Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Omega Verse, Alpha/Omega, Mildly Dubious Consent, due to the whole, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Omega Shane Hollander, Blow Jobs, Scent Kink, Secrets, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-03 Words: 7,368 Chapters: 1/1

Secret Heat

Summary

For as long as Shane can remember, he wanted to play hockey. Nothing will stop him, and since there are no omegas in hockey, no one can know about Shane. Not even Ilya Rozanov, the first alpha who ever manages to get through Shane’s carefully crafted defenses. With a fucking water bottle, of all things.

Notes

The gym scene still has me in a choke hold and well, this entire thing is basically made for omega-verse AU, so here’s another offering for it.

I started writing this before the clothes sharing in ep four came out, I swear lol

Many, many thanks to daning_adrift for (hockey) betaing, to aythia for handholding and brainstorming, and to ilikaicalie and masja_17 for making this all ready to post <3

Shane always knew he was different. From his first memory. He didn’t know then—at four years old, he had no concept of what was the norm and what wasn’t—but looking back, it’s obvious. At four years old, his mom put him on the ice for the first time, and Shane never wanted to leave.

He didn’t know then that four-year-olds generally don’t skate without falling on their ass immediately. He didn’t know that most kids don’t feel as at home on the ice as they do on non-slippery ground. And he didn’t know that most kids can’t pick up a kids’ hockey stick, still too big, and kind of hit, kind of push a puck down a straight line.

His mom did know though, and so when Shane yelled, again, Mommy, again, Yuna looked up the closest kids’ hockey league and immediately signed up her son. For the following year, when he’d be turning five, which was the minimum age. That didn’t stop them from going to the rink every weekend though. By the time Shane joined his first team, he was already leagues better than everyone else. And that wouldn’t change for a long time.

Shane doesn’t mind being different. He loves hockey. He loves the speed and the precision. He loves the strategy and the angles, loves the challenge. A high hockey IQ, they call it. His dad always says that Shane has a high IQ generally—Shane doesn’t really think he’s that smart, but he supposes parents are required to think the best of their children—but Shane’s fine with just being hockey smart. It’s what he wants.

He wants all of it, the game, the career, the cups, the medals. And he knows he can have it. He’s not arrogant, but he’s the best player in his league, the most goals, the most points. He still has two years until he’s eligible for the draft, and commentators are already mentioning him.

Shane knows there’s always the risk of an injury. No matter how good you are, how careful, there’s always something that can end your career before it really starts.

He just hadn’t thought it would be this.

He’s already different, lives and breathes hockey with every fibre of his being; it never occurred to him he would be different like this too.

Symptoms of your first heat glares up at him from his computer screen, like his worst nightmare.

Shane hasn’t been feeling well the last few days, but he didn’t want to tell his mom, didn’t want to go see a doctor in case it’s nothing. The league finals are coming up, and Shane doesn’t want to miss them if it’s nothing.

So he googled feeling feverish, skin tightness, and being unable to concentrate. He left out the fact that he jerked off despite feeling like crap.

At first, he scrolled by everything that had anything to do with heats or omegas.

There are no omegas in hockey, ergo he can’t be one. But the more he scrolled, the more obvious it was.

The words are still on the screen, mocking him.

Symptoms of Your First Heat

How to Get Through Your First Heat

The Best Natural Heat Remedies

Shane quickly closes the window. No. This is just—he has a cold, or minor flu symptoms, or maybe he overdid it during his last training. Either way, he’s not—that. Not that there’s anything wrong with being that. Shane isn’t a bigot or anything. One of his best friends from skating camp is an omega. But Joe wants to be a figure skater.

Shane plays hockey. And there are no omegas in hockey. Or if there are, they’re not letting anyone know. So. Window closed, computer booted down.

Shane hydrates and takes a shower, and that is that.

Half a year later, Shane has to contend with the fact that that wasn’t that. This time, he can’t write it off as a cold with some extra horniness thrown in. It’s half a year until the Prospect Cup, until Shane gets to introduce himself to hockey on the big stage for the first time, and he’s lying in his bed, feeling hot and so fucking horny he’s jerked off twice in the last hour, and he could still go again. There’s also the matter that touching his dick isn’t really what his body wants.

Fuck.

Shane gives himself a moment to wallow. To spiral. But the thing is, no matter where his thoughts go, he knows one thing. He’s never giving up on hockey. So. How do other athletes deal with this crap?

Shane googles again. He reads about suppressants and scent blockers, about health side effects and risks, about discrimination in sport. He doesn’t care.

He reads how it doesn’t make you gay. Whatever your gender or your designation, you can be straight or gay or anything in between. Shane can still be with a woman. It doesn’t have to be an alpha, doesn’t even have to be a guy. Toys are a thing.

Shane is just going to deal with this when he needs to and then ignore it for the rest of the time.

Omegas are unheard of in hockey. Hockey is full of alphas and regular guys behaving like alphas. Enough of them would pretend to be alphas if they could get away with it, but anyone sneaking more than just a glance in the showers could debunk that pretty quickly. Some guys are still coy with the media though.

Shane never had what’s considered classic alpha disposition, but it never occurred to him that he’d be—different.

He doesn’t have time to cry about it, and it’s not going to stop him. He’ll get on suppressants, and that’s that.

Two days later, when he feels like himself again, he goes to a clinic. Unfortunately, he’s not of age yet. Birth control is not a problem—no! Shane yelps, I don’t, I’m not, I mean it’s not necessary—but suppressants are medication that need his parents’ consent. Shane can’t wait until he turns eighteen; he’s got the Prospect Cup coming up. So he tells his parents.

While his dad is still assuring Shane he loves him no matter what, looking kind of shell-shocked the entire time, his mom is already in problem-solving mode.

“This is fine,” Yuna says. “It’s a challenge, sure, but nothing you can’t handle. We’ll get you on suppressants, and no one will ever know.”

“Yuna,” David starts, in that careful tone hinting that he might not disagree with his wife but wants to offer an amendment.

“Thanks, Mom,” Shane cuts his dad off. He doesn’t want anything that’s not a plan to get him to the NHL. “We can go to the clinic tomorrow.”

Yuna nods. “I’ll take the afternoon off; we’ll go right after you get out of school, get this sorted.”

David sighs but nods. “As long as you’re happy, son.”

Shane nods. He’s not sure about happiness right now, but hopefully, once this is under control, it’ll be within his grasp again.

The suppressants work fine. Shane has a headache for the first few days, and then it’s like nothing ever happened. He takes a pill every morning, and that’s it. Like millions of people who are on medication do every day, everywhere.

“You need to let your heat come sometime,” the doctor had said in concern. “Twice a year would be good, three if you can manage.”

Four to five times a year is the regular cycle, which is just unfathomable. Shane will maybe be able to manage once, in the summer. Thankfully, his mom isn’t there for that part of the conversation, not that Shane thinks she’d side with the doctor over him. It’ll be fine.

Shane is fine. He’s going to go to his first Prospect Cup, he will win the trophy, and next year, he’ll be the number one draft pick for the NHL. Everything is fine.

Everything is not fine.

Except it’s not Shane’s body fucking him over, no, it’s Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Shane read about him, of course, the only other player his age currently getting the same amount of attention as Shane. Shane had found a few clips online from Russia, but seeing Rozanov play in person is a whole different beast. He might be the enemy, but he’s the best player in the tournament. After Shane, maybe.

Rozanov has a reputation for shit-talking and as an aggressive player, a real alpha. Many guys do though. But when Shane sees Rozanov practice on the ice, there’s something about him. Shane knows, instinctively, that Rozanov can back up all of his dumb alpha posturing.

Still, Shane finds him outside the rink after practice and goes to introduce himself. Rozanov being an alpha doesn’t change anything.

Rozanov smokes, which Shane can’t even fathom as an athlete. Rozanov is fast too; how does that work with him smoking?

He tries to strike up a conversation, but Rozanov doesn’t give him much. There’s something curious in his eyes, as if he’s wondering why Shane is talking to him. They’re pretty, his eyes, and Shane immediately freaks out at the thought.

Rozanov keeps looking at him, at his face, though never meeting Shane’s gaze.

“Anyway, I should go; they’re waiting for me.”

Rozanov’s eyes then meet Shane’s, and he gives him a look that’s almost a smile but not.

“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”

Shane laughs. Of course, it’s trash talk that would get Rozanov to say more than one-word sentences.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Shane says. He’s not a shit talker, but he also doesn’t just take it.

He thinks Rozanov might be smiling around his cigarette. He’s certainly doing something because his face looks softer. Nicer.

Shane needs to go.

A week later, Russia beats Canada in the final. Rozanov beats Shane.

And then Shane has to contend with the fact that he’d thought Rozanov, a fucking alpha, has pretty eyes.

This can’t be happening.

Shane tries to get over it. He trains more, trains harder. He doesn’t want to believe that Rozanov is better because he’s an alpha and Shane is—not. He can be better. He can beat him.

He doesn’t. Rozanov is drafted first. Shane tries to tell himself that it’s better this way. He didn’t want to go to Boston anyway; he always wanted to play for Montreal. Ottawa might be his first love, his hometown team, but Montreal is the best dynasty team in Canada, the best team in sports, period. It still stings, and Shane can’t help but wonder if the reason why he can’t beat Rozanov is because he’s an alpha. But Shane’s played against alphas before. There were several in the draft. And it’s just a stupid stereotype anyway. Alphas have a reputation for being more aggressive, but if they did have any kind of biological advantage, they wouldn’t be allowed to compete in the sport. No, it’s just fucking Rozanov.

Shane’s always been number one, and now he’s not. The Prospect Cup, that was team against team, even if Shane, as the captain, carried the responsibility. But here in the draft, that’s just him and Rozanov.

He needs to find a way to beat him in the future.

So he drags his anxious and buzzing self to the gym to get lost in some exercise. When the door opens, he doesn’t look up from his bike. But the person takes the machine right next to him. Shane doesn’t turn, just glances over out of the corner of his eyes, and it’s fucking Rozanov, haunting him like the ghost of Christmas past. Or more like Christmas future, actually.

And then the asshole has the nerve to switch into a higher gear.

Shane knows it’s stupid. Juvenile. A fucking gym dare.

Shane cranks up the speed on his own bike. His need to beat Rozanov is almost visceral.

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth ticks up when he increases the setting to surpass Shane’s again. And if Shane’s noticing what Rozanov’s mouth is doing, he’s staring too much. He focuses on his own workout, turning up his own speed.

They end up maxing out their bikes, going way too fast for way too long, not a helpful workout in any way, shape, or form, but Shane can’t help but match Rozanov’s challenge.

Eventually, his muscles are burning, his lungs are screaming, and he doesn’t know the last time he pushed himself to the point he felt he would physically collapse at any moment. He turns the machine off before he actually collapses and injures himself before the season even starts.

“Fuck.”

Rozanov climbs off right behind him, holding on to the bike for stability. He’s panting, but he still looks strong, in control of himself.

“Fuck,” Rozanov says.

Shane needs to sit. He’s not very graceful, he’s sure, when he drops down against one of the mirrored walls.

There’s an entire gym, and Rozanov plops down right in front of him with his legs kicked out wide, his shorts pulling taut over his strong thighs, and his—Shane forces himself not to look. Unfortunately, that means he catches Rozanov’s eyes, and Rozanov whoops, very annoyingly. Then he actually starts a conversation with Shane.

“What a fucking day.”

“Yeah.” It really was.

“Everything you dreamed of?”

He must know it’s not, the asshole. “Almost,” Shane says.

“I’m sorry,” Rozanov says.

His voice is deep but pleasant. Shane likes listening to his accent, to the low rumble, even when Rozanov teases him about coming in second. He’s a fucking asshole, and they both know he’s not sorry about anything.

Rozanov brought a water bottle. Shane watches him drink, watches his throat work, and it makes him feel—something. Probably jealousy because he’s thirsty and he forgot his own drink.

“Montreal is nice?” Rozanov asks, changing tack.

An olive branch.

“Yeah, it’s a good city. A good team.”

“Boston is nice too?”

Shane’s sure he’s imagining the light insecurity in the question, because Rozanov’s never not one hundred percent confident and cocky, but. It must still be scary, moving countries, moving fucking continents.

Shane makes his own peace offering.

“I think so. People like living there. It’s by the water, if you like that.”

Rozanov nods. He drinks again. Shane can’t help but watch as he swallows.

“So, we’ll see each other a lot,” Rozanov says.

“Yeah, Boston and Montreal play each other often.”

It’s probably the second most annoying thing coming out of this draft. Whatever rivalry the media has been building up between them, playing in the same conference, the same division—they won’t be able to escape it now.

Shane looks down at the water bottle. It’s resting right between Rozanov’s legs, in front of his—

Rozanov catches him looking. Fuck.

Rozanov takes another drink. And then he grins and offers Shane his water bottle.

Shane declines on instinct—he’s not a helpless little thing, he doesn’t need anyone, especially not an alpha to take care of him. They’re sitting in a fucking gym, sweaty after a workout, and for some reason Shane can’t even begin to fathom—he can actually, it’s the way Rozanov is sitting in front of him, legs stretched out wide, the tip of his shoe almost touching Shane’s where he’s already drawn in his leg, avoiding the contact—his first thought goes to that. Rozanov is offering him the bottle like he would during a heat, like he was taking care of his—Shane knows that isn’t why Rozanov’s sharing his water. It can’t be.

Shane’s scent blockers are foolproof. Rozanov is just being nice. Except Rozanov isn’t nice. He’s an asshole.

But Rozanov is sitting there, arm outstretched, offering water because he came down here prepared, and Shane is being stupid; he needs to hydrate. Rozanov shakes the bottle, impatiently, expectantly. The sloshing sound is very loud in the quiet of the gym.

Shane reaches out. He’s being silly. Rozanov doesn’t know. He’s just—being a good gym-mate. Besides, Rozanov won today; he can afford to be generous.

Their fingers brush. Shane doesn’t feel a spark or a jolt or anything like that. The touch is nothing special. It’s just a brief, warm drag of calloused skin against his. And yet, his heartbeat starts to speed up.

He drinks, hoping it will help. It doesn’t.

Rozanov lets his hands rest on his thighs, drawing Shane’s eyes—

“More.”

Shane drinks again before he realizes that Rozanov told him to. Fuck. He didn’t even think.

There’s something in the air now, in the way Rozanov’s watching him. Assessing. Appraising. But it’s not—it’s not the patronizing way Shane might expect. There’s a dare there. Appreciation maybe.

Shane takes his time drinking again. He doesn’t know why he does it, he just knows that he doesn’t want this moment to end. Doesn’t want Rozanov’s attention anywhere else.

He shouldn’t want this. It’s dangerous. Bad enough that they’re two guys, but Rozanov could figure him out. And then what would he do?

But Rozanov’s scrutiny doesn’t make Shane feel scared or backed into a corner. Doesn’t feel like some stranger is making him do something. Which is a dumb stereotype anyway. Shane just feels—good. Right now, he’s the center of Rozanov’s attention, and hockey has nothing to do with it.

Shane can’t think about why it feels so good. He needs to stop.

Rozanov’s fingers drag against Shane’s again when he takes the bottle back.

Shane doesn’t know what’s happening. Rozanov isn’t the first alpha he’s touched casually. There’ve always been guys on his teams. It’s never been an issue.

It’s never been like this.

Rozanov’s eyes are still on him. He’s sweat-drenched, his bare arms on display, and he’s still breathing heavily, his broad chest visibly moving with every breath he takes.

Just like after sex.

For a moment, Shane almost has a vision, the two of them somewhere, in a bed, sweaty, like now, passing a water bottle back and forth, a water bottle Rozanov brought for them.

And then Rozanov winks.

Shane needs to get the fuck out of this gym.

He gets up, and Rozanov follows.

Jesus Christ.

They leave the gym together. Shane debates slowing down on the way to the elevator to avoid being in an enclosed space with Rozanov, but why shouldn’t he be? There’s no problem.

The elevator arrives, and they get on. Shane presses the button for his floor first, then Rozanov leans past him. He’s so close Shane can smell the fresh sweat from his workout.

For a moment, Shane does feel—not trapped, exactly, but Rozanov’s there, in his space, the width of his shoulders right behind Shane as he reaches around him and presses the button. Slowly. It’s almost obscene.

Shane doesn’t realize he stopped breathing until Rozanov pulls back. He leans against the wall, legs casually spread, hands resting on the small railing. The bright elevator light highlights every single muscle in his strong arms.

It feels like a challenge. So Shane meets it, leaning against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t even avoid looking at Rozanov. The problem is, Rozanov’s looking at him too. He’s intense. Like they’re on the ice at a face-off. Only there’s nothing to fight over here now.

The sweat is cooling on his skin, and Shane starts feeling uncomfortable. Tense. He rolls a shoulder, trying to loosen the tension there. Rozanov’s eyes follow the movement, but his expression gives nothing away. He just tracks Shane’s movements, the way Shane can’t help but fidget, fighting the rising tension he shouldn’t be feeling after a workout.

The elevator dings and breaks Shane out of his stupor.

“See you…” Rozanov starts, then trails off, clearly not knowing when they meet next.

“At the next Prospect Cup,” Shane says, trying for confidence. “When I beat your ass.”

Rozanov doesn’t react for a moment, then he inclines his head. “Well. Is more fun if you try.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

Rozanov still hesitates. The elevator doors start closing again. Shane pushes an arm out to stop them.

Rozanov’s still looking at him. “You okay?” He finally asks, then gestures at Shane’s shoulder to make his point.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” Shane rolls his shoulder. It feels fine. He just feels off.

With pursed lips, Rozanov eventually nods. “Okay.” He steps out of the elevator and turns around.

The doors close without either of them saying another word.

Shane collapses against the elevator wall. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Back in his room, his mind keeps replaying that scene, over and over, Rozanov taking the bike next to his, Rozanov sitting across from him, Rozanov offering him his water.

For the first time, Shane wonders what it would be like to have an alpha there during his heat, keeping him hydrated when he’s parched during the heat fever.

He tries to get it out of his mind, but his tense and buzzing body won’t let him calm down. So he stretches. Thoroughly. Maybe he shouldn’t have overdone it in the gym. It was stupid. But the thing is, his muscles are fine. Stretching is fine. And still he feels tense. Antsy. Like shit.

He goes to take a hot shower and jerk off. He tries not to fantasize. He usually doesn’t. A lot of guys talk about the kind of porn they like in locker rooms, but that’s never really worked for Shane. He doesn’t want to think about why. He doesn’t need an alpha, a guy, he can be with a girl. He just hasn’t found the right one yet. And maybe he wants a connection, not some random porn shoot. So he focuses on the feeling of his dick in his hand, the pressure, the glide.

He comes quick and hard, and barely imagines a larger hand wrapped around his dick. That’s a lie. He imagines it the entire time, and the imaginary hand is rough with hockey callouses.

Fuck.

Unfortunately, he still can’t sleep. He thought that’d be that. He tires himself out with his workout and then jerking off after, but he can’t stop thinking about Rozanov. The way his throat was shiny with sweat, covered in a salty layer just begging to be licked off and then bitten.

A jolt of arousal shoots through Shane, sharply breaking through his spiraling thoughts.

He’s hard again. His whole body just… aches. There’s something he needs, right now.

He’s out of bed and at the door before he realizes he doesn’t know Rozanov’s room number. Because Rozanov is what he needs.

Shane shakes his head. No. He doesn’t need anybody. What the fuck is he doing?

He forces himself to walk back to the bed. It’s big and cold and empty.

Maybe he doesn’t need anyone, but he sure as shit wants someone right now. He’s feeling almost dizzy with the thought. Actually, he’s really feeling dizzy, so he gets back into bed. The hotel bedding is hard and starchy against his skin. He tries to burrow under the blanket, but it’s just not comfortable.

He’s still hard. His whole body is tense, muscles clenching and unclenching, looking for something. His skin feels like it’s too tight, and—Shane’s eyes fly open.

No.

It can’t be.

Shane is on suppressants. They’re not supposed to fail him.

But this feels like heat. Not the same intensity but a muted version of it.

With trembling hands, he reaches down between his legs, but there’s nothing. No slick, not even the feeling of tenderness or swelling he got shortly before his last one.

So—Google.

Dry heats: what they are and how to deal with them is the internet’s first suggestion when Shane types in heat symptoms on suppressants.

The article informs him that suppressants can fail, and if they do, there are two ways it can go. A full-blown heat spanning the usual two to three days of writhing feverish in the sheets. Or what’s called a dry heat. Muted symptoms only, mostly characterized by an increased hormonal reaction without many of the physical symptoms to go along with it. It’s often triggered by emotional upheaval or meeting a compatible alpha.

Shane’s been drafted second and lost to someone who’s supposed to become his arch rival. If that’s not emotional upheaval, he doesn’t know what is.

The next sentence makes him go cold. Denying a dry heat can turn into full blown heat. Contact with an alpha can prevent that. Taking more suppressants is absolutely not advised; it is actually a big no-no. It’s in bold and underlined. There are emergency heat blockers, but they’re prescription only and Shane can’t go to a doctor here.

Shane wishes he hadn’t read that, so he could go and pop some more pills.

He can’t go into heat now. There are more interviews scheduled for tomorrow morning.

But he also doesn’t have an alpha.

Unbidden, there’s the image of Rozanov handing him a water bottle. Staring at him. Giving Shane his undivided attention. Ordering him to drink more.

Fuck.

He can’t.

Shane’s hands start shaking, and there is warmth rising in his cheeks, in his entire body, and his heartbeat’s through the roof. He doesn’t even know what’s the heat and what’s fear.

This is a bad idea. Possibly the worst idea Shane’s ever had.

But he has more interviews tomorrow, and the hotel is full of reporters and MHL officials, and they can’t find out about him. About this.

Shane needs to stop this, by any means necessary. And currently, his only means possible is a Russian asshole sleeping three floors down from him. Shane’s really backed into a corner now, by his own stupid, traitorous biology, and fucking Rozanov of all people is his way out. Because Rozanov was staring at him in the gym, was offering him water and checking his shoulder, and the way his eyes were on Shane’s the entire time… It could be interest. Even if Shane is wrong about it, Rozanov’s an alpha. And alphas don’t turn down heat sex.

Jesus fuck.

But Shane doesn’t even know what room Rozanov’s in, he just knows the floor he got off.

Still, Shane’s out of his room and back in the elevator before he can think. It’s like when he’s on the ice. He sees an opening, and he takes it.

He gets off on the ninth floor. He stands there for a moment, then he turns right. He walks down the corridor, feeling stupider by the second. It’s not like he can just knock on doors until Rozanov opens.

Oh fuck, what is Shane doing? Rozanov is an alpha. Even if he doesn’t know Shane is—can’t know what Shane is—they’re still two men, which is bad enough.

He goes cold all over. He managed to put on clothes, but he’s just wearing sweat pants and a simple shirt. The fever’s suddenly gone, and he feels chilly, a thin layer of fresh sweat making his clothes cling to his body.

He turns around and walks back to the elevator. If his fever’s down, maybe he doesn’t need to do this.

His mind refuses to let that stand, keeps replaying the way Rozanov stared at him. Like there was nothing more important than watching Shane drink. Nothing more important than making sure Shane drank enough.

Shane walks past the elevator. He doesn’t even notice.

There’s a scent in the air. It’s faint, but it’s dark and warm, and it touches something primal in Shane, a place where he’s never let himself go before, because it scares him too much.

He hadn’t smelled anything in the gym, too many scents of disinfectant and layered sweat, Rozanov covered in his own workout stink, but here, now, Shane’s brain latches on to it. His heat brain. Heightened sensibility to alpha scents.

Shane’s standing in front of a door.

He hasn’t really thought about what will happen if he knocks. He’s thinking about it now.

Suddenly, the door opens. Rozanov stands there, dressed in sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie over a dark shirt. There’s an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

He cocks his head, looks Shane up and down.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it down on the side table in the entryway. “Da,” he says quietly. “This is better.”

Rozanov takes a step back, holding the door open. Inviting Shane to come in. Shane’s rooted to the spot. He can’t stand out there in the hallway like an idiot, but if he goes in there now…

He goes in. Closes the door behind him. Stares at the wall. Says, “This is such a bad idea.”

“Then why did you come?”

Shane whips his head around and stares at Rozanov. And finds himself caught in the heat of his blue eyes.

“I don’t know,” Shane says, because he wants to pretend he doesn’t.

“First time?” Rozanov asks.

If Shane thought he’d be mocked for it, there’s none of that in Rozanov’s voice. He’s not sure if Rozanov means when in heat or with an alpha, but it’s the same thing.

Shane nods.

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth lifts up into a smile. It’s cocky, but his expression is soft.

“I can go easy. Now,” he adds with a smirk. “Only will ever do that for you in here.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says.

“Okay,” Rozanov says. And steps up to Shane.

Shane doesn’t back down, not even when Rozanov’s right there, in his space.

He wonders if he’ll tell people about Shane. If he’ll try to use it to his advantage. If this is the worst mistake Shane’s ever made.

Rozanov grips his face, softly. Leans in. Nudges Shane gently, lips against his, and the dam breaks.

Shane tilts his face into the kiss and oh—this is why people go crazy about it.

Rozanov’s mouth is hot and slick, fitting against Shane’s lips like two puzzle pieces. Shane has kissed girls before, but it’s never been like this. This is deep and intense, Rozanov’s hand on his jaw and then on his neck, cradling him almost like Shane’s something precious. Shane didn’t have time to have expectations, but they wouldn’t have been this.

Rozanov’s slow and purposeful, the complete opposite of his explosive behavior on the ice. Shane can’t take it. He kisses back, gets a hand on Rozanov’s body, which is pretty much a work of art, even for a hockey player. His other hand is in Rozanov’s soft curls and he grips, which gets him a moan and Rozanov’s hold tightening on Shane’s waist.

They’re pressed close together now, and Rozanov’s as hard as Shane is, and fuck, Shane wants that, is greedy for it. He reaches for Rozanov’s pants but can’t get them down because Rozanov chooses that moment to get Shane’s shirt off. There’s a brief moment where they fight, both trying to get the other’s clothes off first, then Shane frustratedly lets go of Rozanov and lifts his arms.

When his shirt is off, Rozanov fits a hand to Shane’s jaw, tilting his face in a way that feels possessive and gentle all at once. Shane wants it so bad, wants to lean into it, rub his cheek against his hand like a fucking cat, but he can’t—he can’t be needy like that, he can’t—

“This is not because you’re an alpha,” Shane bites out.

Shane doesn’t know what he expects Rozanov to say in face of this blatant lie, but he braces for a slur, a patronizing comment, any acknowledgement of what’s going on here.

Instead, Rozanov smirks. “So is it because I am hot or because I beat you?”

Shane stares. Rozanov doesn’t know. The scent blockers are holding. The suppressants are still working. Apart from where Shane feels like he’s flying apart, but Rozanov doesn’t know that.

Shane can go to his knees for Rozanov, and he’ll never know. The thought is so freeing, he just does.

Rozanov’s dick is right there, hard and thick, and Shane can’t ever remember being so desperate for something he’s never had. He has no experience, no knowledge, but Shane always goes after what he wants, and he’s never let fear hold him back.

“Fuck, Hollander.”

Shane leans forward and presses his nose against the soft material of the sweats covering Rozanov’s hard dick. He’s big and thick, and Shane’s mouth is watering. He pulls Rozanov’s pants down and gets his mouth on him.

He tastes clean, like water and soap, freshly showered, but there’s also the faint hint of alpha, dark and musky, with a hint of saltiness.

He can’t fit it all into his mouth, so he wraps his hand around the base. He can feel it, the slight thickening there, but Rozanov’s not swelling, not without the right pheromones to trigger him, and Shane’s so fucking grateful. He ignores the pang of longing, the way his hole clenches on nothing, the way his body wants, the way it demands—he takes Rozanov deeper, breathes in his scent and hopes it will be enough. He’s already taking too much; it has to be enough.

Usually, Shane’s all about technique, about perfecting each task when he’s on the ice. Here, on his knees in front of Ilya Rozanov, he just wants. He’s running on instinct when he takes his dick into his mouth, when he sucks and licks, when he works his hand around the base.

Then Rozanov’s hand is in his hair, gently scratching along the back of his head, but he’s not pushing. It’s reassuring.

Shane gets lost in it, can’t focus on anything else but Rozanov filling his mouth, but then the hand in his hair tightens, and Rozanov pulls him up.

“Fuck. Stop. Come here.”

Oh god. “Was it that bad?” Shane asks as a wave of insecurity douses his arousal.

“No.” Rozanov pulls him close, kisses him again. “Was too much. Too good.”

“Oh.” Shane can feel his cheeks heat in pride.

He suddenly wants to ask how often Rozanov has done this, but he’s still so hard, and he’s feeling a little feverish again, and there’s that need clawing at him, so he kisses Rozanov instead. He’s thrilled to find that Rozanov just lets him.

They’re chest to chest, hot bare skin against each other, because Rozanov must have taken off the rest of his clothes while Shane was busy sucking his dick. Shane hadn’t even noticed. He notices now though.

Mindlessly, he pushes at him. Rozanov laughs, toes out of his sneakers, and pushes his pants down all the way. When he’s gloriously naked, he lets Shane walk him deeper into his own hotel room. Shane doesn’t have a clear plan of action here, but he knows a bed would be good.

“Take your clothes off,” Rozanov says while he gets on the bed, stretching his body out like he’s posing for some Renaissance painting, every groove and dip of his golden skin taught over firm muscles softly highlighted by the bedside lamp.

And Shane obeys. He folds his pants and carefully puts them over a chair despite the need burning so badly in him now. He needs the equilibrium this little act can give him. Then there’s nothing to do but get on the bed.

It’s awkward. He’s hard, his whole body is flushed with desire, and he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin. He doesn’t know what to do though. Doesn’t know how to ask for this nebulous thing his body demands.

“What do you want?” Rozanov asks.

Shane takes a deep breath. Tries to get something out through the fog in his mind. “I don’t know.”

Rozanov hums, then rolls over to him, pressed to Shane’s side. Slowly, he slides a hand over Shane’s stomach and then wraps it around his dick. “This okay?”

His voice is as careful as his hand as he starts taking care of Shane.

Oh god. It feels so fucking good, Rozanov’s large hand jerking his cock and being so fucking nice about it. It sets Shane on fire, and suddenly he remembers exactly what he wants.

He pushes Rozanov off and onto his back, follows him down, and gets his mouth back on his dick.

“Fuck, Hollander.” Rozanov sounds as winded as if Shane had slammed him into the boards.

It feels easier now, knowing that Rozanov liked what he was doing before. He’s vocal now too, moaning and occasionally cursing in Russian, and every word sends a shiver down Shane’s spine.

He’s pretty sure that if his body wasn’t demanding a very specific kind of release, he could come just from sucking Rozanov’s cock and the friction of the mattress against his own dick.

Then Rozanov tugs at Shane’s hair again and says, voice low and gravel rough, “Close. You should…”

Shane pulls back even though that’s the last thing he wants, but then he gets to watch Rozanov jerk himself off. A few strokes are all it takes before he comes all over his abs and chest. It’s probably the hottest thing Shane has ever seen.

Rozanov sinks back into the pillows, grinning a little. “Thank you. Not bad for first try.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says reflexively, and the awkwardness comes back. What now? He still wants—needs—but he doesn’t have the words.

“Well, this was nice,” Rozanov says and sits up like he’s about to leave.

An absolutely pitiful noise scratches its way out of Shane’s throat before he can stop it.

Rozanov’s head whips around, and he stares at him with dark eyes. He takes a deep breath. Another one.

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, way too late, trying to cover whatever Rozanov’s getting from him.

Slowly, Rozanov comes back to Shane. “Don’t worry, I would not leave you like this.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

Rozanov kisses him, then drags his lips down Shane’s neck, licks over the hollow of his throat, and bites softly right under it. This time, Shane can feel the noise building in his throat, and he forces it down, tenses his entire body to lock it down.

“Is okay.” Rozanov’s voice is a low rumble in the otherwise quiet room. “Let me show you how to do this.”

Shane wants to tell him that he’s an asshole again, but Rozanov kisses his way down Shane’s body and then licks a strip up the underside of his dick.

Shane loses the ability to speak. Rozanov sucks him down, and it’s just wet heat and tight pressure and Rozanov working some inexplicable magic with his tongue. The heat that’s been simmering turns into a roaring fire that consumes Shane’s entire body. He’s vaguely aware of the ache low in his body, the something more he needs, but Rozanov’s drawing it out with his mouth and his large hands are gripping Shane’s thighs tightly, the touch grounding and so hot at the same time.

Shane’s breathing hard, can’t stop himself from moaning Rozanov’s name and inhaling the air, thick with the scent of their combined arousal and Rozanov’s alpha pheromones, and it crashes over Shane before he can warn him, swoops him up in a tidal wave as he comes so hard his vision whites out and he briefly loses his hold on consciousness.

When he manages to get his eyes to focus again, Rozanov’s still lying in between his thighs, smirking up at him.

Shane throws an arm over his face to hide himself from just everything.

“Sorry,” Shane attempts weakly because that was embarrassingly fast, and Rozanov didn’t have time to get out of the way.

“What, because you come so fast?” Rozanov asks and crawls up Shane’s body.

Shane wants the ground to swallow him up whole, and the only reason he’s not afraid of blushing is that he’s pretty sure his face is already flushed.

“I don’t mind,” Rozanov says, plopping down next to Shane, and the way his voice goes soft makes Shane want to curl up in his arms like a cat in a patch of sunlight.

Fuck.

He needs to get out before Rozanov notices anything.

Shane clenches his ass. His body still wants, and he feels tender there, but he doesn’t feel damp, and instead of fevered heat, his body is suffused with a pleasant warmth.

Small mercies. Still, he needs to get out. He’s already been pushing his luck, cantbelieve Rozanov didn’t figure it out, but there’s no reason to give him another chance. Everything in Shane rebels when gets up, his entire body yearning to be back in the bed that smells of Rozanov, but he forces himself forward and reaches for his pants on the chair, and pulls them on. For his shirt, he has to go all the way into the hallway. Every step is easier than the one before, even though Shane’s still acutely aware of what he’s leaving behind. He still has a view of the bed, where Rozanov’s looking at him unashamedly naked, grinning broadly.

“Looks good.” He winks.

Shane’s not sure what to do with that.

“Right. I’ll see you at the next cup again.”

Rozanov’s still smirking. “Where you try to beat me.”

“Where I will beat you.”

“Will be fun either way. But more fun for me, because I will win.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Bye.”

“See you,” Rozanov calls after him, sounding pretty happy with himself.

Shane’s feeling pretty good himself, loose and relaxed and warm. Satisfied. His body is buzzing like after a good, hard workout. Finally.

Back in his room, he finally dares to breathe in relief. It worked. He took an insane fucking risk, but it worked. And Rozanov didn’t even notice. Fuck. Shane can’t do this again, ever, but if he had to, he knows that it would work.

When he’s in the bathroom for the second shower of the night, he realizes that his shirt is too big. And too dark.

It’s not his shirt. It’s Rozanov’s. Fuck.

He tears it off and goes to shower. When he gets out, he feels a little weird again. God, should he not have washed off what they did? He can’t go back though.

His eyes fall on the shirt. He only hesitates for a second before he puts it on. He keeps breathing hard, but something in him settles.

This is—fine. This is totally fine. Just his body needing alpha pheromones. Whatever it takes. And Rozanov won’t ever know that Shane wears his shirt to bed. He won’t ever know that Shane’s still feeling a little off the next morning and wears Rozanov’s shirt under his new Montreal hoodie while he gives a few interviews.

And Rozanov will never, ever know that when Shane gets home, he puts the shirt into a plastic bag without washing it and then stashes it at the back of his dresser. Just in case.

Shane knows he won’t be able to avoid Rozanov. Rozanov’s gonna play for Boston and for the rest of their lives, their careers will be inextricably linked. It fills him with dread, but deep down, there’s something else too. The knowledge that Rozanov might be a safe haven. That Rozanov, even though he doesn’t know what Shane is, still wants to sleep with him for some inexplicable reason. The thought of doing this again is insane. It’s way too risky. But as Shane wraps himself tighter into Rozanov’s shirt, he already knows he’ll do it again. And he had managed to keep his secret throughout the entire night. He might not be able to spend his heat with Rozanov, but he’ll be able to get something. Because no one, especially not the guy poised to be his arch rival, can know Shane’s secret. And if that means Shane will never spend his heat with anyone, well, that’s fine.

Shane will just take a little, every now and then, to satisfy his body’s cravings. Because his body will need it. That’s all it is. Like taking vitamins or eating well.

Shane falls asleep wearing Ilya Rozanov’s shirt and tells himself it’s not a problem at all.