Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Omega Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Forced Bonding, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), POV Shane Hollander, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), True Mates, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Getting Together, Insecure Shane Hollander, Scent Marking

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of Hollanov A/B/O

Collections:

Hollanov ABO, THE COTTAGE

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-16 Words: 17,484 Chapters: 1/1

Contractual Obligations

Summary

Level 1 bonds, at their core, are practical things. They are incredibly clinical, especially in the MLH. Injected with grade A suppressants to keep the bond controlled, exchanging scents as briefly as was manageable, a quick barely-there shallow bite to the gland on the omega's neck, paperwork filed with the league office after a full day of observations, and suddenly an omega is considered 'safe' to play professional hockey. The omega, now bonded, is considered less likely to 'disrupt team dynamics,' whatever that means.

Shane had been nineteen when Montreal assigned him to Gilbert Comeau.

OR: omegas are only allowed to play professional hockey if they enter into a contracted bond with an alpha on their team. Shane's alpha in Montreal is more than lackluster, but what can he expect? Though, maybe a little forewarning would have been nice, because Comeau suddenly wants him gone, and Shane soon finds himself being traded to what could be the worst possible outcome: Boston.

Notes

`\~This came to me in a dream~ that's a lie lol I keep thinking of ways to make Shane miserable in the omegaverse and this was the one besides the mating run au that got my attention.

things to note: this is mostly an au that bares some similarity to canon. i don't mention it in full detail, but shane is drafted later than he was in canon due to his omega status. this means he doesn't meet ilya (shane was not invited to join the prospect cup's team; blatant omegaphobia if you're curious). due to circumstances that are mentioned in the fic, there are a lot of divergences his dynamic causes.

Shane realizes something is wrong fairly early on, but had previously chosen to ignore it, solely in the hopes that whatever it is that is making Comeau extra icy to him would go away and just—no longer be causing any issues. Comeau stops giving him even the most superficial of the league mandated scentings, and Shane isn't that oblivious; they don't touch much to begin with, not when either of them can help it, but going from once a week, to once a month, to never, is still noticeable.

Level 1 bonds, at their core, are practical things. They are incredibly clinical, especially in the MLH. Injected with grade A suppressants to keep the bond controlled, exchanging scents as briefly as was manageable, a quick barely-there shallow bite to the gland on the omega's neck, paperwork filed with the league office after a full day of observations, and suddenly an omega is considered 'safe' to play professional hockey. The omega, now bonded, is considered less likely to 'disrupt team dynamics,' whatever that means.

The bite itself barely matters, biologically speaking. A Level 1 bond sits shallow beneath the skin, thin as paper. It is easy to sever and easy to replace: one single counter-pheromone injection to disrupt the bond, along with some gland flushing, and it was gone. Most teams treated it almost like equipment management: something administrative, annoying, but ultimately, necessary.

Shane had been nineteen when Montreal assigned him to Gilbert Comeau.

"Best for optics," management had said.

Comeau had been captain already, an established alpha. Québécois born and bred hometown boy. Big enough that nobody questioned him and mean enough that nobody crossed him. The media loved him, but the organization loved him more. The so-called 'perfect' alpha candidate to tie an omega to.

Shane had smiled through the press conference after their bonding, frozen smile on display, while Comeau stood beside him with one heavy hand on the back of his neck like he was showing off a dog. It had made Shane's skin crawl, his omega subdued enough by the bond that he could only vaguely feel the squirming of discomfort in his stomach. Their twenty-four hour observation after the bite had felt like a lifetime, the bond trying to build itself up and then sputtering out into a barely there spark that was so tiny it left Shane cold.

The photographs still followed Shane around online six years later.

Now, at twenty-five, Shane knows the exact shape of Comeau's prideful disdain. It lives in little things throughout Shane's day: the way his 'alpha' will whisper snide comments to their teammates during practice, the way he carefully calls Shane a team player but never mentions any of his actual talents, and most of all, how he encourages the others to keep Shane small and almost nonexistent on the ice.

Which is ridiculous, honestly. Shane is 5'10" and solidly built from years in the MLH. He outweighs half the league's beta centers, but he is still an omega, and omegas were supposed to be sleek, and delicate, and nonthreatening. Shane's shoulders are too broad. His hands too large. Even his scent is naturally faint, almost undetectable. It doesn't help soften him into something people found comfortable, especially hypermasculine alpha hockey players.

So they mock him for it instead, doing their best to keep him humble and meek and in his place.

"Looking good out there for once, bond bunny," someone says, sending half the locker room into hysterics.

Shane ignores them, stripping his gear as calmly as he can. If he reacts, they get worse. Being called a bond bunny, something that one usually calls an omega player who needs an alpha's bond in order to make it in the league, is not a new insult. It's not true, of course, Shane is far more talented than that, but it's how most of his teammates view omegas; unable to cut it without alpha intervention.

From beside him, Hayden looks up sharply from where he sits unlacing his skates. Hayden is a beta, which definitely makes him the least exhausting person on their team.

"Jesus Christ," Hayden mutters, "you guys ever get new material?"

"Aw, Pike defending his omega boyfriend."

"Fuck off," J.J. snaps from across the room, a scowl on his face.

Shane sends J.J. a little smile, but makes sure to shake his head. He has just recently been given the 'A' and Shane doesn't want him to lose it just for defending Shane from some, in comparison to what else he's heard, tame chirping. J.J. is one of the few alphas on the team who treats Shane normally, like an actual teammate, and not the team's omega mascot.

Comeau walks in then, silencing the room automatically. It would be impressive, a display of a powerful alpha, if it was anyone but Comeau. He has the team tame only in the most superficial way and it leaves Shane frustrated most of the time.

Comeau smells sour and sharp, a mix of over-ripe citrus peels, heavy pine cleaner, and aggression. Shane feels the distant echo of their bond stir instinctively under his skin; not attraction, it has never been that, just awareness. A biological recognition of whatever fucked up ownership his captain got to claim over him.

Comeau barely glances at him. "Coach wants to try new lines," he says, reading off a piece of paper in his hand. "Hollander, fourth line tonight."

Shane stares at him. "What?"

"You heard me," Comeau says without glancing up.

"I had two goals last game."

Comeau shrugs, glancing up briefly at him before looking back down at the paper. "Need more grit on the third."

More grit, Shane thinks with a scoff. Shane is second in scoring on the team despite averaging less ice time than half the top six. More grit his fucking ass.

"You're wasting him," Hayden says flatly.

Comeau's eyes sharpen immediately, a glare sent Hayden's way. "You wanna coach now?"

"No," Hayden replies, his tone mocking. "I just play hockey."

The room goes still, an uncomfortable silence laying over the team as their captain bares his teeth at Hayden.

Shane wants to disappear.

This is probably one of the worse parts of being an omega in professional hockey: not the insults, not the shitty ice time, not even Comeau. It was the humiliation of everyone watching it happen. Omegas in the MLH already walk a knife's-edge. Every mistake becomes proof they don't belong. Every injury becomes evidence they were too fragile. Every emotional reaction gets blamed on instincts instead of rational thought.

Shane has had to learn from a very young age to become unshakable. He laughs when expected, smiles for cameras when pushed in their direction, is always careful to never snap back at anyone. He never scents aggressively, and most importantly, he never shows how much it hurts.

It isn't enough, but he's trying.

Comeau bares his teeth at Hayden, glaring at the beta. "Careful, Pike."

"Or what?"

The alpha's scent pushes suddenly through the room, sharp dominance meant to intimidate. Most of the team reacted automatically, hackles raised in either hostility or fear at their captain's display.

Shane doesn't blink, though he has to stop himself from wrinkling his nose. Years ago he might have lowered his eyes, the bond compelling him into submission, but Level 1 bonds were weak by design, and Comeau had never once nurtured theirs beyond the minimum requirements. There was no trust, no affection, and no real imperative to defer to his alpha on an instinctual level.

The bond between them was basically nothing more than scar tissue on Shane's neck.

Shane grabs his bag, deciding that he would rather leave than deal with the tension while trying to clean off in the shower. "I'm going home."

Nobody even tries to stop him.

His condo is almost completely silent, the hum of his fridge the only sound as Shane sprawls out across his couch, staring blankly up at his ceiling. He hadn't bothered to turn on any lights when he came home after their game, their fourth loss in a row, and the only lights now are coming from the city lights outside his window.

Montreal likes him well enough. In theory.

Fans wore his jersey, kids lining up for autographs. Sports analysts called him gifted and creative and one of the most naturally talented players in the league.

Except every conversation circled back to the same thing, a caveat they always felt they needed to add: for an omega.

Fast for an omega, strong for an omega, talented for an omega. As if the qualifier matters more than the talent itself.

His phone buzzes, the screen lighting up.

HAYDEN: Comeau was in a mood this morning after you left

HAYDEN: he was talking with coach after the game, heard him say your name but couldn't hear anything else.

Shane blinks, staring at the words. Comeau is often in a mood when it comes to Shane, so there isn't anything new there. He would never choose to talk to Shane about something that is bothering him, not when he can go to the coaching staff and have them chastise Shane in their gratingly condescending way.

HAYDEN: wait

HAYDEN: holy shit

Shane frowns, his brow furrowing as he watches Hayden's typing bubble appear and disappear several times. Before he can type out any questions, his phone rings.

His phone is ringing, the time reading close to midnight, and the display name reads Management.

Shane almost ignores, it is late after all, but he can feel something in his gut that makes him answer, turning his speaker phone on so he can lay the phone on his chest and stay laying prone on his couch.

"Hello?"

"Shane." Bergevin, Montreal's general manager, sounds completely unphased at the late hour, his voice smooth and controlled. Careful. "We need you to come in early tomorrow morning."

A cold feeling settles immediately in Shane's stomach, dread leeching the warmth from him as he takes in a steady breath. "Why?"

"We'll discuss it then."

"No," Shane says sharply, uncaring that he knows better than to snap at someone in a higher position than himself. He doesn't currently care. "Tell me now."

There is a beat of silence before Bergevin sighs loudly, his voice sounding exasperated. "Comeau has requested the dissolution of your bond."

Everything inside Shane goes deathly still, his inner omega frozen in shock. "What?"

"He's already submitted a formal petition with the league. Given the bond classification, the organization has approved the request."

Approved. The disillusionment was already approved without any mention of it to Shane. This isn't supposed to be a quick process, something an alpha can just decide to do; the alpha has to submit the initial paperwork to the team, a waiting period following to give time for the alpha and the team to start considering their next steps, before they file a joint case to the league to request an omega trade. It can sometimes take weeks for the appropriate paperwork to get filed, a new team found, and then a trade agreed upon.

Shane barks out a laugh, just once, because otherwise he might scream. "You approved it before talking to me?"

"Shane—"

"Are you fucking serious?"

"These situations can create tension in the locker room—"

"So your solution is, what? Get rid of me?"

"Nothing has been finalized," the alpha says, doing a piss poor job of trying to appease Shane.

His words are a complete lie; Shane knows how this all works, even if he hasn't had to go through it before. A bonded omega without a team-assigned alpha becomes a liability immediately. Temporary free-agent accommodations existed, but teams hated them. Media loved them; questions started, speculations grew, a wonderful way to generate traffic for their ratings.

Shane is abruptly made aware that he has never been important enough to Montreal for them to choose him over Gilbert Comeau. He knew this, has known this since he was signed, but it sets something in his chest into a fierce ache, rejection poisoning him from the inside.

The sheer disrespect of it leaves Shane breathless. Six years attached to a team and alpha who treated him like an inconvenience, only to discover even their meaningless bond could be discarded without so much as a conversation. No warning, nothing.

"When?" Shane asks, feeling exhausted.

"The dissolution process begins tomorrow."

Well, that seems fast, Shane thinks to himself, bitter.

Level 1 bonds were easy to break, that is the entire point of them. A suppressant injection followed by hormone blockers for forty-eight hours afterwards. It all leads to a medically supervised unwinding of the bond's chemical markers. The omega may experience some nausea or maybe even some temporary headaches if the bond has lasted a long time.

No severe consequences or pain and nothing that would leave anyone emotionally unbalanced; because level 1 bonds aren't supposed to matter.

Shane swallows hard anyway. "And after?" he asks.

Bergevin pauses as he clears his throat, the sound of fabric shifting on his end of the call. "We're exploring options," Bergevin answers slowly.

Shane closes his eyes. "You traded me already." Silence confirms his suspicion. Rage hits him so hard that angry tears form quickly, his vision blurring. "To who?"

"We'll discuss this to—," Bergevin starts, but Shane cuts him off.

"To who?"

"Boston," Bergevin replies with a grumble, clearly annoyed with Shane's attitude.

Shane sits up quickly, nearly launching his phone off of his chest and across the room, his hands fumbling as he scrambles to catch the phone before it can go sailing.

Boston. Montreal's biggest rival, Boston. The current defending Champions, Boston. A team from an entirely different country, Boston.

Shane's brain rushes to provide anything and everything he knows about Boston and their omega situation and comes up empty. They don't currently have an omega on the team, possibly haven't had one on the team the entirety of Shane's time with Montreal. The only information he can solidly say about Boston is that they're presence on the ice is intimidating and a lot of that comes from their captain, Ilya Rozanov.

Shane has played against Rozanov for years, if he wants to get technical. They don't see each other on the ice, Rozanov centering the first line while Shane fluctuates between the fourth and third lines. Everyone knows about him, though. Honestly, it was impossible not to. First overall draft pick, the Russian superstar, an alpha with a signature wrist shot that isn't afraid to check an opponent's last remaining braincell out of him. He's the kind of alpha people instinctively moved around, watching in awe as they eagerly followed his lead.

Shane hates him a little on principle. He knows nothing about the alpha's actual personality, just what he shows on the ice, but Shane can't help but feel painfully jealous when he sees Rozanov play; it always made Shane aware of how much better hockey would feel if someone actually trusted his talent.

"You're sending me to Boston," Shane says slowly.

"It's a good opportunity."

"For who?"

"Kid."

Shane laughs, exhausted and furious all at once. "Unbelievable."

"This move is in everyone's best interest," the man snaps at him, seemingly reaching his patience for Shane's tantrum.

Everyone's best interest, except for Shane's.

The call ends after a few stilted minutes of conversation, though Shane barely remembers the rest of it. He sits motionless afterwards, phone clenched tightly in his hand.

Boston. Shane has just been traded like property because his team assigned alpha wanted somebody else.

Outside, snow starts to drift softly through downtown Montreal, the flakes only visibly when they flash across the lights shining up at him.

Shane presses his fingers unconsciously to the fading bite mark on his neck. For six years, this stupid bond has dictated his entire career, and now it was going to be erased in less than two days.

Shane stays on his couch, numb, for several hours longer than is probably healthy.

Hayden appears at his door the next day, fifteen minutes after Shane leaves his meeting with Montreal's management team.

Shane opens the condo door wearing sweatpants and an old Montreal hoodie, feeling raw and hollowed out. Hayden takes one look at his face and immediately holds up a bag.

"I brought over emergency carrot sticks and hummus," he says solemnly.

Shane almost laughs, but can't bring himself to do more than move aside to let the beta in.

Hayden steps inside carefully, scent calm and grounding in a way that makes Shane's shoulders unclench despite himself. Betas don't push scent into a room the way alphas do. No obnoxious dominance. No territorial pressure. Just a calm presence and unoffensive scent.

"You talked to management?" Hayden asks.

Shane shuts the door, letting out a tired sigh. "Yeah."

"And?"

"I got traded."

Hayden stares at him. "What?"

"To Boston."

There was a long beat of stunned silence and then Hayden whispers, "Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"They really—," Hayden cuts himself off, jaw tightening. "That's insane. They're not even going to try assigning you to anyone else? There's at least three other guys who are unbonded."

Shane shrugs, because if he lets himself feel the humiliation too directly, he thinks he might break something. "They said it's to avoid locker room problems."

"Created by that bastard."

"Apparently that distinction doesn't matter," Shane says bitterly, shaking his head as he finally turns and takes a heavy seat onto his couch.

Hayden swears viciously under his breath, but follows quickly after him regardless. Hayden unpacks the store-bought hummus and baby carrots onto the coffee table. Shane appreciates the thought, but he doesn't feel very hungry. Neither of them reach for it.

The condo smells like him and only him, any lingering traces of his soon to be ex-alpha virtually gone. The only remnants of it exists solely in the bite Shane still wears. Level 1 bonds don't saturate spaces the way deeper bonds can, but Shane's instincts still recognize the traces automatically. Soon it would all fade.

"You okay?" Hayden asks quietly.

"No," Shane answers honestly, surprising them both. Shane rubs a hand over his face. "I know the bond didn't mean anything, biologically. I know that. But he didn't even tell me himself."

Hayden grimaces in sympathy. "Because he's a coward."

"He went straight to management."

"That's because management always takes the alpha's side."

Shane gives him a tired look. "I'm aware."

"Sorry," Hayden apologizes, leaning back against the couch cushions. "It's bullshit. You've been the best player on this team for years and everyone knows it."

"Not everyone."

"Everyone who actually watches hockey."

Shane stares down at his hands, unmoored. The trade itself still didn't feel real. Montreal has owned every aspect of his career from the second they drafted him. They'd chosen his housing, his media training, and his fucking alpha, and now they were choosing where he went next.

The worst part was that nobody around the league would even find it nearly as devastating as Shane, the trade most likely going to be treated as mid-tier gossip. Omega trades were meant to be quiet and efficient when handled correctly, loud and messy only when handled poorly.

No one wanted an unbonded omega lingering around a locker room for too long.

Hayden hesitates before asking, "Do you know who your new alpha is gonna be?"

Shane laughs once, brittle. "No."

"You worried?"

"Yes." The word comes out immediately, a reflex to the dread that has been swirling in his gut. One of the terrifying things about Level 1 bonds: they were weak physically, but socially, they still gave an alpha immense access to an omega's life. Alphas gained access to medical records, set travel accommodations, picked what times the omega had access to private team facilities.

A good alpha treats it professionally. A bad alpha makes your life hell.

Comeau has never crossed certain lines, at least. He's been cold and dismissive and controlling on the ice, but never physically threatening. Never possessive outside what the organization encouraged.

Shane has heard worse stories from other omegas in the league.

Much worse.

"What if he hates me?" Shane asks quietly.

Hayden frowns. "Why would he?"

"Because I'm from Montreal."

"That's hockey."

"And Comeau's my former alpha."

That makes Hayden pause.

The rivalry between Montreal and Boston ran ugly and deep. Entire careers got shaped by it. Players carried grudges for years. Fights spilled off the ice into interviews and media narratives and fan obsession.

An omega previously bonded to Montreal's captain? Shane suddenly feels sick.

"What if they think I'm difficult?" he continues. "Or disloyal or—"

"Shane."

"What if the locker room is worse?"

Hayden's expression softens, his hand raising to rest on Shane's arm. "Hey, look at me."

Shane does, unable to to hide how miserable this entire situation is making him.

"You know what every single guy in Boston thinks about you?"

Shane snorts. "That I'm lucky to even be playing?"

"No," Hayden says flatly. "They think you're terrifying."

That startles a laugh out of him, the idea ridiculous.

"I'm serious," Hayden insists. "You're one of the hardest players in the league to defend. Every team talks about it."

"That's not the same as wanting me there," Shane points out, sighing. Shane's stats are incredible for what Montreal lets him do and he knows they would be even better if they had any actual faith in him. Shane can't imagine Boston is going to be any different.

"No," Hayden admits, removing his hand. "Maybe not."

The silence stretches between them, tense with uncertainty. Shane stares blankly at the wall in front of him, mind racing. He truly has no clue what he's going to be walking into; would he get to Boston with his alpha chosen and ready to bond with him as soon as his flight touches down? Will they parade him around instead, let his alpha teammates examine him like he's a piece of equipment they're trying to decide to use?

Hayden nudges Shane's shoulder lightly, breaking him from his line of thought. "Maybe it could be better in Boston."

Shane wants to believe that, but he's not naive. He knows what he is and what his job entails. The only thing he can hope for is that his next alpha is just as ambivalent to him off the ice as his current one is.

His mother curses a long list of profanity when he tells his parents about the trade. She isn't shouting so much as she is growling, her alpha raging on her son's behalf. Her face crumples as she grips him tightly in her arms, grief and fury burning spicy in her scent.

"They treated you like an object," she says, caressing his hair.

Shane leans back, pulling away slightly as he glances away form his mom's furious gaze. "Mom—"

"No," her voice is sharp. "No. I know this is how the league works when it comes to omegas. I know what everyone says about contracts and stability and omega accommodations. I do not care."

His father sits at their dining room table, his expression grim. "You should've had a no-trade clause," his dad mutters.

"They wouldn't give him one," Yuna scoffs, rubbing her hands up and down Shane's arms.

"They don't usually give omegas those; I could maybe name one omega who has a negotiated one," Shane shrugs.

"That doesn't make it right," Yuna argues, stepping away from Shane to start pacing.

Shane swallows hard. It was strange sometimes, having parents who genuinely believed he deserved better than what the world gives him. He's never quite known how to handle the pride and confidence his parents have for his career. Most parents wouldn't necessarily encourage their omega children to sign a binding bond contract just to hit a puck around.

"Boston's a good team," he says quietly.

"That isn't the point," Yuna replies, sighing as she runs her fingers through her hair.

No, it wasn't. This entire situation is a reality that omegas in the league face, but it still fucking sucks.

David sighs heavily from his seat, reaching out to grab Yuna's hand and pull her towards him. He cradles his irate mate against him, letting her have unfettered access to the bitemark on his neck in an attempt to sooth her agitation. "Do you know anything about the alpha situation there?"

Shane shakes his head. "No, I know nothing."

"We can try to request certain contract terms," his mother mutters, his breathing slow as she tries to remain calm. "Ask as many questions as we can before agreeing."

Shane almost laughs. Request. Ask. As if those things had ever mattered before. He knows his mother knows this just as well as he does, had been there with his agent when going through his first contract, but he knows she's trying to comfort him in the only way she can think to.

"They'll assign someone," he says. "That's how it works."

His mother looks deeply unhappy at his statement. "Not always," Yuna says.

Shane barely hears her, not acknowledging her false hope. He knows he'll be getting his current bond dissolved before he climbs on a plane to Boston the next day, exhausted and weary. He'll meet management and medical staff, get maybe five minutes of time to meet his new assigned alpha, before a bond is forced upon him once more. It's the reality he faces just because he loves hockey.

Boston greets him with a professionalism so polished it almost makes him suspicious.

The flight to Boston had been miserable. They set him up with a first class seat, which he supposes is nice, and the airline staff are completely oblivious to who Shane is (or are very good at pretending to be), which means the thing that ruins the flight is the pounding headache and persistent nausea that plagues him.

He went into the bond breaking appointment feeling vaguely hollow and incredibly anxious, both dreading the injection and looking forward to being unbonded for the first time in years. The period where they monitored him afterwards flew by, even with his discomfort. He had been on a plane within three days. He had sat curled up in his seat, turned slightly toward the airplane window with headphones on and his baseball cap pulled low. He had spent the time staring blankly out at cloud cover while his thoughts spiraled endlessly.

He was about to experience a new city, play for a new team, and be bonded to a new alpha. It was the last one that made something catch painfully beneath his ribs.

Shane has been doing his best to not think too hard about how the bond assignment would work in Boston. Montreal's management had made it brutally clear years ago that omegas did not get opinions about these things. Shane was told to accept his designated alpha, had signed the paperwork, and then was expected to behave professionally about it.

That was how hockey worked for omegas. Still, unease crawled beneath his skin every time he imagines walking into another locker room.

He thinks briefly of Boston's captain, Ilya Rozanov, and wonders what kind of culture he has created for omegas on his team. The alpha's reputation preceded him everywhere: aggressive and intense on the ice, ego large but with talent enough to back it all up. The kind of captain who dragged entire teams into relevance through sheer force of will. Perhaps, if Shane is being honest, the exact opposite of his old captain and alpha.

Shane had seen him from afar for years now, had watched the way Boston seemed to revolve around him. His confidence as he cut through defensemen on the ice, they way he handled scrums and hungry media alike; Rozanov always looked so certain of himself and his place in a way Shane can't even being to imagine.

Shane tries not to dwell on the fact that he was walking directly into that alpha's territory now. It wasn't as though Rozanov would particularly care about him anyway, why would he? Shane was an omega player newly traded from a rival team with a failed bond history and a reputation for being difficult to place properly in a lineup. The most Rozanov would have to deal with Shane would be during practices and through whatever alpha is assigned to him.

He forces himself to stop thinking about the alpha, shaking his head in frustration.

The plane had landed shortly after sunset, a car picking him up from the airport. Several team staff members had been waiting for him at a hotel, handling his bags as they escorted him to his room. The hotel suite waiting for him overlooked the harbor and was nicer than some apartments Shane had lived in during juniors.

Everyone had smiled at him the entire time they got him settled; it had been incredibly unnerving. The driver was a Boston native, chatting comfortably to him about the city, the front desk employee had greeted him by name, and one of the Boston staff members, someone from player services, had listened intently when Shane hesitantly went into detail about his diet plan, telling him they'd have some things delivered to his little kitchenette while he was at the arena the next day.

He stands in front of TD Garden now, dread slipping down his spine as he gives the driver a stilted farewell. The arena looms enormous and imposing from the outside, Boston logo huge and proudly displayed. Shane doesn't get much time to stare before he is approached by a beta man with a lanyard marking him as team staff, welcoming Shane with a friendly smile and encouraging him to follow him through security.

Shane has to try not to visibly tense as they pass the occasional personnel, each person doing a double take when they see him. Once or twice, someone actually stops them on their way, dropping "We're excited to have you here, Mr. Hollander!" and "Hell of a trade for us!" like they might actually mean it. One alpha staff member with bright green hair actually shakes his hand and tells him he's loved watching Shane play for years.

Shane genuinely doesn't know what to do with that.

They stop by medical, his evaluation scheduled first thing. It's standard intake: bloodwork is drawn, his hormone baseline collected, and then a test to measure both his bond status and if his omega is ready to accept another low level bond. The omega doing the testing is gentle with him, cracking the occasional joke to try to ease Shane's obvious tension. A beta doctor and the team's omega player liaison joins soon after, the doctor's voice measured and calm as she explains every procedure she's about to do before touching him during his physical.

"Do you have any concerns regarding future bonding accommodations?" The doctor asks as she discards her gloves, picking up a tablet to start typing something.

Concerns, Shane wonders, thrown off. "Uh," Shane says intelligently, not sure how to respond.

The doctor smiles slightly. "Boston's generally pretty proactive with omega integration. Especially regarding travel schedules, suppressant management, and bond stability."

Shane blinks at her. "You say that like it's normal."

The doctor exchanges a brief glance with the omega liaison standing nearby. "It should be," she tells him carefully.

Something uncomfortable settles in Shane's stomach.

The omega liaison introduces herself a few minutes later, having relocated with Shane to her quiet office. It overlooks the ice, a surprisingly breathtaking view of the arena.

"We try to handle bonds collaboratively here," Megan explains. "Especially long-term professional pairings."

Collaboratively, Shane thinks, is a rather bizarre word to associate with the bonding experience he has had so far during his hockey career. Shane wraps both hands around his coffee cup, squeezing it tightly. "What if there aren't any good options?" he asks, eyes focused on the desk before him.

"There usually are," Megan assures him.

"But what if there aren't?" Shane asks, insistent, glancing up at the omega woman.

She regards him quietly, the silence stretching out for a moment too long. "Did Montreal allow you any input with captain Comeau?"

Shane laughs once before he can stop himself.

Megan's expression tightens immediately, her lips pursing. "Oh," she says softly.

That single word somehow feels worse than any pity she could have offered.

His next meeting is actually held at Boston's practice arena, nearly twenty minutes away. He suffers through listening to his driver make conversation again, thoughts straying back to his conversation with the omega liaison. Collaborative bonds, he ponders, humming along to appear as engaged in their conversation as he can manage.

Shane sits stiffly in his suit while Boston's general manager, Don Reilly, flips through his paperwork.

"We're very excited to have you here," the alpha says, glancing up at Shane with a smile. Shane nods automatically at his words, keeping silent. "We think you've been underutilized. We see you playing on at least the second line, maybe even on the first depending on your flexibility and chemistry with the team. It's all up to Coach LeClaire and the rest of the coaching staff, of course, but we see great things coming from your trade here, Hollander."

Shane keeps his expression as neutral as he can, despite the way his pulse kicks up. First line, he thinks, the words feeling too dangerous to hope for.

"As for your bond contract," Don continues, "we'd like you to review your options and choose who you'd be most comfortable paired with."

Shane stares at him, completely blindsided. "What?"

The GM blinks at him. "Your options."

"You're letting me choose?" Shane asks.

"Of course," Don says, like that's just a forgone conclusion.

Shane genuinely does not know how to respond. The words feel foreign to him in this context, the idea of choosing who he would bond with having never occurred to him. No one has ever asked what Shane wanted regarding a contract bond.

"No one's ever—," He stops abruptly, embarrassed.

Don's expression shifts subtly, though it's not pity that falls there, but something that makes Shane even more uncomfortable: realization.

"Well," he says carefully, "we want this arrangement to work for everyone involved."

Shane sits there in stunned silence while Don slides a thick folder across the table towards him. Shane takes it, carefully flipping it open and staring. Inside were profiles, actual bond profiles. Included were a list of compatible unbonded alphas on the current roster, as well as their bond history, general temperament evaluations, individual interviews where they clearly state they're volunteering and agree to the bond if chosen, and even preferences regarding omega partnerships. Each profile ends with notes from team psychologists discussing the comfort levels and each alpha's described physical boundaries for a low level contract bond.

Shane feels suddenly, violently out of his depth. "This is…," He trails off, looking down at the folder. "This is normal here?"

Don frowns at him, leaning back in his seat as he watches Shane carefully. "Yes," he says eventually, tone leaning on the more gentle side. "You deserve informed consent regarding a bond arrangement, Hollander."

The words hit him strangely. They keep doing this, hitting him with words that sound out of place in his experience.

Informed consent. What a concept.

"We don't need an answer tonight or even this week," he continues. "Take your time."

Time is another thing he's never been allowed before. Shane leaves the arena after the meeting feeling numb. On the walk back through the practice facility, he briefly catches sight of players on the ice through the glass.

Boston's top line is running drills. Shane's eyes immediately catch onto and then follow his new captain as Rozanov cuts through the neutral zone like nothing, barking something sharp at a defenseman before immediately redirecting a pass into the net. Even at this distance, Shane could feels his presence. For one brief irrational second, Shane wonders what it would feel like to play beside someone like that every night. Then he immediately shuts that thought down, shaking his head and heading outside, ready to climb into the car one last time for the day.

Back at his hotel, he drops the folder onto the available desk and stares at it from across the room like it might bite him. Inside that folder was the name of the alpha who would determine the shape of his life in Boston. His stomach violently twists at the thought.

Shane thinks about Comeau, about six years of dismissive scentings and subtle humiliations, about being treated like an obligation instead of a teammate.

Shane turns towards his kitchenette, determined to eat dinner before he really starts to spiral, and ends up standing in front of the refrigerator for almost a full minute, just staring at oat milk and fresh vegetables with faint suspicion. No one in Montreal had ever remembered his dietary preferences except Hayden and one of the team nutritionists. Which had been an ongoing frustration when the team was the one to assign him the diet in the first place.

Eventually, Shane gives in and simply showers, crawling into bed and deliberately ignoring the folder altogether. He'll look at it in the morning. Tonight, he is too exhausted to survive another life-changing decision.

The first thing Shane notices about Boston's locker room was that nobody immediately stares at him when he walks in. Several players look up, a brief glance at someone coming in for practice, but there is no lingering curiosity to it. No predatory edge. Shane is the newest acquisition in the middle of the biggest rivalry in hockey, freshly ripped out of Montreal under difficult circumstances, but nobody seems to bat an eye when he shows up for his first practice.

It is disorienting enough that Shane can't help wondering what the catch is.

"Shut up, Hammer, stop being an idiot," a broad alpha with dark hair grins at Shane from across the room, meeting his gaze and laughing when the alpha next to him shouts in indignation. Cliff Marlow, assistant captain, sitting next to Brad Hammersmith. Shane recognizes both of them immediately; both forwards were huge and often a formidable presence on the ice.

"Fuck you, Marly," Hammersmith says, taking the time to shove at his teammate before returning to lacing up his skates.

A few guys laugh on the other side of the locker room, their own conversation floating around them, and Shane has to force himself not to stare at the odd sight. They all look incredibly relaxed, no tension or posturing.

Shane stands awkwardly beside his stall, watching as an approaching equipment manager starts organizing his gear. Shane will have to fix it all later; he appreciates them doing their job, but he can't get dressed the right way to fit his routine with the way they've organized his cubby.

"This your first time in Boston?" Victor St-Simon asks, his stall sitting directly beside Shane's.

"Uh," Shane starts, turning his attention to the beta defenseman. "For more than a road trip? Yeah."

"You'll like it," Ryan Carmichael chimes in from St-Simon's other side. "People are assholes, but way less pretentious than fucking Montreal."

"That is because nobody can be as pretentious as Montreal," Hammersmith pipes up, his voice solemn.

"True," St-Simon says, laughing. It takes Shane an embarrassing second to realize the man has a Quebecois French accent.

Again, there is more laughter from others in the locker room, the entire feel of the room a startling contrast to what Shane is used to.

Shane stares at them slightly, unable to stop or make himself move. Nobody is posturing, nobody is trying to throw their scent around, and, so far, nobody is doing that thing his alpha Montreal teammates always did where they lowered their voices into something patronizingly careful, like Shane might start crying if they spoke too loudly.

It makes him weirdly tense. Shane doesn't get any breather, no chance to really adapt, because Boston's head coach walks into the room at that exact moment. LeClaire is older than Shane expects, grey threading through dark hair, expression sharp and alert.

Conversation quiets instantly, but the vibes of the room isn't defensive or hesitant. They respect their coach.

"Morning," LeClaire says before his gaze lands directly on Shane, still standing there like an idiot. Shane almost startles when LeClaire walks over to him and holds out his hand. "Good to finally have you here, Hollander."

Shane stares at the offered hand for half a second too long before he quickly takes it. The handshake is firm and brief, LeClaire's hand warm against Shane's own. It feels normal, respectful even.

"You skate with the second line today," LeClaire continues. "Power play too. We'll see how the line chemistry looks."

Shane opens his mouth, then closes it again. Second line.

LeClaire is already turning away. "If you need anything, ask," he says.

Shane feels stupid, but he stares after the coach, completely dumbfounded. That was it. No warnings about behavior, no careful reminders about professionalism, and no mention of his omega status at all. Shane can't help but feel bizarrely untethered.

Theriault hadn't looked him in the eye for almost three years after Montreal drafting him. Shane had spent entire seasons feeling more like an uncomfortable experiment than an actual player. Here, just seconds ago, LeClaire had shaken his hand like Shane mattered, like his presence on the team was wanted. It makes something ache unpleasantly beneath his ribs.

"Careful," Marlow says, watching him with amusement. "Coach likes you already."

Shane sits down slowly at his stall, overwhelmed in a way he can't fully explain. He finally starts to get himself together a little, stripping off his shirt to switch it over to a compression shirt, when the locker room scent actually shifts. It takes Shane a moment to clock it, the way every player's scent shifts from light and airy with no major emotion fueling it to focused and intent, rich notes from several scents suddenly filling the air.

Shane turns to see every player straighten slightly, their attention sharp as they look toward the locker room entrance. Shane follows their attention and then freezes, breath caught in his throat.

Ilya Rozanov is bigger up close than Shane thought he would be. Shane knew that already, technically. They'd played against each other for years, but he'd mostly watched Rozanov from the bench between shifts while Montreal buried Shane on lower lines against weaker matchups.

This close, though, Shane can't stop the little Jesus Christ that echoes in his head. Rozanov fills the space without trying, tall and broad-shouldered, confident smirk on his face. According to the league stats, he's the same height as Shane, maybe just a smidge taller, but the way the team reacted to the presence of their alpha captain has propped up Rozanov's presence into something truly astonishing.

The new scent hits Shane as soon as that thought forms. Shane has smelled hundreds of alphas in his life. Locker rooms are often overflowing with them, their scents ranging from aggressive, sharp, and generally overwhelming, often crashing together until Shane barely notices them anymore.

This scent is different. Cold winter air, smoke drifting on a breeze, a dark spicy richness that reminds Shane of warm fires on cold nights.

There's something about it that wraps tightly around Shane's instincts, his heart starting to race. Good. The alpha smells good. A shiver runs down Shane's spine so suddenly it almost jolts him where he stands.

What the fuck?

Rozanov's gaze lands on him, his smirk pinning Shane where he stands. Shane's stomach drops strangely when their eyes meet for the first time. There is something intensely focused about the way Rozanov looks at him.

Rozanov's smirk lightens slightly, shifting into an almost smile. It transforms his entire face and Shane, lost to his instincts, can't stop the way his face heats at the sight.

"Well," he says, his Russian accent curling around the words in a way that makes Shane want to squirm, "Montreal finally let you out of basement." The locker room barks with laughter and Shane can't stop the flush on his face from growing. Rozanov walks closer, utterly unhurried. It makes every instinct Shane possess abruptly become too aware of the alpha approaching him. His scent grows as he gets closer. It smells distracting in a way that is starting to stress Shane out.

Shane stands quickly because that was proper etiquette when addressing a dominant alpha and team captain: don't challenge him, don't hold eye contact for too long, and keep your scent neutral. Montreal had drilled those rules into him from the second he entered the league.

Rozanov stops directly in front of him, standing close enough that Shane's nose is filled with his scent alone. He is very close. Too close even.

Shane drops his gaze automatically toward the center of the alpha's chest. "Captain," he says politely.

A beat of silence follows, then Rozanov lightly asks, "You afraid of me, Hollander?"

Heat crawls down the back of Shane's neck. "No."

"Mm," Rozanov hums, sounding unconvinced, "because you are looking everywhere except at me."

Shane forces himself to glance up, immediately regretting it. Rozanov's eyes are bright and fixed entirely on Shane with a truly unnerving intensity. Shane looks away again almost immediately, though he can still see the alpha in his periphery vision. 

Behind Rozanov, someone snorts.

"Oh my god," Marlow mutters.

"Shut up," Rozanov says without looking away from Shane, his tone amused.

Shane, meanwhile, feels like his brain has stopped functioning correctly. Rozanov's scent is overtaking his senses, warmth curling strangely low in Shane's stomach. It's an unfamiliar feeling and Shane hates it immediately.

Rozanov tilts his head slightly. "You always this polite?"

Shane frowns before he can stop himself, eyes flickering up briefly. "You're the captain."

"And?"

"And you're an alpha."

That earns him a very interesting look, something flickering across Rozanov's face too fast for Shane to interpret. Then, for reasons Shane can't even begin to guess, the alpha steps even closer. Shane's pulse stumbles.

"You know," Rozanov says conversationally, "if you keep staring at the floor every time I talk to you, people will think I'm bullying you."

Humiliation flares hot and immediate in Shane's chest. "I'm following etiquette," he snaps before he can stop himself.

Rozanov's mouth twitches. "Ah," he says softly. "Montreal etiquette."

Something about the way he says it makes Shane bristle. "Yes," Shane replies sharply, finally keeping his head up to look directly at the alpha

Rozanov leans slightly closer. "So tragic."

The smugness in his voice finally breaks through Shane's propriety, incredulous annoyance chasing away the nerves that had previously plagues him. "You're an asshole," Shane blurts out before he can stop himself.

Silence follows and Shane feels the blood drain from his face.

Oh my god, he thinks, feeling light-headed all of a sudden, he had just called his new captain an asshole during his first meeting with the team. An alpha captain, nonetheless. Shane's instincts start to scream at him a full second too late to stop himself from fucking up. He opens his mouth, apology already forming, but he's cut off by the alpha.

Rozanov laughs, a loud barking thing, something full of amusement and lacking any irritation or offense Shane had expected to hear. His grin flashes sharp enough for Shane to catch the edge of fangs, bright eyes crinkling at the corners in obvious delight.

"There he is," Rozanov says warmly. Before Shane can react, the alpha claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. The contact sends another stupid shiver through Shane's body. "I look forward to playing with you, Hollander."

Shane stares at him, completely wrong-footed. The alpha sounds completely honest in his statement. Rozanov squeezes his shoulder once, maintaining eye contact, and then finally steps away, still looking unfairly pleased with himself as he movies toward his own stall.

Conversation in the room restarts around them, Shane just now noticing how quiet it had been during their interaction. Shane remains frozen in place, his face still feeling hot. His shoulder tingles where Rozanov had touched him. Shane feels fuzzy as he blinks slowly, something shifting under his skin as his inner omega perks up slightly.

Oh, he thinks, dazed.

Shane makes it through exactly three pages before realizing he is catastrophically out of his depth. The folder sits open on the hotel desk beneath the warm light of the lamp, neat profiles arranged with a level of professionalism that still unsettles him slightly.

The files hold everything: name, age, prior bond experience, boundaries, even compatibility percentages based solely on their hormone levels during their routine physicals. Each profile even has handwritten notes from the team's omega liaison attached. Shane has never seen anything like it.

Montreal had assigned Comeau to him less than twenty-four hours after draft day. Shane had been ushered into a medical office still exhausted from interviews and testing, and someone had explained the process in the same tone people used discussing insurance paperwork.

Comeau had walked in halfway through, looking bored and disinterested. "Omega," he'd said by way of greeting, not even using Shane's name. Then he'd bitten Shane's neck while management watched, everything done and tied up in a bow within hours. Years of Shane's life decided in under fifteen minutes.

Now, he is apparently expected to choose. It makes him feel strange, this sudden permission to make a choice that has previously been taken from him.

Shane flips another page, Connors' grinning picture appearing. He's been friendly during practices so far, quietly funny in the locker room. He likes to talk about pop culture a lot, especially anything to do with Rose Landry. His profile notes that he prefers minimal instinctive engagement in Level 1 bonds and values independence.

Shane can probably survive being bonded to him. Then again, that's not saying much since Shane had survived Comeau too.

He moves on, flicking over to the next profile. Hammersmith's profile is somehow exactly what Shane expects from the alpha: blunt, straightforward, weirdly earnest. He prefers clear communication and dislikes passive aggression.

Shane snorts softly.

There is also a note tucked into the profile that Hammersmith has previously requested mediation after witnessing another omega on a former team being mistreated by his team alpha. That startles Shane enough to reread it twice. Nobody in Montreal would have done that; well, maybe Hayden and J.J., if it got too bad, but they had often let Shane deal with his ex-alpha alone if it got too serious.

His chest tightens painfully and he closes the folder, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

The last few days with Boston has been throwing him off balance in tiny ways. Several teammates have asked for advice during drills, listening with interest as Shane hesitantly provides it. LeClaire had stopped practice yesterday to ask Shane if he was more comfortable entering the zone off the right side during power play rotations and then, when Shane had given him an answer, the coach had actually listened to his opinion and changed the setup accordingly.

Even Marlow, who Shane thought looked like he should exclusively communicate through fighting, had casually shoved a towel into Shane's chest after practice and said, "You see openings stupid fast. Makes life easier." Then he'd just wandered away before Shane could even process the compliment.

Boston's locker room was louder than Montreal's, rougher too, in some ways. Guys chirped constantly, shoving each other around, and they argued openly with coaches sometimes. Yet, all of it was done in good nature, laughs and pleasant scents accompanying everything.

None of it was cruel. No one seems particularly interested in reminding him he is an omega at all, which feels revolutionary.

Shane leans forward and re-opens the folder, reading where he left off before. Carmichael, who has no prior bond history, and has a low compatibility score with Shane when compared with the previous two. That doesn't necessarily surprise Shane; a lot of alphas enter temporary Level 1 contracts in juniors or college, especially on omega-heavy teams. It was considered responsible leadership development. Stable alphas with successful prior bond histories are highly valued professionally because once you've entered a bond once, your body is likely to be much more successful at entering another one again.

Shane keeps reading, eyes tracking over evaluations, bonding notes, reading each profile over and over, even as his thoughts start to drift. He's not trying to get distracted, not intentionally, but he can't seem to help the way every profile gets measured unconsciously against one impossible standard.

Shane's mind, and his inner omega, keep dismissing one profile after the other: one sounds too overbearing, another too detached. His omega sniffs at one profile that reads as too polite. Even one that seems perfectly fine to Shane logically gets dismissed when he can't help think the thought that is the true obstacle of this entire thing: the alpha is not Rozanov.

Shane groans softly and scrubs both hands down his face. This is ridiculous, he thinks to himself, sighing. Shane barely knows the man, even after he's spent the last few days practicing with the team. He has more memories of Rozanov as an opponent than a teammate at this point: Rozanov flattening someone in the boards, a sharp laugh during scrums, even the memory of watching Boston win their second cup from the comfort of his own couch. All he has since joining Boston is the way Rozanov leaned close enough for Shane to smell him properly their first meeting, the way his eyes stayed on Shane and his fangs flashed when he grinned at him.

Shane's chest does something deeply traitorous, and he groans. "Oh my god," he mutters out loud to the empty room. He can't escape his thoughts, however, because the next profile he sees is Ilya Rozanov's. Shane freezes immediately, eyes glued to the sheet in front of him.

Ilya Rozanov, Alpha, no prior bond history.

Shane blinks, then re-reads it again. No history? Shane is incredulous at the thought, certain that it can't be right. Rozanov is, well, Rozanov. The best player in the MLH, rich and famous, absurdly beautiful in a terrifying way. His very presence was dominant enough that other alphas deferred to him instinctively without seeming to realize they were doing it.

Shane has seen the way people look at him. Hell, Shane understands it now himself in a deeply unfortunate sense. Surely omegas threw themselves at him constantly. Surely he had some experience to be as confident as he is, in the position he holds.

Rozanov simply looks like the kind of alpha people would pay money to bond with, even at a lower level. He also looks like the kind of alpha who could smile at someone across a room and ruin their life a little.

Yet, somehow, he'd never bonded with anyone? Shane frowns down at the page. There isn't much additional commentary, the liaison's notes sparse compared to the others. Rozanov values privacy and respects autonomy in bond dynamics. He flips the page over and feels like his eyes are going to physically pop out of his head when he sees their compatibility percentage.

Shane sits upright, his mind racing. Most successful Level 1 professional bonds hovered around the low fifties. Anything above seventy-five usually indicated unusually compatible hormonal patterns. Shane has no idea what his compatibility with Comeau was, though he suspects it was on the lower end of what is necessary to form and maintain a bond.

The higher the percentage the more likelihood a bonded pair would be able to form and maintain said bond. Bonds need compatible components in order to function; scent and hormones play a major part here as it can greatly affect the stability of a bond. Shane stares at the number and swallows hard.

97%. They had a compatibility percentage of 97%.

His omega stirs faintly beneath his skin in a way Shane simply does not appreciate. The way he reacts to Rozanov's scent makes sense now. It explains why Shane has already become accustomed to being hyper-aware of where his captain is on the ice and in the locker room.

Shane closes the folder shut like it can take this knowledge and lock it away from his mind. It doesn't, of course, so Shane is left with his thoughts.

Shane thinks of how he gets flustered when Rozanov is near, his scent wrapping around Shane without hesitation. He thinks of those sharp eyes focusing entirely on Shane when they first met. He thinks about how Comeau's scent was never anything but vaguely irritating, just as most other alphas smell to him.

Shane drops his forehead against the desk with a muffled groan. Shane can't help but feel like his thoughts are leading him to disaster, because he lets himself actually consider the possibility of choosing Rozanov as his new alpha. He pictures it, just for a second, just long enough to imagine what it would feel like to belong beside an alpha like Rozanov. His comforting scent, a permanent fixture in Shane's nest. His warm hands wrapped around tightly around Shane's waist as he scent marks the bite he would leave on Shane. 

Then reality crashes back in and Shane laughs bitterly into the wood surface below him. "Get a grip," he scoffs, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

Ilya Rozanov is the captain of a dynasty team coming off their second Cup, one of the greatest talents of their generation, and Shane was Shane: a traded omega from Montreal whose own team hadn't considered him valuable enough to keep. Sure, Coach LeClaire is trying him on the second line right now and practices have gone well enough so far that Shane might actually get to play some real minutes, but he can't see it lasting. Eventually, Boston will realize what Montreal already has: Shane Hollander is useful in theory and inconvenient in practice.

Rozanov shouldn't waste his time or energy binding himself to someone like Shane. The idea itself is almost too embarrassing for Shane to ever admit to considering.

The image of Rozanov after practice earlier that day, damp curls sticking slightly at the nape of his neck, flashes in his mind. He'd been laughing at something Marlow had said, head tipped back enough that Shane had caught another glimpse of his prominent fangs, sharp and stark white.

Shane makes another distressed noise and throws himself away from the desk and that stupid folder. He is so unbelievably screwed.

The first practice Shane spends on Ilya Rozanov's line feels a little like stepping onto a different planet. Boston moves differently than Montreal: faster, smarter, and less rigid. In Montreal, Shane spends years forcing himself into systems that don't suit him, simplifying his game until he barely recognizes it sometimes. He's told to dump the puck, don't overcommit, and don't take unnecessary risks.

Don't make mistakes.

"Again," LeClaire barks from the boards.

Shane circles through the neutral zone, receiving St-Simon's pass cleanly before cutting sharply inside. Instinct takes over immediately after that. One look up the ice and Shane sees the play unfolding three seconds ahead in his head.

Rozanov is covered high and the defenseman cheats left, the lane opening on the right side. Shane drops the puck behind him without looking. A split second later, Rozanov hammers it top shelf.

The entire rink goes briefly quiet before Marlow, who was sitting on the bench and watching the drill, mutters, "Jesus Christ."

Shane blinks slightly, surprised at how well the play actually went, eyes searching and finding his captain. Rozanov is already staring at him.

This isn't unusual, Shane is beginning to realize. For the week Shane has been here, his captain stares at him a lot. This time, Rozanov also looks feverishly pleased.

"That," he announces loudly, "is what I have been talking about."

LeClaire points at Shane immediately. "Again."

They run the drill six more times, Shane and Rozanov finding each other effortlessly every single time. On the surface, their chemistry makes no sense. Both of them are technically centers, though Rozanov seems to have a natural talent for switching to wing, while Shane has had to learn by necessity based on what Montreal had wanted him doing.

Shane has played with talented players before. He knows what good hockey instincts feel like, but this is something stranger. He keeps knowing where Rozanov will be before looking and the alpha anticipates Shane's movement with terrifying accuracy in return, adjusting his own position automatically to support whatever insane thing Shane attempts next.

At one point, Shane spins away from pressure and blindly redirects the puck toward open ice. Rozanov is already there waiting for it, easily scoring another goal off his assist.

"Holy fuck," Carmichael laughs from the boards, just as entranced by their chemistry as the rest of the team.

Ilya skates towards him after, eyes fixed entirely on Shane. "You see game like mutant," he informs him seriously.

Heat climbs immediately into Shane's face beneath his visor. "It was just a pass."

"It was disgusting," Marlow corrects from nearby. "In a respectful way."

Shane ducks his head automatically, embarrassed. He catches Ilya's scent again as the alpha skates closer. God, Shane thinks, there is genuinely something wrong with how good he smells. Shane has started trying to discreetly compare over the last few days, mostly because he still doesn't really understand how their compatibility percentage was so high, consistently baffled by how strongly his omega reacts to Rozanov's presence.

Connors smells clean and cool, easy on the senses. Marlow smells sharp and earthy in a way that projects steady dominance without becoming overwhelming. Carmichael's scent is something warming, like spices. None of them smell bad. Rozanov, however, smells dangerous.

Winter air and cold smoke and something darker underneath that hooks directly into Shane's omega instincts every single time. 97% compatibility apparently means the alpha smells unfairly addictive for no good reason.

"Drink water," Rozanov says suddenly. Shane looks up and sees the alpha holding out a bottle for him.

Shane blinks. "I have one."

"Yes," Rozanov agrees, "and yet you are not drinking from it."

"I—," Shane starts, flustered, but is cut off.

"Drink," Rozanov orders and Shane takes the bottle from him automatically, their fingers brushing slightly.

Something hot curls low in Shane's stomach before he can stop it. He takes several gulps of water from the bottle, his eyes locked with Rozanov's intense gaze. When he starts to hand the bottle back, Rozanov hums and gently tells Shane to drink more. He does without hesitation.

Across the rink, Marlow makes a strangled noise into his glove.

Shane leaves practice a little early, stopping by medical for a quick follow up, and then Shane is once again watching how his new teammates interact within the locker room. They touch a lot; casually and with zero reservations. Alphas bump shoulders and grab the backs of necks. They lean over each other's stalls and aren't afraid to playfully wrestle occasionally.

Nobody in Montreal touched Shane unless required.

At first Shane thinks it is because Boston's culture is generally more relaxed. Then he notices Rozanov. More specifically, how often Rozanov touches them all. He is tactile to a fault, reassuring through physical touch. He does it to everyone, just like the others do, but Shane soon starts getting caught up in the way he expresses it with Shane. There will be a hand against Shane's back steering him toward video review, knuckles brushing Shane's wrist while reaching for tape, or a heavy arm slung briefly over Shane's shoulders after practice while discussing zone entries.

Every single touch sends awareness skittering sharply through Shane's body. It is deeply annoying.

"You smell pleased," Hammersmith comments, breaking Shane away from his thoughts.

Shane nearly chokes on the protein bar he had been chewing on, caught flat footed. "What?"

Hammersmith looks up from untying his skates. "You seem to be settling in."

"Oh." Heat floods Shane's face instantly, feeling ridiculous at how pleased the simple statement makes him.

Hammersmith frowns slightly. "Is that weird to say?"

"No!" Several heads turn toward him at his exclamation and Shane wants to die immediately. "I mean," he continues quickly, but then peters off, not sure how to explain. Before Shane can find the words, Rozanov enters from the shower, towel wrapped low around his waist. Rozanov's scent rolls through the locker room, warm and dominant, immediately catching against Shane's senses like a hook. The alpha's gaze lands on him within seconds and his face visibly softens, making Shane's stomach flip weirdly.

"You left practice early," Rozanov says, walking closer.

"I had a follow up appointment."

"You did not tell me."

Shane frowns slightly. "I didn't know I had to?" Rozanov looks at him for a long beat before humming, the sound carrying obvious disapproval. Shane stares after him in confusion as the alpha moves toward his stall.

"What was that?" he asks Hammersmith quietly.

The alpha looks deeply entertained. "No idea."

The next day, Shane arrives early so he can hit the gym. Well, he believes he arrives early, but the weight room lights are already on and Ilya Rozanov is already there.

Shane stops briefly in the doorway when he spots him, his stomach pulling tight. The alpha stands near the squat rack wearing grey sweats and a sleeveless compression shirt darkened slightly with sweat. His damp curls stick loosely at his temples.

Shane's entire brain stalls briefly. He can't catch any whiffs of his scent and isn't surprised to see two scent blocking patches clinging for dear life to his bulging neck. With how sweaty he currently is, his scent would be almost suffocating in the room if he wasn't wearing them.

Shane tries very hard not to be disappointed.

Rozanov looks up and catches Shane in the mirror, a little smile forming on his face. "There you are."

The words do something strange to Shane's chest. "I thought I was early."

"You are," Rozanov says, glancing at the clock. "I came earlier."

"Why?"

The alpha looks at him like the answer is obvious. "To train with you."

"Oh." Shane's omega preens faintly beneath his skin before he can stop it.

They work through sets together for almost two hours. It should not be as fun as it is.

Rozanov talks constantly while training; not meaningless chatter, but sharp observations about hockey. Defensive structures, passing lanes, zone pressure. It relaxes Shane immediately, no navigating difficult small talk, just hockey. Shane finds himself answering automatically, slipping into discussions he usually keeps buried because nobody in Montreal ever really wanted to hear them.

Apparently, Rozanov does not have the same reservations. More than that, he seems eager to discuss all of it with Shane.

"You manipulate coverage beautifully," Rozanov says at one point while spotting Shane's bench press. "Defensemen panic when you change pace."

Shane nearly drops the bar, flustered by the sincere compliment. "What?"

"It is true."

"No one's ever said that."

Rozanov looks genuinely startled. "Really?"

Shane shrugs awkwardly. "They usually tell me to simplify."

A flash of irritation crosses Rozanov's face so quickly that Shane almost misses it. "That is because they are idiots."

The blunt certainty of it makes Shane laugh despite himself, a little grin forming on his face. Rozanov stills for a moment, staring at Shane, and Shane feels his face flush at the attention. "What?" he asks.

"You should laugh more," Rozanov says, the words landing softly between them. "You look very pretty when you do."

Shane looks away immediately, blush forming on his cheeks. His heart is hammering in his chest and he feels some measure of relief that he also wore his scent blocking patches this morning; otherwise, he would have surely embarrassed himself by now.

"Thanks, I guess," he mumbles, not meeting Rozanov's eyes. Shane doesn't need to see Rozanov to feel the lingering weight of his gaze.

"You hungry?" the alpha asks Shane suddenly.

Shane jumps slightly before he clears his throat, nodding. "A little."

"Good," Rozanov says, offering a towel to Shane so he can wipe at his sweaty forehead. "We will do cool-down, then go get breakfast."

Shane takes the towel and watches the alpha walk away to start his own cool-down. He is momentarily distracted by the memory of the warmth of Rozanov's hand brushing against his own when he handed him the towel, but he quickly gets himself together and follows his captain's advice, pushing his inner omega to the wayside as best he can.

The dining hall somehow manages to surprise Shane almost as much as the hockey did. He stands in front of the meal station twenty minutes later, staring at the options with vague suspicion. He double checks more than a few of them because several option are labeled as macrobiotic. No one in Montreal followed the same diet as Shane and often times the food served wouldn't be something he was comfortable indulging in.

He picks up a yogurt, eyebrows raising in surprise when he notices it is the specific probiotic yogurt brand he bought from a tiny grocery store back in Montreal because most others upset his stomach.

"What the hell?" Shane wonders out loud. He knows he mentioned his diet when he first arrived, but he hadn't realized it had been communicated to the arena staff. Or maybe someone on the team happened to be on the same diet?

One of the team nutritionists looks up from the tablet she was typing on, glancing at Shane. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, of course, just surprised to see so many options," Shane admits, taking the yogurt. "I was in here a few days ago and didn't notice them then."

"Oh!" she laughs, smiling at Shane. "We added a few things. Captain's request!"

Shane freezes. "Captain?"

"Ilya brought over a list after your first practice," she says, pointing at the prepared meals. "We had a pretty solid list of options from when you first told us about your diet, but he said you preferred lighter recovery meals on practice only days and asked us to stock more anti-inflammatory options."

Shane stares at her. "He did?"

"Mmhm," she nods, glancing back down at her tablet. "Apparently you also hate mushrooms?"

Shane stares, unsure on what the feeling in his chest is. "They're disgusting."

The nutritionist laughs. "That's basically what he wrote."

A warmth spreads through Shane's chest and he quickly realizes the feeling he couldn't name before was gratitude. He has been in Boston a week and already the organization has shown how much they want him here, how they are willing to support him. His teammates have included him like any other player and his captain paid enough attention to Shane's random comments about his diet and then cared enough to go to the team nutritionists just to share them.

"Thanks," he mutters, a little smile on his face. He grabs one of the prepared meals and eats it without having to worry about breaking his diet.

For the next few days, Shane pays attention. He starts to notice the tiny adjustments that somehow always center around him specifically. Coach LeClaire will pause video review of Boston's last game to ask, "Hollander, what would you change here?" If Shane gives an answer that can be applied to their style of play, those changes are seen during their next practice.

"You see the ice exceptionally well," Coach LeClaire tells him after a particularly clever play. "Good ideas are useful. Keep them coming."

Shane has been with the team almost two weeks and feels like he was never a part of any other team in the league. He still can't play in any of the games, not when he hasn't selected an alpha yet, but the team insists he be in the room before the games, there to cheer as Rozanov hypes them up. They want him there during intermissions to add any thoughts he might have noticed during the game. They celebrate with him if they win and take comfort from his words if they lose.

Shane's inner omega sits satisfied in his chest more often than not, a purr of contentment constantly threatening to break free.

The night he has been in Boston for two weeks, his mother calls. They haven't spoken since Shane called after discovering Boston was going to let him choose his team alpha.

Shane answers from his hotel bed, half of his focus still on the game footage he had politely asked one of the assistant coaches for. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart," his mother responds, her voice gentle. "How are you settling in?"

Shane opens his mouth, the automatic Fine locked and loaded, and then he pauses. Usually when she calls, Shane has to stretch the truth. Montreal wasn't the perfect accepting place his mom thought it was and Shane often lied to keep the truth from her. But, he realizes, he doesn't have to lie. He is actually fine.

"Really good, actually," he settles on, his surprise leaking into his voice.

His mother pauses. "Really?" she asks. Shane can hear the skepticism in her tone.

Shane frowns slightly at a missed pass on the screen. "Yeah."

The constant knot of tension between his shoulders that existed throughout his career in Montreal has loosened to the point it is almost gone. He isn't waking up dreading practice anymore. He isn't spending entire hours terrified of making mistakes that would get him benched.

Boston wants him there and they're not shy about it.

"They're using me properly," Shane admits quietly. "Like, actually using me."

His mother is silent for a second, absorbing Shane's words. "Oh, honey," she sighs after a moment.

Shane swallows hard and changes the subject, a little choked up at his own astonishment. "The team's good."

"How are the players?"

"Fine. Nice, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Marlow keeps trying to convince Sebbin that it's a tradition to attempt to walk one lap each practice with his skate guards still on."

"The rookie? That sounds concerning."

"It's kind of charming here, somehow," Shane chuckles, remembering the considering look Sebbin had worn while trying to decide if Marlow was serious or not.

His mother laughs softly with him and it makes his smile grow.

There is a brief lull in their conversation, the atmosphere tentatively soft, before his mother speaks again, breaking it. "And how is Rozanov acting?"

Shane's smile fades a little, but it has nothing to do with his captain, but rather the tone of voice his mother is using. Shane gets it, he does, he was incredibly cautious when he first met his new captain. Rozanov's on-ice reputation is truly a formidable one. The thing is, Ilya Rozanov has shown himself to be far more than some knothead alpha hockey player. He has been kind to Shane and incredibly accommodating. He works out with Shane at ridiculous times in the morning and has stayed behind after practice more than once to stay on the ice with Shane.

He was smart and charming, always managing to get a laugh out of Shane, even at his most anxious. He sends butterflies through Shane's stomach when he smiles and a blush across Shane's cheeks when he smirks.

Shane gets it, but that doesn't stop his inner omega from bristling just a little.

"I know he's the captain," she continues cautiously, "but that doesn't mean he gets to push you around."

"He doesn't," Shane firmly insists.

"Really?"

"Yes," Shane confirms. "He's been incredibly respectful and very helpful."

"That's good."

"And he's a really good alpha—," Shane adds before he can help himself, closing his mouth abruptly. He clears his throat, face hot, before he corrects himself. "I mean captain. A really good captain."

"Oh," she says slowly, something unreadable in her voice. "I see."

Shane suddenly wants to crawl directly into the harbor. "No, that's not what I meant."

"Mhmm," his mother hums.

"It wasn't!"

"Shane."

"What?"

"Do you like him?"

Did Shane like him? What a silly question, Shane can't help but think. At this point, Rozanov could glance at him and Shane would go belly up. Half the time they're in the same vicinity Shane wants to curl up into his captain's lap and bury his nose in his neck, get a concentrated whiff of his scent, and the other half leads him to thinking thoughts that are in no way appropriate for the locker room. 

"He's nice to me," Shane says, not finding anything else he is comfortable saying in front of his mother.

His mother sighs softly. "Well," she says carefully, "that's certainly a start."

Shane narrows his eyes, attention completely focusing on his mother. "Mom."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're implying things."

"I am absolutely implying things."

"Stop that," Shane tells her.

She laughs at him outright this time, only getting louder when Shane groans.

"I have to go," he tells her.

"Mmhm," she hums, amusement clear.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," his mother says, taking a moment pause before continuing, "And Shane?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you seem happy."

The call ends and Shane sits motionless on his bed afterward. The warm feeling that has stayed with him since meeting Rozanov only grows.

In the end, Shane gives up. For the past two weeks he has gone through every profile more than once, discarding those that are an immediate no and deliberating over those that are a maybe. He has changed his mind more than once about an alpha, only to dismiss them again when his inner omega inevitably compares them to the impossible standard set by Ilya Rozanov.

Rozanov lingers in his thoughts without Shane's permission and he finally gives it up as a losing battle. He's there on the ice, confident and talented. He's there in the locker room, half dressed and smelling mouth-watering. He greets Shane with a teasing remark and a watchful gaze. All of his other teammates are also kind and talented, but Shane's omega turns up his nose when Shane considers them being anything more than teammates and potential friends.

Shane has watched the other potential alphas on the team more than once, only to glance up and meet the focused gaze of his captain. During drills he's caught Rozanov watching him from across the ice with an expression Shane still can't interpret. It's focused and intent, almost hungry. It makes Shane's pulse do humiliating things.

None of them are Ilya Rozanov.

Nobody was as compatible with Shane as Rozanov. Nobody smells like him, makes Shane's omega go painfully alert like he can, or makes Shane feel simultaneously defensive and fascinated at the same time.

Shane has already realized that he could never have Rozanov, so he simply stops trying.

When Shane appears for his appointment with Megan, the omega liaison, her expression goes from eager to disappointed. "You haven't narrowed it down at all?" she asks gently.

Shane sits across from her, exhausted. "No."

"That's okay. These decisions can take time."

"I don't care anymore," Shane interrupts quietly.

She blinks at him, surprised at his sudden decision. "What do you mean?"

"I mean choose someone. Any of them."

"Shane," Megan says, frowning.

"I need to play," Shane says, which does sum up a portion of his feelings on the matter.

Shane loves hockey, has only had hockey for so long, and as much as he has enjoyed his interactions with the team, he's ready to be back on the ice. It's important to him that he starts to contribute. League rules are strict. Unbonded omegas can practice under supervision temporarily, but they can't play official games without an active contractual alpha bond in place. The league states that there is too much risk for an unbonded omega to play. Shane has been watching from the press box during Boston's last three games and he's tired of it.

"I'll sign whatever contract you need," he continues. "Do the medical exams. The bond. I don't care."

Megan studies him worriedly. "You should care. You're allowed to care."

Shane laughs. "I don't think I'm good at this enough to care."

Something flickers across her face at that. "Your preferences matter here."

"They never mattered before," Shane bluntly tells her.

"That doesn't mean—"

"Please," Shane interrupts again, quieter this time. "I just want to get back on the ice."

A long silence follows his declaration before Megan sighs heavily. "Alright."

Shane nods once, relieved despite the strange twisting feeling in his chest. "Thank you."

"Examination room two," she says after a moment. "Tomorrow morning at ten."

Shane expects the nerves and the awkwardness, anticipating a feeling of dread to slowly creep in the closer his bonding appointment gets. He's been through this once before, so he's not completely ignorant this time; Level 1 bonds aren't deeply intimate biologically, but they still involve vulnerability. Physical contact, scenting. Every omega in the league learns to compartmentalize it.

Shave arrives at his appointment prepared to endure another contracted bond, though he admittedly does have a bit more optimism than he did during his last bonding.

Then he walks into the room and stops dead.

Rozanov looks up from where he is sitting beside an examination table. "Hollander," the alpha says softly.

Shane's entire brain short-circuits. He has to be hallucinating, because surely his captain, the alpha he was so sure would never want to be bonded to Shane, is not sitting in the examination room he is supposed to be meeting his new contracted alpha. Absolutely not.

Rozanov stands slowly. He's wearing dark jeans and a tight black shirt, his broad shoulders looking obscene through the tight fit. His scent is mildly subdued, but no less intoxicating. Shane breathes in as subtly as he can, smoke and winter air making him dizzy. His omega is practically writhing in excitement, heat flooding through him in a slowly rising wave.

"What—," Shane starts, but is interrupted when a knock sounds on the door and several people walk in.

The omega liaison Megan looks up from the papers in her hand to give him a smile, nodding at Rozanov when she sees him. "Ilya, we really appreciate you stepping up and volunteering."

Shane stares at her. Volunteering. Rozanov volunteered? He swings his head to look back at Rozanov, who looks almost unbearably pleased with himself.

"You said you did not care who was chosen," Rozanov says mildly when he catches Shane's eyes.

Shane opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Shane's pulse thunders so loudly he can barely hear Megan continue going through the general steps of the bonding process. "…witnesses present according to league bonding policy…temporary hormone fluctuation expected… minimal instinctive side effects due to Level 1 classification…," she drones on, looking at the doctors in the room and, Shane notices distantly, Coach LeClaire.

Level 1. Shane shakes his head, trying to dislodge the hold his overenthusiastic omega has on his heart. This is supposed to be a Level 1 bond, weak and professional.

Rozanov steps closer and Shane immediately loses the ability to think properly again. The alpha's scent curls around him heavily now, growing stronger as Rozanov grows comfortable. It is deep and masculine and unfairly good.

"You okay?" Rozanov asks quietly.

"No," Shane admits before he could stop himself, his own scent flashing in the room, the sweetness held there indicating to everyone exactly the type of not okay Shane is.

Something heated flashes through Rozanov's eyes as his nostrils flare. "It is only me," Rozanov says assuringly.

That is the problem, Shane thinks. It is not comforting at all.

Megan clears her throat gently. "Whenever you're ready."

Shane sits mechanically on the edge of the examination table, his hands feeling numb. His emotions are already mixed up, the sheer volume of conflicting emotions coming from his omega is overwhelming.

Rozanov moves between his knees immediately, large body crowding close enough that Shane instinctively leans back slightly.

The alpha notices, moving just a smidge away from Shane. "Relax," Rozanov murmurs, like it's just that easy.

It's not.

Then, once several machines have been hooked up to both of them with sticky nodules, one of the doctors signals it is time for the scenting portion to be started. Shane has experienced this before with Comeau, clinical passes of scent over pulse points to establish familiarity before bonding. It was efficient and very detached.

Shane does not feel detached from it at all when Rozanov touches him like he is handling something precious. One large hand settles lightly at Shane's waist while the other tilts his jaw upward. Then the alpha lowers his face slowly to Shane's throat.

Shane shivers violently when he hears Rozanov inhale once. He does so slowly, like he is savoring Shane's scent. A low sound rumbles deep in the alpha's chest, almost too quiet to hear, but Shane is right next to him.

Next, with careful precision, Rozanov starts scenting him. He rubs his scent deliberately along Shane's glands beneath his jaw, across the sensitive skin of his throat, and over his erratic pulse points. The alpha's warm hands lay heavy, steadying him the entire time. The alpha lingers at Shane's neck longer than necessary, breath hot against sensitive skin as his scent thickens around them both.

Shane feels dizzy, the knowledge that the room was full of people witnessing this barely registering anymore. All of it fades to meaningless background noise when he has Rozanov this close to him, leaving his mark on every part of Shane, infusing his scent with Shane's own.

"Rozanov," someone warns quietly, though if Rozanov hears him, he ignores it. He takes another slow inhale against Shane's throat, his body leaning forward to draw closer to Shane.

"Oh," Rozanov says under his breath, his voice strained.

The sound goes straight through Shane, his omega reacting instantly, aching low in his stomach in a way that makes panic spark sharply through him. This isn't right, he tries to remind himself. This wasn't how the bonding with Comeau felt, how Shane has heard it described by any of the other omegas in the league.

Rozanov finally pulls back slightly and his pupils look blown wide. His blue eyes are fixed on Shane's face, staring intently.

"What's happening?" Shane whispers.

Rozanov stares at him for one long terrible second and then the alpha's hand tightens sharply at the back of Shane's neck. "Bonding," he says roughly, right before he leans forward and bites deeply into the mating gland on Shane's neck.

Pain flares bright and sharp as fangs pierce his skin, a gasp leaving his lips, before an obscene moan follows quickly after. Shane pants harshly, hands grabbing instinctively at Rozanov's shoulders as the alpha holds him firmly in place: one hand cradling his neck, the other gripping his waist hard enough to keep Shane pulled close against him.

Heat crashes through Shane's body instantly, the direct opposite of the dull sensation he remembered from his bonding with Comeau.

Something snaps violently into place beneath his skin, the tugging bringing his omega to the surface, a keening sound coming from deep within Shane's chest. Shane cries out softly before he can stop himself. Rozanov makes another low sound against his throat, sounding wrecked, scent pouring off of him so heavily Shane can barely breathe through it.

The bond slams through Shane's body like lightning. His omega surges awake fully for the first time in his entire life, need crashing through him hard enough to frighten him.

More, his omega cries inside. Closer. Alpha.

Rozanov jerks back suddenly, breathing hard. The room smells overwhelming now, alpha and omega pheromones bleeding around them, something dangerously heated threading beneath it all. Medical monitors are beeping loudly, the noises high pitched. Someone curses softly, but Shane barely hears them. He is too focused on the bond inside him, the one that feels nothing like the Level 1 bond he had before. It is not weak, not by a long shot. Shane looks up at Rozanov's face and is met with his shocked expression, clearly as caught off guard as Shane is.

The bond burns beneath his skin and it is clear that something has gone wrong. It's not painful, just intense enough that is swallows almost all other sensations. His thoughts feel fragmented around the edges, instincts suddenly too loud inside his own body. Every breath pulls in Ilya's scent until Shane feels drunk on it.

Shane feels mortified when he realizes he's panting, wet breaths ghosting into the air as he sways on the examination table.

"Oh my god," someone whispers somewhere across the room.

Shane pays it no mind because all at once the distance between him and Rozanov feels unbearable. Closer, his omega whispers, need sweeping through him violently enough that Shane moves before thinking about it, hands grabbing fistfuls of Rozanov's shirt as he presses himself against the alpha instinctively.

Rozanov makes a rough sound deep in his chest and immediately wraps both arms around him. "Блядь," the alpha curses harshly into Shane's hair. The tightness of his grip might have frightened Shane if the instant relief flooding him wasn't so intense he felt it all the way down to his toes. Rozanov feels everywhere now, rich and dark and possessive enough that Shane can barely separate his own scent from the alpha's anymore. The bond between them thrums hot and alive beneath his skin.

Rozanov lifts his head, looking sharply toward the others in the room, expression suddenly vicious. "Explain," he growls.

The room erupts instantly, several people talking over each other.

"That should not be possible."

"Maybe hormonal interference from the prior bond?"

"No Level 1 escalation has ever—"

"We may need to separate them temporarily—"

A growl rips through the room, low and dangerous, and it takes Shane a horrifying second to realize the growl has come from both of them, their warning growls combining into a harmonious sound of caution. Rozanov's arms somehow manage to tighten even further around Shane.

"Easy," the alpha rumbles automatically, scent shifting softly around Shane, the gentling undertones meant to be calm and soothing.

His omega calms instantly when surrounded by it.

"Oh," one of the doctors says faintly.

The beta physician that saw Shane when he first arrived in Boston steps forward carefully, palms visible and expression calm. "Ilya, Shane," she says evenly, "I need to test the bond."

Ilya's eyes flash dangerously, his grip not budging.

"She can," Shane says quickly.

The alpha looks down at him immediately, focusing on Shane's face as he searches his gaze. "Okay?" Ilya asks quietly.

The concern in his voice makes Shane's stomach twist. "I think so," he whispers.

That seems to matter enormously because Rozanov nods once before reluctantly loosening one arm enough for the doctor to approach. Shane stays pressed against him anyway.

The beta doctor slowly removes the nodules and lines connecting them to the various machines before she stands carefully beside them, a small silver instrument Shane vaguely recognizes from league physicals held in her hand. A bond resonance scanner, maybe? They usually only use them during routine compatibility verification during the pre-season, the league requiring teams to check how stable a contracted bond is every year.

"Neck, please," she says gently.

Shane obeys after a moment of hesitation, the cool metal touching the fresh bite at his gland and making him shiver. The device lights up bright gold causing the doctor to freeze and making everyone in the room go silent.

Shane frowns slightly at the sight, confused. "What?" He's been scanned before and the instrument had only ever been blue.

The device emits one sharp tone, then another. After the gold light blinks three times, it deepens quickly toward crimson. The doctor stares at the reading, her face going pale. Very slowly, she lowers the scanner then she straightens up and backs away from them.

"Everybody out," she says immediately.

Nobody moves.

"What?" another physician asks sharply.

"Now."

Confusion spreads instantly through the room.

"Doctor," Someone else starts to speak.

"Out." Something in her voice finally cuts through the confusion enough that people start moving quickly.

Coach LeClaire remains rooted near the doorway, expression thunderstruck. "Why?"

Shane swallows hard, his eyes darting from the doctor over to his captain, who is staring at the bright red lights on the machine. "What's happening?"

The doctor looks directly at him. "You're about to go into heat."

Shane blinks. "What?" Then, impossibly, his body answers for her. Heat crashes through him so suddenly and with such force that he gasps aloud. His stomach cramps sharply, a flush spreading beneath his skin almost instantly, body temperature spiking as sweat prickles at the back of his neck in seconds flat. He feels himself slick. His omega instincts surge violently within their new bond, needy and desperate, the feeling so intense Shane nearly doubles over.

"Oh my god," he breathes.

Shane's heats are usually heavily managed around the season with suppressants and scheduling protocols, but he knows the signs regardless. Comeau had had little interest in them and Shane had even less interest in having his ex-alpha involved, so the heats had been weak, dulled by his medicine.

This feels stronger, sharper.

Rozanov stiffens against him with a rough grimace, his eyes locked onto Shane.

The doctor glances toward the alpha grimly. "Captain Rozanov will enter rut shortly as well."

Another stunned silence hits the room. Then, after a huff, LeClaire asks blankly, "What?"

The doctor takes one steadying breath, glancing down at the machine with incredulous wonder. "It's a Level 5 bond."

No one reacts for a full second, like the words themselves refuse to process.

"I'm sorry, what?" LeClaire asks flatly, his question breaking the tense silent.

"A true mate bond," another doctor whispers faintly, stilling standing by the door.

"No," someone else says immediately. "That's impossible."

Shane stares at them. True mates. The phrase echoes strangely through his mind, his knowledge of such bonds limited. One of the few things he does know, however, is that level 5 bonds are considered permanent.

His pulse starts hammering harder. "No," Shane says weakly. "They're not real."

The scanner reading still glows crimson in the beta doctor's shaking hand, the pitying look she sends him completely unnecessary.

Shane knows this to be fact: true mate bonds are almost mythological at this point. Rare enough that most people go their entire lives without meeting anyone who claims to have one. Shane remembers hearing stories as a kid, fairytale nonsense about perfect compatibility and instincts recognizing each other instantly, with bonds so deep they rewrite biology itself.

Everyone considers it either a phenomenon lost to time or something history made up.

His body clearly disagrees, because another sharp cramp twists through him, more slick leaking out of him, the pain sharp enough that Shane makes a small distressed sound before he can stop it.

Rozanov immediately lowers his head toward him, scent pouring over Shane soothingly. "Easy," the alpha murmurs again, voice rougher now. Shane realizes dimly that Rozanov's pupils have blown completely wide. The alpha looks half-feral already. "How long?" Rozanov asks tightly without looking away from Shane.

The doctor hesitates. "Not long."

That lands heavily in the room, everyone in attendance understanding what that means: If the available information about true mate bonds is correct, then there will be a simultaneous heat and rut triggered upon formation. Shane's brain feels slow suddenly, overheating. He stares at Rozanov in disbelief, the alpha staring back with an expression Shane can't begin to understand. Shock, maybe? His eyes hold something intense.

Rozanov lifts one hand and touches Shane's face carefully, like he still can't quite believe this either. "Мой омега," he says softly in Russian.

The words send heat spiraling violently through Shane's entire body. He doesn't speak Russian, but he knows well enough what omega sounds like. The room empties quickly after that. Coach LeClaire leaves next to last, looking shell-shocked enough that Shane almost feels bad for him.

The beta doctor lingers at the doorway with obvious reluctance. "I'm bringing hydration packs, cooling wraps, and emergency monitors," she says carefully. "Do not leave this room. Do not separate. And Captain Rozanov..."

"I know," Rozanov says roughly.

The doctor hesitates, then she nods once and shuts the door behind her.

A heavy silence falls immediately afterward, the entire room dense with their slowly growing scents. Shane sits on the examination table breathing hard while Rozanov remains between his knees, large hands still fixed at his waist like the alpha physically cannot let go anymore.

The bond thrums hot beneath Shane's skin, every pulse of it making him more aware of Rozanov. He can feel his warmth leaching into him where the are connected, the way his breathing grows labored with each lungful of Shane's scent he takes in. There is a roughness creeping deeper into his scent as his rut edges closer, making Shane swallow hard. He does his best to ignore how wet he feels.

He has absolutely no idea what to say, so he defaults to what he's been taught: he apologizes.

"I'm sorry."

Rozanov blinks at him. "For what?"

Shane looks down instinctively. "This," Shane says softly.

The alpha's hands tighten immediately. "No."

Shane laughs weakly, shaking his head. "You don't have to pretend this isn't a disaster."

"I am not pretending anything."

"You didn't ask for—"

"I volunteered."

"That was before—,"Shane gestures vaguely between them, "this."

Rozanov stares at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. "You think I regret it?"

Shane doesn't answer. He can't know Rozanov's thoughts on this, he's not a mind reader, but from the single experience he's had as someone's contracted omega, Shane can't see himself as much of a prize, especially if what they believe is true and Rozanov is stuck with him.

Rozanov exhales sharply through his nose. "Shane."

The use of his first name startles him enough that Shane glances up, meeting the alpha's intense gaze.

"I need you to explain something to me," Rozanov says slowly. "Why do you keep apologizing for existing?"

Shane freezes.

"You walked into our locker room expecting everyone to hate you." Rozanov's voice has gone low and rough as he speaks slowly, forcing eye contact. "You flinch every time someone compliments your play. You look at me like I am doing you favor by wanting you here."

Shane feels his breath catch and he looks away. It makes him feel pathetic. "Montreal was difficult," he admits quietly.

Rozanov makes a disgusted sound immediately. "That team did not deserve you."

Something sharp stabs through Shane's chest. "You don't have to say things like that."

"I do if they are true."

Shane huffs out a faint laugh, bitter around the edges. "I was a burden there."

The reaction is immediate, catching him off guard. Rozanov's scent surges sharply enough that it makes Shane's omega stir. The alpha's scent has a burning edge to it now, flavored with protective rage.

"No," the alpha says sharply.

"I was," he insists softly. "They made that pretty clear."

Rozanov leans closer. "No," he repeats, slower this time, like speaking to someone deeply unreasonable. "Shane Hollander, you are best hockey player I have ever seen."

Shane stares at him, shocked.

Rozanov continues like he hasn't just shot Shane through the heart. "Besides me, obviously." The smugness of that should soften the statement, but it somehow brings forth a feeling of fondness instead, making Rozanov sound completely sincere.

"You can't actually think that."

Ilya looks genuinely offended. "The talent you have is absurd," he says immediately. "You see entire ice before anyone else." He shakes his head sharply. "It is insane. You create plays out of nothing. Every time we played Montreal, I wanted to kill your coaches."

Shane's breath catches. Rozanov had noticed Shane before the trade?

"They buried you on their third line like idiots," Rozanov continues, visibly getting worked up now, his body language matching the frustration in his scent. "You should have been on first line for years."

Nobody has ever spoken about his game like this before. Rozanov sounds so angry on his behalf, his clear belief that Shane's talent matters enough to mourn its misuse.

"You really think so?" Shane asks quietly.

Rozanov's expression softens instantly. "Yes." The word lands heavily between them and it makes Shane's chest feel cracked open. "Yes," Ilya repeats more gently. "I was excited when we traded for you."

Shane's stomach flips, his inner omega cooing at the confession.

"I have always thought Montreal was stupid for not using your talents properly. The second management informed me about the trade, I was already discussing line combinations with LeClaire."

"You were?"

"Of course," Rozanov says with a shrug, like it was a given.

A strange warmth spreads slowly through Shane's chest, a blush heating his cheeks as he allows himself to look into Rozanov's eyes and consider.

Suddenly, the alpha looks away, a flush on his face. Bizarrely enough, he looks embarrassed

"What?" Shane asks.

Ilya grimaces, glancing back at Shane. "Then I smelled you." Shane blinks, his brow furrowing. Ilya huffs out a rough laugh, one hand dragging through his curls. "That was a problem."

"What do you mean?"

The alpha looks at him helplessly, the expression unfamiliar to Shane. His captain had always seemed so steady and comfortable in his own skin. "My alpha loses his mind whenever I catch your scent."

Warmth floods through Shane once more, and he is unable to stop himself from squirming slightly, the seat of his pants close to soaked through at this point.

"I am serious," Rozanov mutters. "First time I saw you in the locker room without that awful Montreal scent all over you, I think maybe I was concussed."

"I need you to bite me," Shane blurts out, eyes wide.

Ilya goes perfectly still. "We already bonded," he says slowly.

Shane shakes his head. "No. I want your bite on every scent gland I have." Shane looks directly into the alpha's stunned eyes. "I want your scent so deep in mine no one ever mistakes who I belong to again."

Rozanov stares at him, actually fully stares at him in a stunned silence that Shane is willing to put up with, because after a few seconds, the alpha makes a broken sound low in his throat. "Oh my god," he mutters hoarsely. "You are going to kill me."

Then he moves.

One second Shane is sitting on the examination table and the next Rozanov is crowding him down against it, broad body pressing between his thighs as the alpha buries his face against Shane's throat with something almost desperate. The bond explodes with pleasure instantly, Shane practically purring at the sudden weight pinning him down.

Rozanov inhales sharply against his gland and groans outright. Mine. The possessiveness slams through the bond hard enough to make Shane gasp.

"Yes," Shane whispers instinctively.

That seems to shatter the last of Rozanov's restraint, the alpha's teeth grazing Shane's throat where the first bite sits, biting down hard enough over it to not re-open it, but enough to flood Shane's system with another rush of blinding pleasure.

Shane cries out softly, hands tangling immediately into blond curls.

Rozanov looks wild. Ilya looks wild.

Every ounce of composure Shane associates with Boston's terrifying captain dissolves into frantic need focused entirely on him. Bites hard enough to break skin follow, one at the base of his throat, another on the sensitive gland beneath his collarbone. Each one drags a helpless sound from Shane's chest.

"Ilya," Shane moans, saying his alpha's first name for the first time.

"My omega," Ilya growls against his skin, glancing up at Shane with bloody teeth bared.

Shane shivers violently, but somehow, impossibly, he is no longer afraid. He clings to his alpha like his life depends on it, pheromones thick in the air as his alpha does as Shane's requested and marks him over and over again, his claim thorough and bloody.

Shane would not have imagined this when he was with Montreal or when he was first traded; his status quo the only existence he had known as an omega in the MLH. After being introduced to his teammates, after meeting Ilya, he suddenly has hope. The bond between them is sparkling with a golden glow, strong and resilient, powerful and throbbing with emotion.

It's not love, they've known each other on a deeper level for only two weeks, but as his Ilya presses bloody stained lips against Shane's own, he can feel himself falling, his inner omega already three steps ahead of him.

"My alpha," Shane purrs, perfectly content.