Chapter Text
Shane was the first omega to ever play hockey at a professional level.
He heard the rumours—playing with a team that was made up of 50% alphas. Who’s he fucking? All of them, probably. And all the alphas that made up the majority of the other teams too.
So unfair. He’d only had sex with a handful of female betas—safe, unsatisfying sex.
He’d never even let himself get near a male alpha. Too risky. His career would be in tatters if the rumours were ever substantiated with actual evidence.
And why would he want to, anyway? He didn’t like alphas. Not male ones. Full of themselves, possessive, rough, and domineering. Shane might have been an omega, but primary gender preference was very much a thing. And he liked women.
He just hadn’t found the right one yet.
And if he did occasionally crave a male alpha, that.... could be worked around. There were plenty of male alphas who weren’t hockey players.
Who weren’t brash, bold, rude Russian hockey players.
“Ilya Rozanov. I’m Shane Hollander.” Shane stuck out his hand stiffly. Sure, an unmated omega approaching an unfamiliar alpha was a little unexpected. But so was an omega playing in major league hockey. Shane was done with stereotypes.
Rozanov shook his hand gruffly, not seeming bothered by the breach of social etiquette, even though Shane knew it was an even bigger deal in Russia than in North America.
“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Shane persevered, attempting to make conversation when Rozanov clearly didn’t feel inclined to speak.
“Yes.” Rozanov’s voice was deep, rumbling—confident, even in that single word.
Shane felt a traitorous shiver ripple through his omega. He reached for Rozanov’s hand again, even though he knew, deep down, it was just for the thrill of feeling that large, warm, rough palm against his own smaller, softer one.
Sometimes Shane hated his omega.
“Well, good luck in there.”
Shane made himself walk away, forced himself away from the heady scent of the Russian alpha.
“Do you always come near unknown alphas?”
“Yeah. Why shouldn’t I? I’m not afraid,” Shane shot back.
“Not saying you should be,” Rozanov replied with a smirk.
Shane was brought up short, though he shouldn’t have been. He already knew Rozanov was a cocky asshole. What he hadn’t known until now was that his omega would find that quite so appealing.
They lost the prospect cup. Shane tried very hard not to blame himself—or how distracted he’d been by the Russian captain. Rozanov just had a way of getting under your skin.
Something about the way the rest of the Russian team avoided him—didn’t check him, barely connected with him—incensed Shane. Like they thought the omega wasn’t worth challenging. Like he was less than the other players.
But not Rozanov. Rozanov had come for him again and again, never letting up on the ice.
Shane hated to admit it, but he loved it. Loved the challenge. Loved the rivalry. Loved that someone saw his hockey ability, not his designation. Shane felt like it made him a better player.
Just not good enough to win, apparently.
Or good enough to be drafted first.
Second—after that infuriating alpha.
All anyone could tell Shane was that he was still making history. Still the first omega ever drafted into the NHL. Even if it was second overall, he was still a trailblazer.
But it still stung.
He wanted to be the best. He’d always been told he was. And now there was undeniable proof that he wasn’t.
And it just had to be Rozanov who beat him.
“Let’s see those numbers!”
Shane reluctantly raised two fingers, forcing a smile as he caught a smirk out of the corner of his eye.
Fucking smarmy alpha.
But at least that smarmy alpha wasn’t trying to commiserate with him about how well he’d done “for an omega.”
No. Shane had not done well, even for an omega. And he certainly hadn’t done well for himself.
With those thoughts plaguing his sleep, Shane threw off his blankets and changed for the gym. Exercise might calm his racing mind—and, hopefully, chase away the image of the posturing alpha he hadn’t been able to shake since their eyes had met in the hotel lobby.
Shane pounded his feet on the treadmill, pushing himself longer and harder than he normally would. He cursed how much harder it was to get his omega body into the shape it needed to be in to compete at an elite level. All the effort he put into his diet and training regimen, and it still wasn’t enough.
Not enough to beat the Russian who smoked and whom Shane had caught eating McDonald’s on more than one occasion.
The alpha who was somehow now on the treadmill beside him.
Fuck.
Ilya cranked the setting way up, the pace bordering on a sprint.
Shane’s hand twitched toward his own dial.
Was this a bad idea?
Rozanov ran hard, feet smacking against the belt, the sound echoing through the room.
Shane turned his own dial up, a notch higher than Ilya’s.
Ilya didn’t skip a beat, twisting his to the next setting above Shane’s.
Shane’s heart was already hammering, his legs burning. He’d been running for a while, and Rozanov had obviously just started—but fuck that.
Shane hit the highest setting, probably faster than he would ever normally run. He did cardio to build stamina, after all, not to sprint like he was fleeing a rabid animal.
Shane’s eyes drifted to Ilya.
He was also charging along at the highest setting.
Their eyes met—both red-faced and drenched in sweat, arms and legs pumping as fast as they could manage.
Shane took a huge breath, his lungs tight and struggling—and that was when it hit him.
Rozanov’s scent.
Heady. Rich. Musky alpha.
Sure, Shane had smelled him before, but not like this. Not undiluted by others. Not in such close quarters. Not while Rozanov was drenched in sweat.
Delicious alpha sweat.
Shane slapped the stop button, his feet stumbling to a halt so abruptly he had to grab the rail to keep from falling.
Rozanov threw his head back and laughed before hitting his own stop button.
Shane had already slumped against the wall, chest heaving, his whole body slick with sweat. He knew he must smell—cloying and ripe—but nothing cut through the alpha’s scent. The air felt thick with it.
Rozanov dropped down opposite him, chest heaving too—though Shane hated to admit it, maybe not as much as his own was.
They sat in silence, taking deep breaths. Shane hoped his breathing looked like simple exertion—like Rozanov’s—and not like he couldn’t get enough of the other man’s scent into his lungs.
“My team are stupid,” Ilya said eventually.
Shane frowned. “Boston?”
“No. Russia. They refuse to play you properly. They stay away. But they don’t know what they miss.”
“They don’t?”
“Yes, Hollander. Playing you on the ice. Getting you hot. Angry.”
Ilya ran a hand down his neck, trailing it over the broad expanse of his chest before letting it rest at the very top of his thigh.
Shane’s eyes followed the movement against his will, lingering too long where Ilya’s hand stopped—between his spread legs—caught by the very noticeable bulge in his shorts. Shane didn’t even think he was hard. Just… impressively equipped.
Shane licked his lips without thinking.
“Very stupid,” Rozanov repeated.
Shane’s head snapped up guiltily, hoping Ilya hadn’t noticed.
His smirk said he had.
“I’m glad you don’t hold back like them,” Shane admitted. “You don’t give me any special treatment for being… what I am.”
“In the game, no,” Ilya said seriously. “Off the ice… maybe a little.”
He winked.
Shane’s breath stuttered.
Was Rozanov coming on to him?
Did Shane want him to?
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t go there. He would ruin his reputation before he’d even played a single game with his new team. No. He had to be the best he could be—he couldn’t let some inexplicable pull toward a rival alpha get in the way of that.
Shane shook his head and jumped to his feet.
“I should go… shower. See you at the prospect cup.”
He stuck out his hand—professional, polite.
Ilya didn’t take it.
Instead, his gaze dropped to Shane’s waist, now level with his eyes. With dawning dread, Shane followed his line of sight.
His shorts were tented.
His traitorous cock was hard inside them. Shane pulled his hand back and bolted.
He had never been so humiliated in his life.
“See you at the cup,” Ilya called after him.
And Shane did see him at the cup.
And Shane beat him at the cup.
And not once did Shane allow himself to think about that awful night in the hotel gym.
“See you in October.” The words slipped out before Shane could stop himself.
Ilya’s eyebrows rose, looking pleased.
Damn it.
Shane had practically admitted that he knew exactly when their schedules would align again.
Too late now.
He had until October to live that down.
And yet, it was much sooner that Shane found himself face to face with the alpha again—over and over—as was the nature of the photoshoot.
“Pretty omega,” Rozanov purred. “Lucky me.”
Shane rolled his eyes, forcing himself not to read into it. Rozanov was only trying to get under his skin, using Shane’s uncomfortable suspicion that he might be—just ever so slightly—attracted to the alpha.
Shane refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, remaining calm and professional as he skated back and forth in a mock faceoff.
And it worked.
Rozanov cracked first, his serious expression breaking into helpless laughter.
Shane couldn’t help joining in—but by then it was too late. The alpha had already lost it.
“When did they tell you that you would be doing the shoot with me?” Rozanov asked afterward.
“Like two days ago,” Shane replied with a casual shrug, ignoring the fact that he’d been spiralling about it ever since. “Why? When did they tell you?”
“They told me nothing. It was my idea.”
Shane’s mouth gaped open. Why on earth would Rozanov do that?
“Better be careful,” Shane warned, mostly for his own sake. “If you get too close to me, you know there’ll be rumours. There always are.”
He tried to make it sound like a joke. It definitely fell flat.
“No point being careful,” Rozanov said with a shrug, utterly blasé. “If there are rumours, whatever you do. Then we might as well do as we like.”
Shane frowned. He’d never thought of it that way—then quickly corrected himself.
It was easy for Rozanov. He could take risks, the fallout wouldn’t ruin his career.
They did their individual skating shots next, Shane valiantly trying—and failing—not to stare at Ilya on the ice.
Afterward, he went to shower before his planned dinner with his mom.
He had just finished rinsing his hair when he heard the door open, he didn’t need to look up to know who it was. He would recognize that scent anywhere.
Shane resolutely ignored him, rinsing off the rest of his body as the alpha boldly took the next shower down from his own.
Of course he did.
Personal space was clearly not a concept Rozanov understood.
Shane couldn’t help himself.
The vast expanse of slick, taut alpha muscle on display was too much to resist. He stole a glance—and somehow forgot how to look away.
Ilya Rozanov was mesmerizing at the best of times. Like this—naked and wet—he was glorious.
Shane’s mouth went dry, his omega rattling around inside him, urging him to do something. Shane didn’t know what—but he strongly suspected it would be something mortifying, like baring his neck or turning around to present his ass.
Instead, he forced himself to look away, ducking his head under the spray to rinse the last of the suds from his hair.
He was just about to shut off the water when he caught the sight of Rozanov turning to face him out the corner of his eye.
Not sneaking glances, just openly, unashamedly looking him up and down.
When the alpha noticed that Shane was aware of it, he jerked his chin toward Shane’s midsection.
With horror, Shane looked down.
He was hard.
Again.
In the alpha’s presence.
“Fuck off,” Shane stammered, frozen in place—too nervous to leave, too nervous to do anything at all.
With a mix of horror and anticipation thrumming in Shane’s veins , Ilya turned fully toward him.
Shane’s traitorous eyes dropped lower—past rippling muscle, past the teasing line of water darkened hair, to Rozanov’s cock.
To Rozanov’s huge, rock-hard alpha cock.
Shane’s knees went weak—especially when Ilya dragged a hand down his own body and wrapped his fist around it, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze, then stroking himself in a lazy, confident motion.
Like this, Ilya’s scent—usually potent—was overwhelming, flaring with arousal that made Shane’s mouth water with the urge to taste it at the source.
Rozanov jerked his head toward Shane, silently urging him to touch himself too.
And maybe Shane would have, maybe he would have given in.
But in that moment, cutting through the alpha’s scent of arousal, Shane caught something sweeter.
His own.
With dawning dread, Shane realized he was wet. Not shower-wet but wet between his cheeks.
Slick.
He never produced slick, never let himself get that aroused.
Shit.
Being hard was one thing. That could be blamed on hot water, his age, adrenaline.
But this?
Omegas didn’t leak slick for no reason.
Only when they wanted to fuck.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned. “That for me?”
“No. Fuck off,” Shane snapped, wanting to melt into the tiled wall.
This was humiliating—and dangerous, he realized suddenly. If anyone walked in right now, there would be no explaining this away.
“You’re getting so wet. I can smell it.”
Shane’s mind reeled, what could he possibly say? There was no denying what was happening.
“It’s not for you,” he stammered, his pulse pounding in his ears louder than the spray of the shower. “It’s not.”
“You want this?” Rozanov asked, squeezing his cock again to make his meaning painfully clear. “Yes?”
Shane swallowed, his eyes darting around the room. “Not here.”
That was all he managed.
And what even was that?
No was what he should have said. The only acceptable thing he could have said.
Like the scared little omega he suddenly felt like, Shane ran again, grabbing a towel and drying himself in a rush.
He wasn’t fast enough though, still struggling into his shoes when the alpha emerged from the showers.
“Can we just pretend that didn’t happen?” he hedged, ducking his head, trying to hide how hot his face felt.
“Is that what you want?” Ilya asked quietly—like he already knew the answer.
Which was quite obviously, No.
But thankfully, Shane couldn’t get the word past the thick saliva suddenly flooding his mouth.
“I didn’t think so.” Ilya stepped closer, bending down until they were eye to eye.
Shane tried not to stare at his bare torso up close.
He really did.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” Ilya said softly. “You want me… need me. So have me. What’s your room number?”
“1410.”
Shane winced.
Why was it now that he could speak?
“Good,” Ilya purred approvingly, straightening and heading for his locker. “I’ll see you there.”
Shane left—because what else was he supposed to do?
And then he spent the entire evening freaking out. What now?
Rozanov was coming to his room.
Shane could turn him away, could say no, could deny it and pretend none of it ever happened.
But what was the point?
Rozanov had seen it all clearly. Smelled it in the steamy showers.
He knew what Shane wanted and Shane now knew he was completely fucked.
If anyone found out—if anyone found out that Shane wasn’t just weak for a male alpha, but for a fellow hockey player, his rival—his career would be over.
Every bad game, every missed goal, every lost faceoff. That would be it. The omega can’t cope with the other alphas. Send him to the minor league. The experiment failed.
His mind in chaos, Shane heard the promised knock at his door and, still undecided, he opened it.