awful," Ilya said.

"How bad we talking?" asked Shane. It had been a grueling few hours, but despite the risk, Shane's interest was piqued. It felt like they were playing spies.

"Are you an angel?" asked Ilya. "Because you look like you just fell from heaven, baby."

"Wow," said Shane. "Yeah, that's a real stinker."

Ilya took a sip of his vodka. Shane suspected Ilya ordered vodka at team events when he wanted to be obnoxious. "Mostly because your backhand is so weak it takes an act of god to get the puck in the net."

Shane had a backhand like a cannon. He turned to Ilya, knowing he shouldn't look this fond. "You're always so confident when you're wrong."

"One usually leads to the other," Ilya agreed, rubbing at his nose. He looked at Shane and asked quietly. "Are you all right?"

Maybe Ilya had smelled or felt it on him or seen it on his face. Maybe Ilya just knew these things drained Shane. Shane absolutely couldn't tell Ilya about JJ, especially not here. Best-case scenario, Ilya would give JJ a concussion during the game tomorrow. Shane traced the condensation around his glass. Ilya had picked a good spot to do this; the crowd of players was back at the booths, the bartender was paying attention to the other side of the bar, and the ambient music was an impenetrable barrier unless you were within a foot of the other person. No one could overhear them. "Do you want kids?"

Ilya stared at him with undisguised horror. "What the fuck, Hollander?"

Shane shrugged, feeling flinty. When Shane was heat drunk, Ilya always steered him away from embarrassing confessions or declarations of affection, but he only ever joined in when Shane got started on kid talk. "Do you?"

"I don't think we should have this conversation now," Ilya said, which probably meant yes. Ilya looked unsettled enough by this subject that it reassured Shane that at least he probably wasn't getting any emotion bleed either.

"Some day," Ilya said quietly, after a moment of Shane staring down at his drink. "When we retire. If you want them, too. Okay?"

Shane blinked and nodded, feeling some weight slough off. "Okay."

"And I won't get you a present unless you want one," Ilya said. "Any of these assholes' heads on a platter, maybe."

Shane ducked his head a little to hide his smile from the bartender, who was pretending not to watch them as he served other customers. "Yeah, that would be a start."

"We're in this together," Ilya said quietly, staring straight ahead of him. "I want what you want, always."

Shane had to clear his throat, looking down at the lacquered wood of the bartop. It felt crazy to hear that in public. To hear that at all. Ilya had a way of making things seem so simple. "That's what I want, too. What you want."

Ilya quirked a smile before schooling his expression, turning to face Shane again. "But if you like now, maybe you should throw your drink in my face. Show everyone here that I'm a horrible knothead and you're much too good for me."

Shane tried to hide his own smile by looking at his lap. "I think they know that already."

"He bullies me," Ilya said, getting off his barstool with an exaggerated grimace. "But he is so beautiful, I always forgive him."

"Oh, fuck off," Shane said agreeably, loud enough to be overheard.

Ilya gave him a cartoonishly flirty leer as he walked away, back into the throng. The bartender was glaring daggers at Shane, who let himself have one smug glance back at him before taking a breath and joining Ilya.

***

JJ only sort of got over the rejection. He was civil to Shane, but wouldn't knock helmets with him anymore, and stopped having little asides with him in French. He walked around with an injured superiority that calcified over time into a different relationship with Shane altogether. Most of the Metros clearly shared his position; Shane got a lot of glares and overheard a lot of loud, ambient comments about people who don't appreciate good things when they find them. The Metros group chat had gone suspiciously quiet, meaning they had made another chat that they had purposefully left Shane out of, most likely to talk about him.

Honestly, Shane thought the whole thing was absurd. He'd love to sit down and talk to JJ about this, but JJ wasn't letting that be an option. And he didn't understand why all his teammates were acting like this, like in rejecting JJ, he had rejected the group. Shane believed he also had the right to be annoyed that JJ was acting like Shane's friendship was a silver medal - a token of failure, an insult of a consolation prize.

It became clear from what they said that JJ had shared his suspicions that Shane had an alpha. The team was unhappy about that. Shane had been acceptable as long as he was, in some definable way, theirs. Now, though, they were starting to view him with vague hostility. Hayden was standing up for him, and Hayden had the A, which wasn't nothing, but Shane watched his reputation further solidify into something remote and unpleasant.

Shane watched helplessly as a similar thing happened with the press. He was playing well this season, ahead of where he was last year in the scoring race. It turned out that getting more routinely fucked by the man he loved made for even better hockey than trying to turn himself into an automaton. And the Metros might have been butthurt, but they were still professionals. They still clicked as a unit. But as the Metros solidly earned their playoff seed, a certain staticky itchiness grew in the media. Shane was getting the sense that he was less tolerated. "You are no fun for them now," was how Ilya put it. "You've proven yourself. They can't ignore who you are and what you mean."

Shane was shocked into rudeness during a press conference when a reporter asked him if he had a comment on the allegations that his suppressants were a form of performance-enhancing drugs.

Shane blinked. "What allegations?"

The reporter was an alpha from Barroom Sports, so Shane should have expected this, probably. Shane's publicity team was going to be kicking themselves for not getting out ahead of whatever soundbite had been drummed up here. "There's been some discussion in online circles that omega suppressants should be reclassified as performance enhancers, since they eliminate a lot of the issues that make omegas physically inferior. Alphas don't have access to medications that do that. Do you have any comments?"

The press scrum collectively stilled with a rustle, knowing they were verging on the taboo.

"Well, that's speculation, not an allegation," said Shane. He immediately knew it was the wrong move. No one liked it when he was pedantic, when he seemed too smart or exacting. "And no, I don't have a comment on that."

"Because it hits close to home?" asked the reporter, who was apparently content never to be allowed back in the building after this.

"Because it's ridiculous," Shane said. "I'll comment the next time anyone has any idea what they're talking about. Next question, please."

It didn't go over well. Or it went over too well, in that the media was thrilled to have made Shane Hollander lose his famous composure, and the sound bite blew up. The Metros had to release statements explaining the science behind omega suppressants, how they differed from and overlapped with alpha suppressants. It was information people should have learned in grade-seven health class, but loved to flaunt their ignorance about in long-form internet essays. The discourse made its way to the pundit circuit, red-faced alphas arguing about what suppressants did on ESPN. Front office released more statements in support of Shane, and made it very clear to him that they did not appreciate having to do all this extra work on his behalf.

The whole thing made Shane angry in a way he struggled to let roll off his back. He had spent hundreds of hours with doctors trying to figure out his suppressant regimen, and the side effects had often been so cataclysmically debilitating. He had pushed through anyway, won a fucking cup anyway, and now mouthbreathers in beer leagues whose only authority on the subject was the ability to spend forty dollars on a podcast microphone decided his suppressants gave him an edge?

Shane had thought that eventually people would stop wanting to see him fail. Or he had assumed that if he proved himself, crossed some line at some point, people would be forced to conclude he should be allowed to play hockey. They would permit him to do the one thing he loved, the thing he was exceptional at, without having to shred him into smaller and smaller pieces, trying to discredit his right to do it.

That wasn't entirely fair. Montreal still loved him. Shane couldn't leave his house without being mobbed by grateful fans, often eager to tell him how angry they were on his behalf. It somehow became Shane's job to comfort them about how they felt about how Shane was treated.

He felt weirdly not himself for a few weeks, listless and pasted together. Shane still hadn't told Ilya about the thing with JJ, but he tried to explain the rest of it in a jumble to him in bed after their last in-season game before the playoffs. He and Ilya weren't meeting for a while after this. Their schedules were too tight, and they both needed to lock in. Ilya firmly disagreed with the no-sex-during-playoffs rules, so they'd still Skype. Still, it felt so rare and exquisite to be curled warm in Ilya's arms that Shane felt awful ruining their precious golden time together talking about this. Still, it burst out of him. Shane's disorientation, his wariness, his resentment, his suspicion that the goalpost would always be over the horizon.

Ilya sighed slowly, bringing Shane closer to him on the bed. He rubbed Shane's back, holding him tight. "Oh, moya lyubov, you're so brave."

"Shut up," said Shane wetly, face in Ilya's shoulder.

"It's true," Ilya said. "You're the bravest person I know."

"Fuck off," said Shane, mashed into Ilya's skin.

Ilya kissed his cheek. "Strongest too."

It would be pretty embarrassing if that made him cry. Shane wiped the dampness away discreetly. "It's not that bad. I can handle it."

"I know," said Ilya. "You can handle whatever they throw at you. I just wish you didn't have to."

Shane cleared his throat, pitching his voice to be more even. "On the bright side, at least stuff like this is less likely to happen in Boston."

"Yes," Ilya murmured, stroking down his back, propping his arm up a little to look at him. "Moya solynishko. I will protect you in Boston. No one will ever hurt you again."

In hindsight, Shane could see how this part of Ilya had always been there, lurking under layers of defensive aloofness. Ilya had just needed permission to bloom into it. He always sounded so reverent when he talked about protecting Shane, but made it a little sexy too. The two blended interchangeably for Ilya. Shane would belong to Ilya in Boston, and Ilya found that sacred and erotic. And Shane did too, powerfully, and he was working really hard at ignoring that tiny icy drop at the center of it. Maybe it was the part of him that didn't want to need protection.

"Hey," said Shane, rolling onto his back to look up at Ilya, the sweep of Ilya's shoulders like a banner unfurled. "You should know - I want that. I really do. I want this, Ilya."

Ilya beamed at him, blinding, before bending down to kiss him, long and deep and sweet, then trailed kisses down his sternum, taking Shane's cock in his mouth.

***

After the Metros won the Stanley Cup for the second year in a row, Ilya had two dozen lilies and the biggest dildo Shane had ever seen delivered to Shane's apartment. it's modeled from mine, I used a kit, Ilya flagrantly lied on the attached note. After winning the cup, Shane was elated, nursing a worse version of last year's knee and a new shoulder issue, wrung out, wired, overdone from celebrating, and annoyed by his team's increasingly bald resentment that the media metabolized it as Shane's victory in some essential way, not theirs. Even in all that complexity, he tried to emblazon the win in his mind. This might be the last time an achievement would count as his and not Ilya's by virtue of being his alpha.

Shane and Ilya had talked on the phone the night the Metros won. Shane took the call in the alley behind the restaurant, drunk and crying with delirious exhaustion and gratitude. He didn't think anyone overheard the call, but leaving the meal abruptly to take it had been enough to fuel the rumors that he had a secret alpha. Even tipsy, he saw it on their faces when he returned to his seat.

Dr. Chen told Shane he could push his heat off to mid-July, which Shane was so excited about because, after several disastrous setbacks and delays, the cottage would finally be ready then. Furnished and all. Ilya said he would come back from Russia for two weeks to share Shane's heat with him there, then fly back. It was Ilya's last summer before he claimed Shane and planned not to return. He said he wanted to spend as much time at home as he could this summer, settle his affairs, and say his goodbyes.

Shane had mixed feelings about that after learning more about Ilya's brother and father. They seemed, to Shane, more like an angry, rapacious mouth than a family, trying to suck all the use out of Ilya. And Ilya clearly felt his responsibility as the alpha of the household keenly, despite their mercenary approach to him, or maybe because of it. Shane, personally, didn't think Ilya owed them anything, especially as Ilya told him more about his mother, how he clearly thought, despite never saying so, that his father and his casually cruel expectations of what her life should be had ground her down until she had no choice but to succumb to her disease. But Ilya still wanted to go home to see them and provide for them, and who was Shane to judge? He knew what it was like to chase love that you knew, deep down, you were never going to get. How the chase became almost more important than the hope of receiving it.

As the season ended and they faced the looming specter of Shane's last year as a Metro, Yuna kept reminding him to tell Farah.

"She needs to know," Yuna said. Shane knew this was true. Yuna had been applying herself, in her usual snowplow way, to the transition, focusing on the shift in his brand identity. She was putting out feelers, closing ranks where she could, seeing where there was room to pivot if it became necessary. Yuna would come to Shane's house with pants she picked up at Costco for him, and make mildly disapproving faces about how exact he was in weighing out his meals these days, and talk in her upbeat, pragmatic way about how they were going to handle it when Shane's life was no longer fully his to control.

"She's going to be bargaining for you," Yuna said. "It's rude to have her do that under false pretences."

"I know, Mom," said Shane, who was absolutely going to tell Farah soon. Or ask Yuna to do it.

"Call her," Yuna said meaningfully. She looked annoyed enough that maybe he wouldn't be able to get her to do it for him, which was unusual. "Actually, just give her a call in general. She has a pretty interesting idea for your cup day."

Shane did call Farah and didn't get around to giving her the speech he was composing in his head ("I just want you to know I'm moving to Boston in 2017 because I'm under the closest thing that exists to a magic spell, but don't worry, it doesn't mean I'm becoming someone else's property, for the following reasons...") because she really did have a good idea for his day with the cup. His PR team made some worried noises about it when he ran it by them, but eventually agreed it might be worth a bit of a risk.

Last year, Shane had been too blitzed out from his unsuccessful attempts at biohacking to do more than a perfunctory photoshoot with the cup on his allotted day. This year, he brought it to a Gifted and Talented Omegas after-school program. Shane succumbed to a surprisingly real and feathery joy as a gaggle of eleven to eighteen-year-olds went absolutely apeshit.

Shane fell into a persona, usually, when talking to fans, especially children. But these kids were excited in a way he recognized. Shane had done plenty of meet and greets with kids, visited hospitals with the team, and been three children's Make A Wish. That was all gratifying, but this felt different. These kids asked questions about his training regime, what classes he had taken at their age, and how he handled dating. They weren't gawking at him, though, which was what he usually experienced, even in benign ways. Instead, he was watching a bunch of bright kids try to incorporate his answers into their sense of their future, drawing themselves a blueprint.

Yuna had been lecturing him about being a role model since he was these kids' age, but for the first time, that didn't feel like a cage. What would it have been like, as a teenager, to have the sense there was a door for him to go through, even a locked one? Shane had needed to bulldoze through a mountain, but maybe these kids would just be looking for a key.

There was the inevitable backlash his PR team had been concerned about, that Shane dared to acknowledge his secondary gender in public. But Shane still felt really good about it until he got a call from Roger Crowell.

Farah and the Metros front office had both warned him the call was coming - itself concerning, that this was a pre-existing conversation - so Shane had ten minutes to compose himself, theoretically. He spent most of that time feeling like he was underwater. A call from Roger Crowell wasn't the same as being sent to the principal's office, but it carried a similar weight.

"Shane Hollander," Crowell said jovially when the call finally came, and Shane picked it up with shaky hands. "How you been? Good to finally talk to you."

Shane had met Crowell several times at fundraisers and exhibitions, and when Crowell handed him the fucking cup two years in a row. Crowell tended to take long glances at Shane's clavicle. When Shane was fourteen, Crowell had gotten into some hot water for calling a claimed omega working in his office 'very breedable.'

"Good to talk to you, too, sir," said Shane.

"Congratulations again on the win," Crowell said. "Two in a row! Hell of a thing. You must be riding high."

"Yes, sir," said Shane. "I am."

"Great," said Crowell. "That's great. Anyway, I'm calling, kiddo, because I've always wanted to tell you that you've been a great asset to the league. Talented, humble, can drive engagement like nobody's business. You're a real credit to the sport. We could use twenty more like you, omega or not, no mistake."

"Thank you," Shane said dutifully, braced.

"Which is why I wanted to make sure we're still on the same page," Crowell said.

"The same page?" Shane echoed.

"One thing I've always liked about you, Hollander, is you know how to play the game," said Crowell. "Just ask any of my friends - I say, 'Shane Hollander, that omega is savvy. He gets that hockey is a business. He knows where his bread is buttered.' So I was just a little concerned to hear about your cup day."

Shane stared out the window. Clouds were hovering over the crest of Mount Royal. "Oh?"

"Like I said, we both know hockey is a business, Shane," said Crowell. "And business and politics, they don't mix. So I was disappointed to hear you went ahead and mixed them."

"I don't think an after-school program is political," Shane tried, already feeling himself slipping away.

"That's not always true, though, is it?" said Crowell. "Those kids have a place in the world, and it upsets a lot of people if they think you're encouraging them to defy the natural order of things. I know, I know, it's not PC, but a lot of folks believe omegas are here to make babies - present company excluded. It's great that there are outliers like you. Keeps things interesting! But if you think about it, Shane, it was kind of cruel of you to get those kids' hopes up. Society needs some people to stay home, while us alphas and betas are stuck doing the boring stuff that keeps the rest of it running."

Shane wished he had thought to record this conversation. He wished he could sink into a hole in the earth. "Uh-huh."

"Not that it matters to me," laughed Crowell. "I'm not a philosopher! But the people who do care, Shane, well, they read about things like this, and they stop buying tickets. They stop buying jerseys. And it's my job to make sure they keep buying those tickets and jerseys, you understand? So if I see one of my best players do something that makes it harder to sell his jersey, well, I gotta say something."

"Over fifty percent of my jersey sales are from omegas," Shane said before he could stop himself. "And everyone else buying them already knows I'm an omega. I'm still outselling everyone in the league but Rozanov. I think I'll do just fine."

Crowell paused, recalculating. "I get that, Shane. I do," he said. "Like I said, you've always had a good head on your shoulders. Always knew how to play your cards. Always kept your nose clean."

Shane felt the dread start to claw at his throat. "Yes, sir."

"I'm not one for rumors," Crowell said. "But I know you've had a couple hit you hard. And I've heard a few here and there recently that you might have an alpha on the side that you've been keeping under wraps. I don't know if it's true. I don't care if it's true. But true or not, it could set you back if that became public, and I'd hate to see that to happen."

Crowell must have talked to Metros front office. Front office had heard something from the team. The team and front office had no interest in protecting Shane from Crowell.

"I understand, sir," Shane said from somewhere far away.

"Good then," said Crowell. "So we're on the same page, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," said Shane. "I get your point."

"Then I won't keep you," Crowell said. "I'm sure you've got a lot of celebrating left to do. An omega wins the cup two years in a row. Hell of a thing."

"Hell of a thing," Shane repeated automatically before Crowell hung up. Reflecting on the conversation later, he hated himself the most for that.

***

He called Ilya in a panic, so frantic it took him a while to unspool what had happened. Ilya was alarmed but patient, encouraging Shane to breathe.

"Do you think he knows?" Ilya asked.

"No," said Shane. He had been pacing around his apartment the entire call, worrying a crack in his lower lip. "He would have led with it if he knew about you. He just knows what the Metros know." Shane didn't want to fuck JJ, so they told themselves a story about another alpha to justify it. Even if Ilya hadn't been in the picture, Shane wouldn't have wanted to fuck JJ.

Ilya had been planning to drive up in three days anyway, so they could spend some time together before he flew to Russia. He canceled some meetings to come up early instead. Over the season, Shane and Ilya had met in hotel rooms in Montreal since Shane's gated community required IDs, and Shane hastily booked them a room now.

When Ilya walked through the door, Shane immediately sank to his knees in front of him, pressing his face to Ilya's crotch and inhaling deeply. They stood there for a while, Ilya's hand in his hair. Eventually, Ilya forced Shane into the shower, then fed him chickpea pasta he had picked up from Whole Foods on the way, and, at Shane's request, cuffed him three times over the course of an hour.

Eventually, they went to bed together. The world always felt safer and smaller in Ilya's arms. "One more season," Ilya kept murmuring into Shane's hair as they spooned together in bed. "Just one more season, and none of this matters anymore."

Shane nodded, trying to be comforted by that. It was true. Once he was claimed, a rumor like that lost any sting. Once he was claimed, there would be a bunch of new rumors, but, theoretically, Shane wouldn't care about them because he would be docile and in love. "We'll have to be even more careful this year, though."

Ilya kissed his shoulder. "Okay."

"We might not be able to see each other as much," Shane said. "I don't think we should. Just in case."

Ilya blew out a little breath. "Okay."

"Just for a year," Shane said, turning over to face him. Ilya had that crease between his brows. "We're tough. We can handle one hard year."

"See each other less, how?" Ilya asked.

"I don't know," said Shane. He hadn't thought it through. "Maybe just after games again, for a while?"

Ilya's expression constricted as he tried to smooth something over. "At least you're not blocking me," he said, the joke falling flat.

In their early days, when they were off-and-on, it was mostly Shane who turned them off. And Shane hadn't been a great communicator back then and usually did it by texting Ilya something like, we have to stop doing this. and blocking his number. Shane would hold out for as long as he could, weeks or months, until he would wake up from a particularly vivid dream or the ache in his chest would get too piercing, or once, when he couldn't stop thinking of a joke Ilya told him and was desperate to hear it again in Ilya's voice. At the time, Shane had thought he was protecting them both from something they didn't want.

"Well, I can't block you anymore," Shane said. "Obviously. Can't unring that bell."

"What is this one?" asked Ilya. Sometimes he still struggled with idioms.

"It means we can't go back to how it was before."

Ilya settled back agains the headboard, looking a little preoccupied. "No. I don't think we can."

"Not that I want to," Shane said, realizing his misstep. "We still have a good plan. We just need to be more careful than we thought for a while."

Ilya started to stroke Shane's hair. "Maybe there are other ways to look at this."

"Like what?"

"Would it really be so bad if people knew?" said Ilya.

Shane felt his shoulders constrict, his breath tighten. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, listen," said Ilya. "You're coming to Boston anyway, no matter what. I can protect you there, keep you safe. If the Metros found out, sure, okay, you'd be fired, but maybe that just means you come to Boston sooner. We can be together sooner."

Shane understood the point Ilya was making, so it would have been petty to feel betrayed. He lay there for a while, simmering with a hurt he had told himself he had grown past.

"I'm not saying we announce it," Ilya said, hastily. "Is not the new plan. Just - maybe it's not such a threat? People knowing?"

Shane swallowed down the anger welling up in his throat. He scoffed and shook his head.

"What?" Ilya said.

"Nothing. It's fine. It's just…" Shane said. "It's so easy for you, isn't it? It's always been so fucking easy for you."

"What is?" asked Ilya. He clearly sensed they were on the precipice of a fight. He wasn't being argumentative, but he also wasn't backing down.

"Everything!" Shane said. "This! Us. Your whole fucking career. Nothing can ever touch you. You don't have to care about any of this. It's all fucking hypothetical to you because you can do whatever you want. None of it matters. I'm the only one who's ever going to feel any consequences."

Ilya looked at him, expression slack and dull. He smelled strange all of a sudden, like an unaired room.

"What?" said Shane.

Ilya leaned his head back against the headboard, crossing his arms loosely. He looked tired. "Yes, Hollander. You're right. This has all been so easy for me."

Shane rushed in. "You're not the one-"

"You've had it harder," Ilya said evenly, like it wasn't even a question. "Of course you've had it harder. You'll always have it harder, no matter what I do to help you. But don't sit here and tell me this has been easy for me."

Shane hesitated. "I know you haven't always wanted…"

"That's you, Shane," Ilya said, suddenly exasperated. "You're the one fighting this. I haven't always… we were young. We fucked up. I know I have. But I want this, and you are talking yourself into it, and that gets pretty fucking hard sometimes."

Shane felt a pang of guilt. It was an accurate observation, and he couldn't argue his way out of it.

"It's not… it's not you," he tried. Sometimes it felt like Ilya was the only good thing Shane had going. "Can you blame me, though?"

"No," said Ilya, sounding tired. "I get it. I'm not mad. I've never been mad. I try to give you space, give you what you need to feel safe, since this tears you up inside. But it's not easy, Shane. Having an omega who doesn't want me back hasn't been easy."

"I do," Shane insisted, a little horrified at Ilya's interpretation. "I'm in this. It's not about you. It's never been about you. But if I don't do this by myself, they're going to take everything away from me."

"I know, Shane," Ilya said, tight now. "You've been hunted your whole life, I get it. I wasn't going to do it, too. I gave you the distance you wanted. But you are so bad at taking care of yourself that it drives me fucking crazy."

Shane stopped short. Bristled. "I've handled myself just fine."

"Bullshit," Ilya said, meeting Shane's eyes, startling Shane with his anger. "You've swallowed everything they've given you, and I see what it does to you. You were so scared I'd bite you during your fucking heat, like I'm some kind of animal, that you made yourself sick for years. You'd give interviews looking like a fucking ghost, and I would think it was a miracle you didn't pass out on the ice."

"I didn't," Shane said, tight now too. "I was fine. I was handling it."

"You weren't handling it, Shane!" Ilya said, sitting up. "I walked into that heat center and you smelled maybe a day away from needing to go to the hospital. You were sick. And you won't ever accept help because you think it makes you too much of an omega or something, or that I'm going to use it to hurt you. I don't know how to convince you that I don't want to hurt you!"

Shane knew Ilya didn't want to hurt him, which was a testament to Ilya's innate kindness. But Shane's body was wired in at least three different ways to ensure it would submit to Ilya's body. Sometimes he liked that, but most of the time it disgusted him, and he never knew how to reconcile any of it with how good a man Ilya was.

Ilya had told Shane he had found his mother's body. Ilya described her as too much for the role she had been assigned - too bright, too loud, too lovely. The world's solution to that problem had been to dwindle her down to nothing. Maybe Ilya spent years watching Shane, from the careful remove Shane made sure to keep him, and thought the same thing that killed her was killing him.

"I don't know if I know how to do this," Shane admitted, meaning any of it. Maybe meaning being a person.

Ilya put a cautious hand on Shane's shoulder, where he was hunched over. "It's okay. Things are better now. We can fix it. It will be better in Boston. I can keep you safe. And they're good guys, not like the Metros. You'll-"

"You really believe that," Shane said. "You really think it's going to be different."

Ilya stopped with a frown. "Of course it will."

"Ilya," said Shane. "I'm a male omega. I'm an asian male omega. Yeah, okay, the Metros have been a problem, but not because they're special. Any team would have been like this. The world is like this. You think you somehow found the only twenty alphas in existence who aren't going to be assholes to me? Especially when it comes out that we've been fucking?"

Ilya drew himself up, arrogant in a way Shane knew meant he was feeling surprised and injured. "I won't let them."

"Great, so they won't be assholes to my face," said Shane. "Problem solved until you find the group chats. You're acting like I haven't met them, Ilya."

Ilya's expression crumpled into something frustrated and helpless. Of course he knew how things worked, even if Shane would bet Ilya thought he had more power to shape the raw clay of it than most.

"I'm trying, Shane," said Ilya, finally. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, looking lost. "I'm trying to figure this out. Fuck. I'm trying."

"I know," Shane said, leaning against Ilya's shoulder. He was so tired. "I am, too."

They didn't say anything for a while, just sat there, two points connected in space. Eventually, Ilya rested his head on top of Shane's and took a noisy breath.

"Do you not want to play for Boston?" Ilya asked.

"I don't know," Shane said. "I want to be with you. And you're right that it's probably the best solution."

"Maybe you're right, too, that Boston is not so special," Ilya said. "Cities, teams, they're not what's special. We'll figure something out. Just choose me, okay? Keep choosing me."

"Does it ever bother you that we didn't get to choose?" Shane asked. It felt a little unhinged to say it. They still seldom talked about it.

Ilya thought about it. "At first it did, yes," he said. "Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because I love you," Ilya said simply, and for the first time.

Shane blinked, a slow, bright smile crossing his face. He felt a giddy swell of pride in both of them for getting here. "Oh. Fuck."

Ilya looked mildly alarmed at this response. Shane hastened to add, "I love you too."

Ilya's expression melted, stuck somewhere between crying and laughing. Shane felt the same way. He grabbed Ilya's curls to pull him into a sweet, messy kiss.

Ilya grabbed Shane's face, kissing wet and sloppy like a dog overjoyed to see its owner. He pressed their forehead together and said, playful in a way Shane knew meant he was being deathly serious, "Besides, I was mostly only ever upset that you're forced to be stuck with me forever."

Shane cupped Ilya's face, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. "Hey. You deserve me. Okay?"

Ilya went damp all over, mouth trembling. He grabbed Shane close and buried his face in his shoulder, pulled tight and shuddering. Shane kissed his cheek and held him for a long time, feeling buoyant but anchored, a boat at harbor.

Later, in the dark, staring at the ceiling and knowing Ilya was also awake, Shane asked, "What if you bite me and I lose my edge on the ice? What if it makes me only want to do what you say? What if it makes me give up?"

Ilya made a rude noise. "That's not going to happen."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I've met you," Ilya said. "You are the love of my life, Shane Hollander. I spent almost a decade being completely obsessed with you. So I know better than anyone that you are an impossible, hard-headed asshole."

"Thanks," Shane said dryly.

"It's a good thing," Ilya insisted, kissing his temple. "It means when I bite you, and you won't get sick anymore or have to make nice with stupid knotheads, you're going to be an unstoppable force."

"Maybe," said Shane. He let himself move more fully into Ilya's side. "I was obsessed with you, too, you know. I'm, uh, still really obsessed with you, actually."

Ilya puffed up a little, not hiding his pleasure at the compliment. "I know. I am very sexy and good at hockey, and those are the only two things you like."

"What if I get bond powers?" Shane hadn't really been listening and burst out with, frankly, his stupidest fear. "It just feels like if it were going to happen to anyone, it would happen to me. What if I start levitating?"

Ilya pursed his mouth. "Then we pivot and start a YouTube channel. Prank people. Won't be so bad."

Shane snorted a laugh, idly scenting Ilya by rubbing his face against Ilya's jaw. Ilya's scent immediately brightened as a result. They settled in together to sleep; Shane on his back, Ilya sprawled over half of him, one leg nestled between Shane's, and his face tucked in the join of Shane's neck and shoulder.

"What do I smell like to you?" Shane asked. Ilya had asked him the same question months ago. Shane had told him but hadn't asked in kind. Ilya hadn't pressed.

"Hard to describe," Ilya said, taking it in stride now. "Very fresh. A little sweet. Like being inside on a cold night, maybe. I have always liked it very much."

Shane made a soft sound, flattered. He stroked Ilya's hair, his mind still a swirl of thoughts.

"We do need to be more careful next season, though," Shane said finally.

"I know," said Ilya, rubbing Shane's arm. "We will be."

Chapter End Notes

My apologies to any JJ fans for throwing him under the Friendzoned Nice Guy (tm) bus. Also, my apologies for most probably stealing that Minority Report group chat joke, even though I am no longer sure of its origins. If I stole it from you or someone you care about, it was only because I could not think of anything funnier on my own.

We're almost at the end! And it will be a happy ending, despite all the despair we waded through in this chapter.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

As summer drifted into sweet, cicada-heavy idleness, Shane settled into his cottage. He loved it immediately and ferociously, but he dreaded Ilya's visit. That was only a little true, obviously. Most of him was alive with anticipation of when he'd see Ilya again. The rest - Shane tried to tell himself that maybe he was jumping to conclusions. This was another thing they had never discussed, after all.

When they walked inside the cottage after Shane picked Ilya up from the airport, Ilya toed off his shoes and sauntered around, taking in the house. His expression was guarded, startled, at first, brow furrowed, but as he toured the kitchen, a smile started hovering on his face. Ilya saw the living room, and it began to curl into something smug. When they got to the bedroom, Ilya came to a halt, glancing at Shane over his shoulder with an incredulous and triumphant smirk.

Shane scowled, hands shoved in his pockets. "Okay, so I'm stupid."

"You didn't know!" Ilya crowed as he turned around to face him. "You spent years building this place, and you didn't even fucking know! How is that possible?"

Shane had never asked if Ilya had the dreams too, or what he dreamed about if he did. That was an error. Ilya was going to lord this over him for the rest of their lives. It wasn't that Shane hadn't known. It was just that at the beginning of the process, every time the information had presented itself to him, Shane let it skitter off the roof of his mind. And then, after a certain point, it just became too late to back out.

"I kind of knew. I didn't not know. I don't - it's just always been a style I liked, okay? And a lot of it is probably coincidence. It's not exactly like we get to tour the house during them. The dreams are kind of focused on the," Shane made a futile little hand gesture. "Main event."

Ilya sauntered over to him, a sleek and happy tiger. "You didn't recognize the headboard?"

"I sent you progress pictures," Shane said. It was really hard to think. Ilya had spent eleven hours on a plane and smelled intensely of recycled air and of himself. "You didn't figure it out, either."

Ilya cupped Shane's cheek, face almost blank with desire. "Yeah, but it's still not my fucking house, sweetheart."

"I'm in preheat," Shane grumbled, fussy, leaning into the touch. It had kicked in on the drive home, triggered by Ilya's proximity, making the rest of the trip a challenge. They had to pull over so Ilya could bend over the center console to give Shane a blowjob. "Be nice to me."

"I'm always nice," Ilya murmured, before kissing him, sweet, and slow, and heavy. The way Shane had dreamed of Ilya kissing him, in this house, since he was seventeen. Shane had dreamed about being kissed in this cottage since the grey day he met Ilya Rozanov in a parking lot.

They were all variations on a theme: Shane would dream about being in a beautiful house, all glass and warm wood, and Ilya would be there. And Ilya would look at him in a way that made Shane feel it in every part of his body, like all Ilya ever wanted to do was look at Shane. And Ilya would come over and kiss him like they were inventing it. They'd go to bed, where Ilya would fuck Shane with wild abandon, cherishing him. Shane would cherish him back.

And then, Shane would dream that Ilya, his cock still so thick and wonderful as it pounded inside him, sank his teeth into Shane's neck and claimed him. Shane's blood would run down Ilya's chin while Shane shouted from deep in his chest, bowing his back, lit up with something so electric and profound that he would become a slightly different version of himself after feeling it. After feeling the bond form.

And then Shane would wake up alone. Sometimes, he'd wake up achingly hard and so wet the mattress would be soaked through. Sometimes, he would wake up crying, or gasping with fear, or with a grin on his face. But he'd always wake up alone.

It wouldn't happen today, but it would happen here. Shane had known that for almost a decade, before here was a physical place. It wasn't surprising, really. There were so many ways Shane had always been building a home for Ilya.

They compared notes while they hung out on the couch between rounds, trying to trigger Shane's heat. They had untied themselves, but Ilya stayed flopped on top of Shane. Ilya said he had the dreams less frequently than Shane, only every few months. But Ilya's sounded more intense than his.

"One time I broke a bed," Ilya admitted, chagrined.

"Broke it how?" Shane asked, equal parts amused and intrigued.

"Snapped two of the - the boards? Underneath?"

"The slats?"

"Yes, the slats," Ilya said. "I was very young. The dreams were stronger back then."

Shane petted his hair. "I'm sorry. That sounds rough."

Ilya shrugged. "Eh, it wasn't so bad. It made me think that if dreaming about fucking the gorgeous omega who came up to me in a parking lot and shook my hand like it was nothing had me breaking the furniture, maybe I should do it for real. So I called my agent to see if omega might be interested in shooting a commercial with me."

Shane's fingers slowed. "What?"

Ilya reared up on his elbows to look at him with one of his big, gleeful wolfhound grins.

"Seriously?" Shane asked, pulling him back down. "You set that up?"

"Of course I did," Ilya said.

"Why?" asked Shane, knowing the answer and wanting to hear it anyway.

"I just said - I wanted to fuck you," Ilya said. "And I thought you might be into that."

"You should have told me," said Shane, enjoying this enormously.

"I told you I wanted to fuck you," Ilya said. "I was very clear."

"Not that," Shane got a hand on Ilya's back, feeling out the muscle. "That you arranged it."

"It was not exactly easy to work into conversation," Ilya said. "By the time it would have come up, you had already put my dick your mouth."

That did sound accurate. Shane kissed him, then brought Ilya's head down to rest on his chest, where Ilya settled happily. "I can't believe you planned a big scheme to see if I wanted to hook up with you."

"You were very interesting," Ilya said, wrapping an arm around him. "Omega as good at hockey as me. Smelled like he wanted me to fuck him right there on the floor. Always looking at me with big cow eyes."

"Hey," said Shane.

"Beautiful cow eyes," Ilya said, leaning up to kiss his forehead. "Cow eyes I dreamed about. I wanted to make the right play."

"So you pheromone-bombed me in a locker room?" asked Shane, dry as bone. "That was the right play?"

Ilya tilted his head to the side to meet Shane's eyes, looking at Shane with such wonderful sweetness that Shane took his hand and kissed his fingers.

"It worked, didn't it?" asked Ilya.

"Yeah," said Shane. "It worked."

***

When his contract negotiations began, and Farah begged off telling him the Metro's initial offer with a breezy, "It's a process, Shane," Shane gave up.

Not really in an emotional way, or not entirely. Just a sense of exhalation, of 'oh, this is it.' The Metros thought he had an alpha, so he should retire, assuming no other team would want an omega on the verge of mating either, and they were not above trying to force the issue. He wasn't worth the many costs of keeping him because he had proven himself difficult and disloyal.

Shane talked it over with Ilya. After the inevitable fight about Ilya not knowing what JJ did at All Stars until now, and Shane's habit of keeping critical information from people who could help him, Ilya, in particular, Ilya said he thought Shane turning JJ down was the final straw. Ilya explained it like someone who would know. It must have been understood that Shane was earmarked for JJ, meaning the rest of the Metros didn't have to compete over him. Now he was simultaneously a cheating slut and fair game, and the Metros were content to sacrifice their hot streak to keep harmony in the locker room. It seemed so mundane, compared to all the other ways he'd made trouble for them. Just an ego blow, at the end of the day.

As Ilya immediately pointed out, it was going to be really fucking funny when they announced who Shane's alpha was and this backfired on the Metros spectacularly. Shane laughed too, but he ached about it. He wasn't sad, not exactly. More like he had already made the decision, but now the decision had also been made for him. Playing for Boston was the only conceivable path forward. There was no salvaging his relationship with the team that drafted him, the team he had won two cups for. He had failed. The Metros had failed him consistently, but now Shane had also failed to live up to his own expectation to succeed despite that. He saw it with a strange, clear-eyed exhaustion. For now, he just let it sit in a corner of himself, unexamined, because he needed to put his head down and get through this.

He would still play hockey, he reminded himself. They wouldn't be able to take it away from him, and that was really all that mattered. Or at least it was the core of everything that mattered. Shane knew that was the one thing he couldn't survive, losing hockey.

Shane had told Farah the plan by then, so she just said she would do her usual good-faith negotiations with front office to give Shane cover. Ilya wasn't going to approach the Raiders' management until the minute it became necessary, assuming with good reason that they would agree to whatever Shane's terms were in a hurry.

An interesting thing was happening in the media. As Shane's significance in the MLH became undeniable, his narrative was shifting away from an unresolved grievance with Dallas Kent. Kent was getting mired in allegations and lawsuits, anyway; chatter about him was receding into the background. Instead, the story became more about the dynamic tension between Shane Hollander, the only omega in the league, and Ilya Rozanov, the alpha's alpha. Suddenly, they were constantly interviewed about each other. The interstitials compared their play styles, how they were neck-and-neck; pundits squabbled over who had the edge at any given moment. Yuna even got some pitches about joint ad campaigns. Shane had to pretend to be blase about Ilya multiple times a week, and it was agonizing.

"It's ironic when you think about it," Rose said on their weekly call. Shane had introduced her and Ilya almost six weeks ago, at a homemade brunch that Rose approached like a vigilante detective and that Ilya approached like a participant in a battle royale. Shane was giving them a year to become friends organically before he started insisting they try harder. "With your stats, you should have been considered rivals this whole time, but it's happening now?"

"I don't love that we're being linked together in the press this much," Shane said.

"It's not ideal," Rose agreed reluctantly. "But I wouldn't really worry about it. They're hooking you up with a new alpha on the internet every day of the week."

Ilya was usually on the polls ranking people's guesses of the identity of Shane's secret alpha, which didn't worry Shane because those polls had been floating around since Shane was nineteen. Shane's personal favorite contender had been the prime minister, who was younger and handsome. Shane had met him four times, and he was always a stone-cold politician about it. "Same to you."

"Yes," Rose said, wistfully. "But I've been claimed by the stage."

"You're a film actress," Shane reminded her.

"Spoilsport," she said. She added, because she found some way to bring it up ever since Shane told her about it a few weeks ago, "But maybe the stage would also knot me every time we fucked."

"It's not that weird," Shane said, although Rose had given him the impression it was, indeed, pretty unusual in a way that made him a little uncomfortable.

"I wouldn't say weird," Rose said, case in point. She was clearly blanketing her actual opinion. "Just... that boy really likes you a lot."

"He does," said Shane.

They spent a moment in companionable silence until Rose said, keeping it light. "Less than a year, huh?"

"Yeah," said Shane. "Less than a year."

She looked at him with a lot of love and just the smallest twinge of sympathy. Not enough to insult, but enough to reassure him she was the only person he knew who would get that this had been a weighty decision. That there were trade-offs. It was such a valuable gift Rose had given him: someone who got it.

"Hey, I'm really proud of you," Rose said. "I know this has taken a lot. And I think it's going to go amazing. I think you're going to be really, really happy."

"I do, too," Shane said honestly. "I know I'm doing the right thing."

"You are," she said.

It was true. Shane believed it was true. And he also knew Rose was genuinely happy for him. But they never did the pre-claiming things other omegas did together, like shop for collars and claiming lingerie. It had never even come up, and he and Rose had some version of this conversation pretty frequently.

****

Ilya's rut hit in the middle of the season, too early for Shane to be claimed, so Shane Skyped with Ilya instead of being there in person. As Ilya had said, the duration was brief, just four hours of what turned out to be gorgeous, unrestrained chaos. Ilya spent half an hour describing in graphic detail what he was going to do to all the people he heard talk shit about Shane over the years, which turned Shane on so much it made him worry there was something genuinely wrong with him.

"And then I'll make them all watch," Ilya snarled, snapping his hips into a fleshlight while he stared at Shane through the screen with lighthouse intensity. He was dividing his punishment by categories: these were all the people who had talked about Shane's ass in front of him. Ilya was pumped, radiant, savage. Shane had already come four times, and he was so hard again now that he was lightheaded.

"They're still lying broken on the ground," Ilya said, voice straining. "But they can see me fuck you better than they ever could. It's all over their fucking faces, and they're all so hard. Watching me fuck you makes them so hard. But they know you're mine, you're for me, no one can fuck you like me. I get you to come so fucking much. You fucking love it when I fuck you in that gorgeous ass. They see me fuck you and they know you're mine. They say we're sorry, Ilya, he's yours, we get it now, kick the shit out of us some more. But I'm busy. I fucking knot you in front of all of those fuckers, pump you full of my baby. And they're pissed, they're so fucking mad that I'm the only one who gets to fuck you because I'm the only one who can fuck you this hard and this good, make you scream so loud."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck," Shane chanted, jerking himself off frantically while working himself with two fingers before coming again, the edges of his vision whiting out.

When he could parse language again, he heard Ilya clearly repeating himself. "How big?"

"What?" mumbled Shane.

"Dagenais," Ilya said impatiently. "How big's his dick?"

"I don't know," Shane answered yet again, keeping it mild. This was maybe the first time he was legitimately glad he wasn't allowed in the locker room. "I've never seen it, Ilya."

"Mine is bigger," Ilya said, stroking his knot while he stared at Shane with the dumb cunning of a predator. "Yes?"

"Absolutely, Ilya," Shane said, rolling over to grab for the wet wipes. Shane also had a pretty big dick, but this wasn't the time to bring that up. "Yours is way bigger."

****

They almost made it through the season. Really, it just figured that they got so close. And Shane had woken up so excited on the day it had all fallen apart.

He was going to see Ilya for the first time since his father's death. Ilya had been in Moscow for only five days, but had told Shane that it was long enough. Ilya said he was figuring things out. He seemed somber sometimes, sad or reflective at others. He and Shane talked for long hours on the phone as Ilya spent his nights walking around Moscow. They spoke mostly in English, but occasionally Ilya lapsed into Russian when he had to say something too guttural for Western consonants. Shane could pick out some of the Russian by now - enough to get a general sense of the demands Ilya felt on him, a taste of the complications in his grief. When Shane didn't understand the words, he would close his eyes and let them fall gently on his face like rain.

Shane hadn't seen Ilya for a few weeks before his father's death, and he felt his absence keenly. During warmups, he watched Ilya stretch impassively on center ice, wishing he could go over there. He thought about it - under the guise of wishing Rozanov condolences, maybe. But Shane was being watched too critically these days, and the move would be too out of the ordinary. It wasn't worth the risk.

When they met for the first faceoff, the world cocooned around them. Shane couldn't help grinning and got an answering one from Ilya, all boyish excitement. He loved to play against Ilya. Shane wouldn't be half the player he was now if he didn't have Ilya as an opposing force; if they hadn't spent their careers orbiting around each other. Even beyond hockey, Shane learned to trust Ilya because of how eagerly Ilya took every opportunity to play with him.

He was looking forward to meeting with Ilya tonight. He wanted to order dinner from the new banh mi place down the street that did lettuce wraps. Shane wanted to sit on the couch with Ilya while Ilya told him more about the funeral and whether Ilya thought the estrangement with his brother was permanent. He wanted to bury his face in Ilya's hair, breathe him in, and feel like himself again.

Instead, in the neutral zone, Cliff Marleau crashed into Shane like a freight train, and he collapsed on the ice with a heavy, wet thud of plastic and meat.

When he came to, he was being strapped to a spinal board, and he knew something was wrong. He felt woozy, and his head was ringing, and something was wrong. Something in his chest was wrong.

"Hey," he slurred. A higher function in him recognized he needed to alert a medical professional. "Hey. I think I need…"

"Shane, keep still for us, okay? Just try to stay awake," said the calm, strident voice of a paramedic.

"No, listen," Shane said. He squinted when the lights were too bright, feeling the lure of unconsciousness even as he felt the wrong thing in his chest get worse, his heart beating like a frightened bird. He was being jostled in the gurney. It was moving so fast. "I think - I think I need…"

"What, Shane? What do you need?" asked the voice, more intense now, making itself heard over a frantic mechanical beeping.

"Ilya," Shane mumbled, gratefully falling back under. "My alpha. I need Ilya."

***

Shane woke up to a much calmer, steadier beeping, and Ilya sitting across from him in a hospital chair. Ilya was wearing hospital scrubs, and his hair was curlicues of drying sweat. He held a cup of coffee, and he had deep grooves cut under his eyes. He smelled bitter.

"Baby," Shane cooed, overjoyed that his alpha was here. He flopped out a hand towards Ilya. "Why're you sad?"

Ilya's head snapped up like a gunshot, and he grabbed Shane's hand. Shane brought it close, scenting Ilya's fingers clumsily.

"I guess that answers that question," said a voice that definitely belonged to Shane's dad.

"Oh no," said Shane. He darted his eyes around, although things were pretty blurry. His parents were sitting in chairs pulled up to the end of the bed. That was pretty embarrassing.

Yuna and David also looked relieved and haggard, although they were wearing real clothes. Yuna rushed to take his other hand. His parents hadn't been at the game. He knew that because he remembered Yuna was annoyed he had asked them not to come. "Oh, thank god, Shane. How do you feel?"

"I'm okay," Shane said. Everything hurt, but other than that, he felt pretty good. Kind of like he did during heat, except cloudy and tingling at the periphery instead of addled. He looked between the three of them. "Oh, hey, we're all here."

"I'll let the doctor know he's awake," said David, heading into the hallway.

"You're okay," Yuna said, a little tearful in a way that alarmed him from a great and hazy distance. "You sure you feel okay, sweetie?"

"My head hurts," said Shane. His shoulder hurt too, and he was sore all over, but it took too much effort to say all of that.

"The doctor will be here to check you out in a second," Yuna said. "But you're going to be just fine. When the doctor comes, she'll explain everything."

"I got hit, right?" Shane said, squinting against the light. "But I'm okay?"

"You're okay," Ilya confirmed, squeezing his hand.

"But you're here," Shane said muzzily to him, trying to work that out.

Above Shane's head, Yuna and Ilya's eyes met in wordless conversation.

"Shane," Yuna said carefully. "What else do you remember?"

Shane didn't remember much. Ilya, Yuna, David, and the doctor, when David came back in with her, told Shane that he sustained a concussion and a broken collarbone from the hit from Marleau. Then, on the spinal board, being taken off the ice, Shane went into ventricular tachycardia. The EMTs - heroes, all of them - put two and two together from his mumbling and one raced back to the rink. On the off-chance Shane Hollander was referring to Ilya Rozanov, he needed his alpha immediately to have any hope of stabilizing before they got to the hospital. Yuna said Ilya hadn't even taken off his skates before he went down the tunnel, riding in the back of the ambulance with Shane in full kit, emitting pheromones and holding Shane's hand the whole ride to keep Shane's vitals steady.

"You ruined your skates," Shane told Ilya, feeling sorry for him and a shade judgmental.

Ilya smiled at him, worry tight in his eyes. "Yeah, Hollander. I did. Is okay."

"Do people know?" asked Shane. "Is it bad?"

Ilya glanced at Shane's parents, stalwart as a soldier, then back at Shane again. Still stiff, but with a tremulous cast to his jaw. "People know," said Ilya. He squeezed Shane's hand. "It's - yes. It's pretty bad."

"Okay," Shane said. The morphine the doctor had re-upped for him was kicking in, cradling him in a gentle fog. "I'm going back to sleep now."

"We'll all be here when you wake up, honey," said Yuna.

"Mm-hm," Shane said, eyelids already drooping. "Okay."

****

At some point a few hours later, he crested from sleep to a heavy doze. Technically conscious enough to hear the noises in the room around him, but not enough to feel any desire to fully wake up. It was nice to hover in the dark. To just exist for once.

"Oh, thank you," said Yuna, sounding startled as the door opened and heavy footsteps came in. "You didn't have to do that."

"No problem," said Ilya. "I was getting myself one anyway. How has he been?"

"Still sleeping," said Yuna. "I haven't watched him sleep this much since he was a little kid. Come, please sit."

There were various rustles and heavier sounds, the squeak of a plastic chair settling. Yuna said, "I hope you're feeling better after a shower."

"Oh," said Ilya. He sounded polite and a little uncomfortable. "Yes, thank you. If you want one-"

"No, no. I'm fine for now," said Yuna. She paused, "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry this is how we had to meet. But it really is so wonderful to meet you."

"It is good to meet you, too," said Ilya. "It has been very good to see how much you and David love Shane."

"He's our baby," said Yuna. "It never goes away."

Ilya hummed slightly.

"And he's just gone on you," Yuna said, gossipy enough that it nearly roused Shane from his twilight haze. "You should know, it's not because… I don't want you to think that us not meeting before has been because that's what David and I wanted, but I also don't want you to think Shane-"

"No, I understand," said Ilya. "He has to bring me in slowly."

"That's one way of putting it," Yuna said, with a mildly irritated sigh. "I blame myself a little, actually, for why he's always been this way about you. He was under so much pressure as a kid. We really wanted him to have hockey, if that's what he wanted. And he's always wanted to please us."

"He loves you very much," Ilya said. "He told me he doesn't think anyone could have done a better job being his parents."

"I don't know," said Yuna. "You always think of everything you should have done better in hindsight. His presentation was such a disaster. He had already been anxious he was aging out of the window to present as an alpha. He was worried he might not be taken seriously as a league prospect as a beta. Him being an omega was so far off our radar. And it was sudden-onset - he woke up one morning just covered in blood. It shocked the hell out of all of us. And there were complications, he needed a minor surgery.... It was all so awful. And then he just… didn't talk for a year. I mean, he'd answer a direct question; he was still very polite. But otherwise, he just shut down. And every spare minute, he'd go to the rink. Stay there from open to close on weekends. It was Shane, though, so he made sure to take enough breaks to prevent injury. A lot of times I'd catch him just sitting up in the stands staring at the ice."

"He must have been very scared," said Ilya.

"Oh, we were all terrified," said Yuna. "Both David and I have beta moms. We had no idea what we were doing. I was up all night worrying what would happen to him if this held him back. We tried, though. We tried very hard. I kept telling him something, oh, like - your life doesn't have to change. Looking back, I don't know if that was the right thing to say. But I really wanted it to be true for him."

"He always says he couldn't have done it without you," said Ilya.

Yuna made a slightly rueful sound. "God, one time I even asked him if he felt like he presented wrong, if he felt like a beta inside. Because there were things we could do about that. He could get the surgery, go on hormones... And he said no, it felt right, he just wished it didn't feel right. Because it was so inconvenient. That's the word he used - 'inconvenient.'"

The sound of a chair creaking. Ilya said, "Back in Russia, when news of Canadian hockey-playing omega broke, I thought it must be a joke. Then I saw his game tape. I thought, 'This is a person who fights for what he deserves. This is important.' My father wanted me to play for KHL. But for me, it would have been prison, staying in Russia. I am alpha of the family, though. I thought I didn't have a choice. You know how it is."

"I do," said Yuna.

"Seeing someone fight the whole world to be who they are," Ilya said. "Was… very inspiring. Made me change my mind."

Yuna's voice was thick. "I think you two were finding your way to each other, even back then."

"Yes," said Ilya. "I have also thought this."

Unable to fight the pull of sleep any longer, Shane slipped back under.

***

They broke the news to Shane slowly, in drips and drabs. Ilya was stuck in scrubs because he and Shane's parents weren't leaving the hospital due to the press camped outside the doors. Security was doing an exemplary job of keeping reporters out of the building, but they were mildly under siege. Ilya leaving the game with Shane had been a seismic event. Everyone knew what it meant, or at least could assume some version of what it meant. Yuna said, euphemistically, that the response had been 'spirited.' Even the doctors and nurses, bustling in and out with professional efficiency, were eyeing them with barely restrained interest.

Shane's contract with the Metros had been terminated while he was still unconscious, less than eight hours after the game ended, citing gross breach of terms. His family told Shane about it the next afternoon, when he was eating a fruit cup as best he could with one arm in a sling. Shane paused, nodded, and asked if he could have a pudding cup, too.

The concussion was kind of a godsend. The pain meds, for one - Shane spent the three days of his hospital stay not caring about anything very much at all. Every piece of news he received felt fairly ethereal, waiting out there in the atmosphere to be grasped fully at a later date. The concussion also meant Shane couldn't go near screens even if he wanted to, so he was blissfully oblivious of the internet howling itself into the abyss. His parents were monitoring his phone and told him they checked in with the Pikes and Rose to let them know that Shane was all right. Shane didn't have to ask to know that no one else from the Metros had reached out, or at least not to say anything that his parents would relay to Shane.

Yuna asked him if he wanted to release a statement. If he and Ilya wanted to disclose that they were true mates.

"Why?" asked Shane.

"It makes you more sympathetic," Yuna said. "It would help control the narrative a little bit." She hesitated. "It provides legal protection, too, if anyone decides to sue."

"Sure," said Shane. "Kimber can whip up something. That okay with you, Ilya?"

Ilya had been haunted and stiff since Shane had woken up for good. He had spent more time than he clearly wanted to in the hallway, muttering darkly on the phone. Apparently, the Raiders were marking him as a healthy scratch, as they were left without a lot of other options when their star player walked out of a game and refused to go back. He had to attend a disciplinary hearing in a few weeks, which Shane could skip on account of being currently banished from the league. Shane was likely still in a whole mess of trouble, but it would be hard to argue he was throwing games for Ilya after he just won two Stanley Cups, which would be the only charge that could potentially prevent him from being signed by the Raiders. For Ilya, none of it really mattered, though - the MLH just needed some theater of outrage for a minute or two before Ilya would be allowed to stay in Canada to provide medical aid to his omega, regardless of who that omega happened to be.

"Yes, we should do it," Ilya agreed. "We need to get protection from players' union too, since I won't be back for rest of season."

"What? Yes, you will," said Shane. "You made the playoffs."

Ilya's eyes darted to the Hollanders sitting by the bed. Ilya had been polite and sturdy in front of Shane's parents. He had looked vaguely strangled every time Shane told him how hot he looked in his scrubs when they were in the room, even though it was true and Shane was trying to make him smell less anxious. "Let's discuss this later, dorogoy."

"Mom," Shane implored. "Tell him."

Yuna barely hid her amusement. "I think Ilya recognizes the most important thing right now is your recovery, sweetheart. You heard what the doctor said about his presence being stabilizing for you."

"That's dumb," Shane groused, letting his head fall back on the pillow. He got the impression that a lot of strategies were being hatched around and for him without his say-so, but given that reality was still going woozy for him periodically, he let it slide.

Shane was significantly more cogent by the time he was discharged. To his surprise, Jorge came to his room with a duffel bag of clothes for Ilya, and escorted his parents out of the building through a side door before he came back for Ilya and Shane.

Ilya dressed quickly, then helped Shane put on his shirt and strap on his sling again. Ilya had gelled his hair, the curls perfunctorily slicked back. "Ready?"

"Are you okay?" Shane asked, now that his parents were finally gone. He kept insisting that Ilya should join the Raiders for the playoffs at least, even if he skipped the regular season, since Shane would be mostly recovered by then. Ilya kept making vague, dismissive sounds. That would have been what was bothering Shane, but he wasn't positive that was what was bothering Ilya.

"I'm fine," Ilya said, smoothed into too-tight blankness. "You good? You ready?"

"Probably not," Shane admitted, glancing at the door. "I'm trying not to think about it. We'll be at the cottage by this afternoon. I keep focusing on that."

A little bit of sweetness pursed itself in Ilya's mouth. "Yes. We'll have the whole summer there."

"And whenever you're ready to talk about it, I'm here, okay?" Shane added, squeezing Ilya's arm.

Ilya's face somehow got even tighter at that. He nodded a few times jaggedly and squeezed Shane's shoulders.

Jorge came back, catching them like that. Ilya kept his hands where they were. "Okay. You two good to go?"

"I'm ready," said Shane.

"Let's go," said Ilya. His expression flashed on something devilish. "At least this part will be fun."

"Man, you ain't kidding," said Jorge, alpha to alpha in a way Shane was intimately familiar with observing but felt unexpectedly different between these two guys. "This part is going to be so fun."

"My man," said Ilya, slapping Jorge's back on the way out the door, his other fist already wrapped gently around Shane's bicep. "Then let's get this show on the fucking road, huh?"

The pictures of them leaving the hospital became almost as iconic a representation of the scandal as Ilya's reaction to Shane's collapse on the ice. The videos of him screaming at the paramedics and the refs as they blocked him from getting close to Shane played on a loop on the news. But Buzzfeed and TMZ bolstered their articles with photos of Ilya, his arm wrapped around Shane's shoulder, protective and defiant in the face of the sea of reporters, ushering Shane from the hospital door to the car, Jorge, ahead of them, forging a path through the throng. In the photos, Ilya looked fierce and smug. If you knew him at all, it was clear he was having the time of his life. Shane, who was roughly of a height with his alpha, was tucked under Ilya's arm as much as he could be, pale, sling plainly visible. His head was tilted slightly down, but his shoulders were back, and his expression didn't give anything away. Shane knew why the pictures were considered so arresting. They were a modern fairytale. An alpha sheltering his omega from an obvious threat. The two most famous hockey players in the world surviving a half-complete soulbond since they met as teenagers. Shocking. Unprecedented. Old as fucking time.

"You fucking vultures!" Ilya yelled happily when the car doors slammed shut, Ilya and Shane in the back. He had said worse to the reporters' faces. "Who gives a fuck about you when we are as cool as shit?"

Jorge drove them back to Shane's house. Another throng of reporters was huddled by the security gate to the entrance of his community, but that was easier because the press couldn't enter the premises without trespassing and the three of them didn't have to get out of the car. His parents were waiting for them at the house. The four of them would drive to Lanaudiere together, and Yuna and David were in there packing up now. Jorge pulled into the driveway, parked, and turned to face them. "Hey. I just want to say it's been a honor working for you, man."

"Thank you," Shane said, remembering. Jorge was a Metro employee. Their relationship was over. He didn't even know what Jorge was doing here now. "I - yeah, wow. Same here. Sorry, I should have asked - if the Metros didn't send you, why are you-"

"Your mom called," Jorge said. "Asked me if I could do you guys a favor."

Shane swallowed. "Thanks, man." He cleared his throat. "I also just, uh, wanted to say sorry I-"

"Why the fuck would you tell anybody?" Jorge said. "No apology necessary. You don't owe me shit, man."

Shane barely got out a "Thanks," his throat was so lumped up.

"Okay, yes, you are that Jorge," Ilya said, bounding forward to brace his forearm against the back of the passenger seat. "Good. I have two things I want to say to you."

"Okay," Jorge said, slightly guarded.

"First thing," Ilya said. "You have been a very good friend to Shane. Thank you for that."

"Oh. Thanks, man," Jorge said, surprised and touched.

"Second thing - fucking hell, get it together for Vanessa already," said Ilya. "You think you'll do better than a redhead who made four lasagnas for your cousin's christening when the caterer fell through? Shut up. Marry that girl."

"Uhh," Jorge said, eyeing Shane, who squirmed guiltily in his seat. "Um. Yeah, okay."

"Okay, good," said Ilya, already having moved on as he opened the car door. "Come, Shane. Lets go."

***

During his allotted hour of screen time a day during the first week at the cottage, Shane read the links Rose and Jackie sent him. The story had broken sports journalism containment; Shane and Ilya were ubiquitous components of the general news cycle for a good month. There were a lot of thinkpieces written about them. They were a common topic on morning shows.

Opinions were, to Shane's surprise, mixed. Yuna had been right, as always, and Shane was glad they got the blood tests done in the hospital, because the biological mates angle went a long way. The bond itself being out of their control absolved Shane of most of the accusations that he was a mercenary alpha-hunter, but plenty of people still found reasons to drag his name through the mud. Shane was sure there was truly vile garbage about him all over the internet, spewed by media personalities and casual fans alike, but he surprised everyone in his life with how profoundly uncurious he was to seek it out. Shane supposed he was built different.

Still, though, Rose kept pointing out that the cooler satirical news programs, and late-night hosts, and something called breadtube were all taking his side, saying pretty much what Jorge had intimated in the car. They talked about his rookie contract, and his not being nominated for the Hart or the Conn Smythe, and Dallas Kent. They said that he had undeniably violated his contract, but why were those provisions in his contract anyway, and if the MLH had a proven track record of taking every opportunity to punish Shane Hollander for being an omega, why on earth would he hand them the silver bullet that could take him down?

Maybe it was the head injury, but Shane couldn't even really absorb the implications of that the first few times he heard people say it. And when he could absorb it, it hurt to sit with. He had always known he had an uphill climb, but in the way he knew gravity existed. As a force so intrinsic to his life that it would never have occurred to him, on his own, to ask for an explanation of how it got there. These people were saying those things were done to him, less ambient, more actively malevolent. Shane didn't know what to do with that, how it confirmed every late-night suspicion he ever had, so he filed it away for later.

For not disclosing their relationship, Ilya had to attend a couple of meetings with the Raiders front office, who weren't exactly happy with him, but perked up considerably when told they were acquiring Shane Hollander next season as a mated omega. They let a lot of things slide after that. Ilya had a meeting with the league Department of Player Safety, too, which he took as a Zoom call from the cottage. It lasted twenty-five minutes. Ilya was suspended from a game he wasn't going to attend anyway and had to pay a two-thousand-dollar fine. Shane spent the meeting in the hammock outside, listening to an audiobook about the rugby team that survived being stranded in the Andes.

Shane was fastidious in sticking to his screen time limits. He wanted to heal. Shane slathered up in sunscreen to go doze on a lounge chair on the dock, waded up to his waist in the lake so he wouldn't get his sling wet, tried reading fiction for once, and listened to high-net earner personal finance podcasts as he did his modified workouts. During all of it, Ilya circled him like a perplexed shark, often lurking several feet away from wherever Shane was doing whatever he was doing, frowning and asking if Shane would rather do something else instead.

"I am worried you are having a complete mental breakdown," Ilya said immediately the first time Shane called him on it.

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "That makes sense. I mean, I probably am, right?"

"Either that or one is coming," said Ilya.

Shane shrugged. He didn't think he was in denial, at least. Shane didn't feel good, exactly, but he did feel anesthetized in a manner he agreed with Ilya was likely unhealthy. He'd still much rather be in this than out of it. "I don't know, though. I mean, probably, yeah. But I also feel like… I spent so much time freaking out about something like this happening, I worked so hard to avoid it, but here we are anyway. I'm still washed. So maybe I should try not worrying so much this time and see what happens."

Ilya looked entirely unconvinced. "If you really felt that way, you would be talking to your publicist and Farah."

Yuna had been handling that for Shane, acting in his stead. She was in constant conversation with the players' union, Farah, and the Raiders' front office, as they tried to cover eight months of negotiation in three weeks. Shane still approved all her decisions, but he was doing it by rote. Back at the hospital, Shane and Ilya had released statements on Instagram and asked for privacy during Shane's recovery. The inevitable joint interview was looming, but they could put it off for at least a month or two.

"Next week, okay?" said Shane. "Right now, we're on vacation. So, we can sit around and mope or I can finally start learning how to take your knot in my mouth."

Ilya, visibly, warred with his demons. "Fine," he said, demons winning. "But I'm keeping an eye on you."

"You'd better," Shane said smokily.

Ilya had a point though, since two days later he found Shane screaming and punching the padded wall of the home gym.

"I'm not having a breakdown," Shane tried to explain, wiping away tears and blood. "I set a timer on my phone. I get fifteen minutes to do this."

Ilya didn't say anything. He just waited until the fifteen minutes were up, and took Shane into his arms.

***

Now that they were both at the cottage, the dreams were getting vivid enough to feel hallucinatory, and they were both having them in the same bed. A few nights in a row, Shane had woken up panting and hard under Ilya, with Ilya's mouth on his neck. They would freeze and disengage, sometimes laughing sheepishly.

"We could just do it," Shane said, after the third time. He initially wanted to put it we could just get it over with, but changed course. "Hold a little celebration later. Lots of people do that."

"I don't want to elope," Ilya said moodily. "I want to do this right. We have nothing to be ashamed of."

He didn't add that soulmate bonding ceremonies were usually lavish affairs. Soulmate bonding was a much bigger deal than regular bonding, which just cemented a hormonal link. A soulmate bond did that too, but forged a much stronger chain, facilitated a much more profound connection. And that would certainly be true for them, especially when the blood test results revealed a shockingly high bond level. The morning show hosts loved that part in particular - "A six out of seven!" they would say. Back in the day, they'd be expected to have a three-day party. Ilya would probably be crowned king or whatever. The two of them wanted something low-key, but Ilya was insistent he did want something.

For a few weeks, Ilya would lie with Shane until Shane drifted off, then go and sleep in the guestroom.

There were little tensions and frictions like that throughout the first few weeks at the cottage, but mostly they tried to enjoy the time before the claiming and joining the Raiders announcement dropped and the world exploded again. In a lot of ways, the time really was idyllic, in the way that bunkering down during the apocalypse was probably cozy. Shane and Ilya had dinner with Shane's parents every other day and spent most of their waking hours in leisure pursuits, including Shane figuring out how to safely get his mouth knotted. He mastered the skill in four days. After much contentious debate with both Shane and the Raiders front office, Ilya flew back to Boston for the playoffs. Shane had convinced him to go mostly by reminding Ilya that if Shane were playing for the Raiders next season, he didn't want to start his time there with Boston fans rabid for his head because he kept their superstar center out of the playoffs the previous season.

The Raiders lost in the first round, and Ilya was back in Canada two days later. He was with Shane and his parents at their family cottage as they watched the seventh game of the Stanley Cup Final, when the Admirals won and Scott Hunter kissed his male alpha boyfriend at center ice in celebration. Shane wasn't scandalized, but he knew his mouth was hanging open. Watching an impossible thing happen knocked him off his axis a bit. A horrible little part of him was also quietly relieved that the news cycle was going to direct itself towards this for a solid length of time.

Shane tucked his arm into the crook of Ilya's elbow. Ilya was watching the kiss thoughtfully. Ilya liked all three. This was surely meaningful to him, but Shane didn't want to say anything in front of his parents.

"Good for Scott Hunter," David decided finally. "That was a very brave thing to do."

"Yeah," said Shane. "It really was."

Ilya nodded, but didn't add anything. Ilya was pretty quiet for the rest of the visit and on the car ride home. Back at the cottage, getting ready for bed, Ilya said, "I would have still wanted you if you were an alpha."

Shane thought about that over the buzz of his electric toothbrush, spitting his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. "I think I would have still wanted you if I were an alpha, too."

"It would have also been a fucking nightmare," Ilya said. "A worse nightmare, you think?"

"I don't know," said Shane, joining him in bed. "I mean, I'm not exactly jealous of Hunter right now. I should text him tomorrow, though. You should too, if you can find a way not to be an asshole about it."

"Why would I be asshole?" Ilya said, all innocence. "Hunter did impressive thing. Ninety-seven year old man kissed his boyfriend without dentures falling out."

"Seriously," Shane said, knowing his grin was too besotted for this to hold a lot of water.

Ilya held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I will be nice."

"Thank you," said Shane.

Later, head resting on Shane's stomach, Ilya said. "When the Soviets came to power, they said that all genders were equal under communism. Omegas and betas get same rights as alphas."

Shane sort of thought he remembered that he knew that. It hadn't worked out that way, obviously. Americans used it as an example of the absurdity of socialism, both the desire for change and the attempt itself collapsing. "It's nice to think people want that."

"I think you'll hate me," Ilya said. "When you have your breakdown."

"Hey, what?" Shane said. "No."

He pulled Ilya up, cupping the back of his neck. Ilya was trying and failing to look normal. Scott Hunter had been brave; maybe Ilya was now trying to be brave. "Or when I claim you. When this all hits you. You will hate me for ruining your life."

"You didn't ruin my life," Shane said. He didn't know who he would be without Ilya, but he didn't think he would like that person. He didn't think that Shane would be any happier. But that was so absurd, Ilya probably meant the accident. "You didn't do anything. Everyone gets their bell rung eventually. None of it was your fault."

Ilya didn't look convinced. Ilya had black moods. They talked about it sometimes, but Ilya hadn't done anything about them yet. That was okay; Shane could be patient.

Ilya said, "Just promise you'll choose me."

Shane stroked his thumb across Ilya's jaw. "I'll always choose you. No matter what."

When he sent Hunter a congratulations text the next day, including a joking aside thanking Scott for taking the attention off of him for a while. Hunter responded, you were an inspiration, not gonna lie. You're way too good for him, btw. Shane thought Hunter, like Shane himself, wasn't really joking.

A week or so later, Shane got a text from Troy Barrett from Toronto, of all people, asking if they could have a call. A lot of hockey players had been contacting Shane lately, either to insult him or, mystifyingly, still trying to hit him up, but Barrett's message was more awkward than those, full of asides about knowing he didn't have the right to contact Shane and it being okay if Shane didn't answer back. It intrigued Shane enough to agree to a conversation.

Barrett was full of nervous energy the minute Shane answered. "Hollander. Hey. Thanks for picking up."

"Sure," said Shane. Barrett was known for being Kent's lackey. Kent's star had fallen lately, with all those omegas coming forward. There had also been a re-examination of the cuffing scandal in light of it being now known that Kent had tried to cuff an omega with an alpha soulmate. The Guardians seemed to be hunkering down in defense of him though, which made it likely that Barrett had grown even more fanatically devoted to his friend.

"How's your shoulder?" Barrett asked with a kind of sweaty desperation.

"Collarbone," said Shane. "It's healing. I'm out of the sling. What's this about?"

"Yeah," said Barrett. "That's a good question. I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately. Just, um. It's been weird lately, right? It's been a crazy fucking season, between you and Rozanov and Hunter and everything."

"Yeah," Shane agreed, warily.

"After the thing with Hunter, I've just - wow, I've just been thinking," Barrett said. "I've been thinking a lot. He just did that, you know? He just did that."

"Uh-huh," said Shane, if anything, even more confused now.

"And, listen, I know I don't have the right to your time," Barrett said. "Or, like, your forgiveness. But Hunter did that and just - fuck. I don't know. I've been thinking a lot lately about what Dallas did to you. He… It was… And he'd say the most awful shit about you before that, all the time. We all would. And afterwards, he got even worse. It made the locker room such a fucking bummer, and I kept waiting for anyone else to call him out on it. To be like, 'hey, Hollander was just trying to play a hockey game because that's his fucking job, and you made it fucking miserable, so just shut up and get over it and move on already.' You know? But no one did, and he kept talking shit, and I kept wishing someone would shut him the fuck up, but like… I wasn't shutting him up either. I've been thinking about that lately. I didn't say anything either."

Shane was too surprised to speak.

"So I know it means jack shit," said Barrett. "Because he still did that to you, and we didn't stop him, and we still talked like that about you. But I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. I should have said something."

Lakes were pretty loud places in the summer, but in a way that was easier for Shane to tolerate than city noises. Bird calls and cicadas. Shane looked across the lake now, hearing something he had never thought to want to hear from a man he had never really considered much at all. A lot of unexpected things had been happening lately. Barrett was right that this phone call didn't make up for anything. Shane would still rather have it than not have it.

"Thank you," Shane said.

"Oh. Great," Barrett said, palpably relieved but then immediately stymied as to how to continue. "Okay. Thank you. For, uh, thanking me. I guess."

"I'm going to hang up now," Shane said, figuring he was doing them both a kindness.

"Oh!" said Barrett. "Okay, cool. Uh, then, bye."

Shane hung up. He took a few more moments to look across the lake. He could see the loon nest from this part of the dock. Ilya, a city boy to the core, had been terrified the first time he heard a loon call, assuming it was a wolf. Shane had long thought of people as full of unexpected pitfalls. Maybe not all surprises were dangerous though. Maybe it wasn't naive to expect more from people than that. Maybe something good could also be unexpected, popping its head out of the water on a warm summer night.

***

Four days before his claiming celebration and a week before he was to sign his contract with the Raiders, Farah called him seven times in a row and left seven separate voicemails. Shane called her back, expecting her to tell him, at minimum, that the city of Boston had exploded.

"Shane," she said, harried and relieved. "Thank you for getting back to me."

"Of course," said Shane. "Everything okay?"

"So let me just start by saying, I apologize if this is out of bounds," Farah said, enigmatically. "I completely understand if you consider this over the line, and if it is, we will drop it, and I'll never mention it again. But I just would never forgive myself if I didn't at least pass this on to you."

Shane had been in the middle of making himself a slice of sprouted grain bread with almond butter - a decadent off-season treat - and stuck the knife back in the jar. Ilya was at the table, scrolling through his phone and not hiding that he was listening. "Pass what on?"

"I got a very interesting phone call this morning," Farah said. "From Brandon Wiebe."

"Who?" asked Shane.

Brandon Wiebe was the new head coach of the Ottawa Centaurs. Internet research provided that Wiebe was a beta, and young - only in his forties - and had a decent enough career back in the day. Shane made the nearly four-hour drive from Lanaudiere to Ottawa the next morning, where Wiebe and one of his assistant coaches met Shane by the front doors of the Centaurs practice facility. They shook his hand, thanked Shane for making the drive, asked if he wanted anything to drink, and took him up to the stands to watch the Centaurs practice.

The players noticed Shane, of course, nudging each other and whispering, before Wiebe told them to get back to it. Shane watched them run drills for about twenty minutes before Wiebe invited Shane back into his office.

"So," said Wiebe when they all sat down, Shane was sitting on the chair across from Wiebe's desk. A few assistant coaches were also around, pretending to lounge indifferently on the couch behind them. Shane had already signed a few autographs for them.

Wiebe was a handsome man - trim, salt-and-pepper at the temples. "Let's establish some facts out of the gate. We're very bad."

Shane nodded automatically. The Centaurs had been at the bottom of the division since their inception. It would have been patronizing to pretend they weren't terrible, and the practice Shane had just witnessed hadn't demonstrated anything otherwise. "Yeah, you are."

"I was brought on as head coach because they couldn't afford better," said Wiebe, matter-of-factly. There weren't a lot of beta coaches. Wiebe was newly one of three in the Eastern Conference. "And now my job is to figure out a way to make a good team out of a bad team without a lot of resources, and that takes creative solutions."

"And you think I could be a creative solution," Shane said.

"You know how to win cups," Wiebe said. "If I want to start winning cups, and I learn the man who led his team to back-to-back cup wins is in free agency, it's a no-brainer to reach out to him."

"Not a lot of coaches would want to be associated with me right now," Shane said.

"A lot of coaches are knot-driven," Wiebe said, easily enough. "And frankly, they can afford to be choosier than I can. I'll let you know, though, that I think the way this has been handled by the league has been egregious. You're the greatest player of your generation. You deserve a lot more from this sport than what's being shoveled on you right now."

Shane knew he wasn't above being manipulated. But Wiebe wouldn't have approached Farah if he didn't believe at least some of what he was saying.

"I'm only technically in free agency," Shane said. He couldn't say more, but he assumed that Wiebe, along with the rest of the civilized world, had figured out he was signing with Boston. The Metros knowingly handing their best asset to their rivals out of spite was a source of great discourse among the commentator class.

"I figured," said Wiebe. "Which was why I was pleased you drove here anyway."

Shane hunched forward a little, couldn't help himself. "Tell me more about what you said on the phone."

"It would be your team," said Wiebe. "You'd be the pivotal piece of the rebuild, and we would treat you like it. We couldn't give you the C immediately, out of respect for Bood, but you'd start with the A, and you'd be Captain within two years. The scandal doesn't matter to me. You being an omega doesn't matter to me."

Shane knew he looked skeptical. "And the guys?"

"They have a beta coach, and they know they stink," Wiebe said. "They're alphas, but they don't currently have a lot to be territorial over. When they learned Shane Hollander was coming to watch them play today, they were so excited and nervous that one of the rookies nearly passed out. They're good guys, but I don't want to paint a false picture. They're still alphas. They'd need training to get used to an omega captain, but we could train them."

"We?" said Shane.

"I'm a new coach. It's been a while since I've been in the show," said Wiebe. "If I had a generational talent on my roster, I'd be listening pretty carefully to what he had to say."

Shane looked down and then up again, trying not to jiggle his foot. The money wouldn't be as good as Boston. He knew even Yuna wouldn't care about the money. "Those are all pretty easy things to promise, Mr. Wiebe."

"I know talk is cheap," said Wiebe. "And you're right. Those aren't the kind of terms I can really put in a contract. But I try to be a man of principle, and I give you my word. The Centaurs would be Shane Hollander's team, the way the Metros should have been."

The Centaurs weren't entirely without potential, but it would be a monstrous rebuild. Even under the best of circumstances, they were looking at five years before they'd be in playoff contention. Shane might not win a cup for a decade. He might not win a cup ever again. And that wasn't even the thing that mattered most, he reminded himself.

"I'm getting claimed in three days," Shane said. After Shane had told Ilya about his phone call with Wiebe, Ilya told him to take the meeting, but had otherwise been pretty quiet. Shane knew they should talk it over, but he had felt pretty quiet, too. "I think you know my bondmate lives in the States. He can't exactly move."

"Congratulations to you both," Wiebe said, genuinely enough. "And I figured. But I'd always kick myself if I didn't ask."

"And I guess I'd always kick myself if I didn't take this meeting," Shane said.

"Can I convince you to stay a little longer?" Wiebe said. "Give you a tour of the facilities?"

Shane looked down at the cup of tea he had acquired at some point. He felt giddy and thin, like a balloon, and just as easy to pop. He shouldn't do this to himself. Wiebe seemed like a decent guy. Shane shouldn't get his hopes up, either.

"Yeah, sure," Shane said. "All right."

****

Shane stayed for another two hours. The drive back to the cottage took substantially longer than the drive to Ottawa because of rush hour traffic, and Shane spent the whole thing with every muscle in his body locked into place, angrily wiping moisture out of his eyes. He felt exhilarated and brittle, and he loathed himself.

He loathed himself so deeply. Here he was at the crossroads, one of those moments that defined a man's character, and he wanted to make the wrong choice. He couldn't even talk himself into believing otherwise, which was, besides hockey, maybe his greatest skill. He wanted to fail this test. He could do the right thing anyway, but he knew what his real decision was, and he hated himself profoundly because he would never be better than this.

Ilya had asked for one thing. Only ever one thing from Shane. Just that Shane chose him, would always choose him, the way Ilya had always chosen Shane. And Shane couldn't. Or, he could, but he really would resent Ilya then, and the resentment would fester and putrefy. Shane was too ambitious; he was too greedy. He would never learn to live with good enough when he knew he was the best

The best! Shane was the best. And even Ilya knew it, that Shane was that fraction of a hair better than him. But it just wasn't good enough that Ilya knew it, or all Shane's loved ones knew it, or most people secretly, reluctantly knew it. He knew it should be, but it wasn't. It might be for other people, people who were just excellent. Who weren't historic. Who weren't Shane.

Shane needed his greatness to be known. He needed to play the best hockey anyone had ever played, because he knew he could. And he needed to be allowed to do it. He needed it to be a fact that no one in a generation would ever be as good as Shane Hollander.

He needed to choose hockey. He was going to choose hockey. Or maybe he was choosing himself, but he didn't know how to distinguish between the two. Not really. And if that was the case, why wasn't hockey itself allowed to be enough?

And this all made him a monster. He knew that. Ilya deserved so much better. Svetlana had been completely right about Shane. God, she was actually going to murder him the next time he was in Boston. She might travel up here to do it.

Shane drove without stopping. He had a dehydration headache and really needed to piss when he pulled up to the cottage after nightfall. Ilya had left the porch lights on. Shane had a little panic attack, slumped over the steering wheel, before he could get out of the car.

Inside, Ilya was watching TV. Its cool tones wrestled with the warm, round lamplight on his face. When he heard the door open, Ilya turned it off, but not before Shane could hear that he had been watching roundtable commentary about the two of them. Ilya sat up, guarded, looking for clues in Shane's expression.

Shane stood in the doorway and tucked his thumbs in his pockets so he wouldn't ball his hands into fists. His voice came out wet and thick when he said, "They'd give me the C."

Ilya's face went blank. He nodded, scratching at the back of his head. "Ah."

"Come with me," Shane said. He had to ground it out to say it at all. This was the worst and most terrifying thing he had ever done. "That's all I got. Come with me. Because I love you more than anything, but I have to do this."

"Shane," Ilya said.

"And I know it's not fair," Shane said. "Believe me, I know I'm not being fair. I know you've been so patient. I know you're a fucking god in Boston. I know Ottawa is a bad team and a boring city."

"Shane," Ilya said again.

"But I've only wanted two things in my entire life," Shane said. "You and hockey. That's been it. And it's bullshit that I've always had to choose. So fuck that. I'm tired of it. Alphas don't have to make choices like that. So I'm not going to, either. I refuse to choose. I want both. I deserve to have both - we both deserve to have both. I belong to you, but you belong to me, too. So come with me to Ottawa."

"Are you done?" Ilya asked, not ungently.

Shane cleared his throat. "Um. Yeah."

"Okay, so." Ilya's eyebrows went up in that mildly bitchy way of his. "Yeah, Hollander. No shit."

Shane blinked. "What?"

Ilya sat up, scoffing. "Of course if you are going to Ottawa, I'm coming too. We're getting bonded in three fucking days, remember?"

Shane was stupefied. He cleared his throat. "But- Boston..."

"Spent some time while you were gone thinking it over," Ilya said, getting up. "So, Hollander, the thing is. I have a soulmate."

"Oh," said Shane. "Do you, now."

Ilya nodded. "I do. Very beautiful, very grouchy guy."

"Grouchy," Shane murmured, a smile twitching up the corners of his mouth.

Ilya nodded, making his way to him. "And he is so delicate. He loves me so much that if he is too far from me, he gets sick. Aw, it's so sad."

"You asshole," Shane said, thrilled, vibrating with it.

"But he is my home, so," Ilya made a little face. "What can you do? I go where he goes."

Shane was, unfortunately, definitely crying, and if he spoke, he would only cry harder. Ilya came over and put his hands on Shane's hips. "Probably not hard to force a trade for medical reasons. Player's Association would fucking love to throw its weight around like that. Or worse comes to worst, my contract's up in two years."

Shane wiped his eyes, which burned heavy and bright. "Really? You're sure?"

"Boodram's not so bad," Ilya said thoughtfully. "Better on wing, but they have him playing center. It's Tremblay letting him down, shitting the bed. And they just got Hayes on goal - Toronto were idiots not playing him post-season last year. And with you and me there, maybe only two, three, years before we're in the playoffs."

Shane grabbed the curls at the back of Ilya's head. He was a little worried that he was currently feeling every feeling he had ever felt at once, and he wasn't built for that. "Thank you."

"But it's a good thing I already made up my mind when you drove off this morning," Ilya confided, wrapping his arms around Shane's waist. "Because your speech sucked."

Shane laughed, wetly. "I practiced it in the car. I didn't mean to sound so pissed off."

Ilya kissed his temple. "I liked the part about belonging to you, too, though. I've been yours for a long time, Hollander."

Shane made a sound much too close to a whimper, digging his fingers into Ilya's back.

"You need this," Ilya said. "You need to do this. I told you after our first heat that I would not take hockey from you."

"I didn't believe you," Shane confessed. "But I believe you now."

Ilya held him for a long time after that, crushing Shane close and comforting as Shane took hitching little breaths, feeling held, and grateful, and beloved, and free.

***

The claiming bite did in fact hurt a lot, but that had never been the part Shane was worried about.

Earlier that evening, they had put on suits and gone to a lovely little hole in the wall in town with his parents, Svetlana, Rose, and the Pikes. Jorge sent his regrets, saying he couldn't miss work, and Shane didn't begrudge him for choosing continued employment with the Metros over publicly siding with Shane in a very public and messy breakup. Shane floated the idea of inviting JJ to mend fences, and was surprised at how positively Ilya responded, until Hayden and Rose explained to him that Ilya was excited for impure reasons. Shane hadn't extended an invite after all, since JJ, along with the rest of the Metros, hadn't spoken to him since his last game.

Ilya had held court at the restaurant, gregarious, ebullient, charming. He looked radiantly happy. The food was good, some kind of French fusion thing, that Shane let himself enjoy. The atmosphere felt warm, casual, and homey. Shane looked around at the table and thought, my family. They had elected not to do the morning-after celebration, showing off the bite, since those were currently considered old-fashioned and in bad taste. It was very small by the standards of these things, but Ilya was reserving the right to throw a rager for their first anniversary.

Later, back at the cottage, naked in bed, Ilya's knot swelling inside him, Ilya reared back for leverage and sank his teeth into Shane's neck, digging down hard, puncturing the gland. The effect was immediate; it felt like the bond was pouring inside him, filling all his empty spaces. Shane shuddered and gasped, throwing back his head and shaking under Ilya, who was shaking on top of him.

Shane felt himself twitch around Ilya's knot before he bore down as it sparked inside him, blending with the urgency of the bond roaring, rushing, snapping into place. And - oh. He understood it so clearly now. He had been so wrong. The bond wasn't a prison. It wasn't fate. It had just been guiding him, helping him make the million decisions, big and small, that would lead him to this moment. To this person. To Ilya.

Shane was more himself than he had ever been.

Ilya looked up at him as best he could with his teeth still buried in Shane's neck. Blood ran down his chin, making him seem wild, his eyes glazed and rapturous. Shane was settling inside him the way Ilya was settling inside Shane, finally locked down tight.

"Oh, I love you so fucking much," Shane gasped as the bond pulsed and strengthened, letting his head fall back against the pillow as he held Ilya tight for a long moment before he shoved his heels into the meat of Ilya's ass to get him to start fucking him with his knot again.

***

Three years later, Shane watched the 30 For 30 about them on the couch with Ilya, their dog Anya, dozing wedged between the couch and the coffee table, meaning both of them had to curl their legs up to avoid stepping on her. Both their phones were dinging steadily from the Centaurs group chat as everyone else on the team was watching the documentary too, and, apparently, providing live commentary.

Shane and Ilya had declined to be interviewed, so it wasn't the best 30 For 30 had to offer. But when they got to Shane's injury, showed the footage of Ilya - sweet, loyal Ilya - white knuckling his stick, face a mask of terror as he skated anxious circles around Shane's prone form, desperately worried but not wanting to do anything that would reveal their secret until Shane body started stiffening, heart rate already speeding up, and Ilya got into it with the refs trying to explain why he had to get closer.

Shane squeezed Ilya's thigh hard, leaning into him. "I never actually watched tape of it before. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Ilya shrugged, but instead of brushing it off, he surprised Shane by talking about it, eyes darting as he stared rapt at the screen. "I was very scared. I thought my one job was to protect you, but if I did that, you would never forgive me."

Shane put his head on Ilya's shoulder. "But you did protect me."

Ilya made a rueful face. "I thought it was my first time to really get to do it, and I was already fucking it up."

Shane knew Galina, Ilya's therapist, had given Ilya the exercise of talking about a vulnerable emotion at least three times between sessions, and he wondered if Ilya was completing the assignment now.

Shane leaned into Ilya's shoulder, nuzzling idly under Ilya's collar. To no one's surprise, Shane hated the feeling of a strap around his neck and elected to go without unless it was a formal occasion. Ilya would have worn his absolutely everywhere - like to the arena and the gas station - if Yuna, Rose, Farah, and basically every other adult they knew hadn't warned them to slow roll a collared alpha onto the public stage. Ilya sulkily acquiesced and mostly wore his around the house.

Shane had asked Ilya, repeatedly and nervously, if Ilya minded that Shane didn't wear his collar much. Ilya pointed out that Shane had an unusually prominent scar (which Ilya was very smug about), smelled thoroughly of Ilya, was the most famously claimed omega in the Western hemisphere, and also a drop of Ilya's consciousness was permanently and sweetly embedded in a corner of Shane's brain, the way Shane's was in his. A collar was nice, but largely unnecessary.

"You don't have to think about it that way," Shane said. "I don't exactly need a lot of protection anymore."

That wasn't entirely true. It hadn't been an easy move to the Centaurs. The media was bloodthirsty, the coverage insane. The Raiders were furious; Ilya was persona non grata in Boston and probably would be for life. The league was furious, too. Crowell himself had tried to block the trade. At least the city of Ottawa had been in a state of rapture over getting the two best players in the league, no matter the circumstances. They would never pay for a meal in town again if Shane didn't insist otherwise.

The team had been pleasantly better than expected, but it was still a monumental task to get even well-intentioned alphas to follow Shane's lead when his leadership was official rather than inferred. Their first season hadn't been a disaster, exactly, but close enough to it that plenty of pundits had already written them off. Shane took it hard, even though he knew he shouldn't.

Ilya and Shane had fallen into the pit of having to live together and work together for the first time, at the same time. With the monumental complication that Shane was expected to be in charge in the room for the first time and Ilya, for the first time, wasn't. They hadn't always been great at it. Without the bond, there were some moments they might not have stuck together. But therapy was helping, and so was time, and so was that hot streak during their last roadie.

Shane and Ilya still had to live in a gated community and traveled with security. It had trickled over too - Bood had also gotten some death threats for agreeing to split the A three ways with them when Farah made it clear that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, going significantly under any definition of a market rate, were a package deal for the Centaurs as long as Shane was the one groomed for the captaincy. Ilya was given the A as a mark of respect, as was Bood, and for the second year in a row they split duties between the three of them without needing a C. Shane was getting it next year, Shane having elected to wait a few years beyond Wiebe's promise because it was clear the league needed another season to cool off. Harris, the social media guy, was already coming up with strategies for when the internet melted down about it.

So, in some ways, Shane needed more protection than ever. In others, he wished he could tell his seventeen-year-old self it could be this good, this easy. That kid didn't need to be so scared.

"No," Ilya said absently, still watching the screen, maybe responding to what Shane said, or maybe getting a wisp of the thought. "No, you will always need protection, I think."

Shane pulled back to give him a thunderous look.

"Aw, no, kotik," Ilya laughed a little. "Just, the things you care about, you care about them so much. And you got tough around it, but little soft parts sneak out that I have to protect. Like, protect your heart, you know?"

Shane didn't feel totally mollified by that, even though he recognized himself in it. He made a note to talk to Richard, his own therapist, about it. Richard was an omega who lived and worked in Vancouver, so they had to video conference. He made Shane do similar communication exercises, both in expressing himself and not reacting defensively when Ilya opened up about anything that bothered him about Shane or their relationship. Richard would tell him to focus on Ilya's expression of care and to give himself permission to need help from his partner sometimes because that was normal and healthy.

Shane thought about that and, for some reason, he thought about Lucas Haas, the seventeen-year-old Swedish phenom, an omega entering the draft class next year. Shane should probably be ashamed that his first reaction to the news was sullen, territorial jealousy, but it was only there for a day or two before evaporating. When asked in post-game interviews, he said he was thrilled to see another omega potentially coming up through the ranks, and he was. He would have to call the kid, though, after the draft. Haas must think he already knew the obstacles in front of him, but he didn't know the scale of it. He didn't know the chunk it would take out of him. Shane owed it to him to let him know, but if he were anything like Shane, he'd do it anyway.

Talk about the kid had been kicking around for a while. Dykstra had said to Shane that they should draft him so Shane would have someone to share a locker room with. One of the first things he did after he signed with the Centaurs was work with Wiebe on how to remodel the locker room. It was divided into two sides, but Shane had been wondering about that too, lately. They all had the same body parts, after all.

He'd ask Ilya for his opinion on it. Shane would give Ilya a little time, though. He was playing it pretty cool now, but this documentary was going to wreck Ilya quietly for at least a week. Shane hadn't even really wanted to watch it because of that, but Ilya had insisted, and Shane was here now largely for emotional support.

"I protect you too, though," Shane said, eventually.

Ilya looked at him like he was new here. "Duh. Of course."

Shane, pushing down a smile, turned back to the screen. The documentary was finishing up. A talking head was calling Ilya a heroic trailblazer and a champion of human rights.

"I'm going to try running with Anya again this week," Shane said. "She's clicker-trained enough now that I think I can get her to stop randomly stopping and sniffing the ground."

"Is not random," Ilya said, indignant on her behalf. "That is how dogs know what other dogs have been up to. This is dog news." He rubbed Anya with his foot. "My sweet dumpling, I'm sorry your papa does not want you to learn about the world, just follow him on death march."

Ilya was the fun parent, but Shane was the one responsible for turning Anya into a model citizen. Shane rolled his eyes. "Oh, fuck off."

Ilya nosed at Shane's neck, mouthing over his bite scar, sending little shivers through Shane's stomach to his groin.

"No," Ilya said. "Never."

He bit down. Shane let him.

Chapter End Notes

One of the satirical news hosts Shane refers to is absolutely omegaverse John Oliver, who is definitely a beta, and who devotes a whole episode to the Shane Hollander situation. This is now what I script in my head as I'm trying to fall asleep.

Ilya and Rose eventually reach an accord, but by establishing the eternal best-friend/husband relationship of low-level simmering hostility, that means all is right with the world.

That's it! I had so much fun writing it, and I hope you all enjoyed the read! And thank you so much, sincerely, to all who commented. So many of you made such insightful, interesting comments and observations that really made me more deeply refine and understand the points I was making and where I wanted to go next. I can't express my appreciation enough.

Works inspired by this one

Cover for Pencil in the Rest by lynadyndyn by SweetPea_InSummer