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All the omegas in the league have the same script. Olli repeats, “I’m honored to be in the NHL and I hope to make the best of the opportunity. I’m not here to be a distraction or talk about my personal life,” so often, it’s a wonder his mouth can form other words.

He’s not lying is the thing. Olli is honored to be in the league and the Pittsburgh Penguins have been nothing but supportive of him from day one. He remembers Sidney welcoming him to the team with a warm handshake, eyes on Olli’s, not on his hips or mouth.

James Neal sends him an invitation to the NHLOmega GroupMe once it becomes clear he’s going to stick with the big club. Nealsy is loud and aggressive in a way Olli can’t imagine ever being and spends most of his days smelling like Paul Martin.

All the omegas in the league know of each other even though they’re not all friends. In fact, some of them seem to actively hate each other. The group seems to be more of a loose network for info sharing: when’s the best time to schedule a heat, the best place to eat in New York, who has the biggest dick, the nicest knot in the locker room.

Two weeks after Olli joins the group, Joe Thornton sends a text with a picture of his hand wrapped around a thick dick with the caption, “Horse face with a dick to match,” and for the next hour, Olli’s phone shakes itself apart as the group explodes with delighted, scandalized messages.

Giroux texts, “You old whore,” and Olli imagines that counts as fond for him. He mostly knows of Giroux through Sid and to say Sid doesn’t care for him much is an understatement.

Regardless, Thornton’s text leads to Olli discovering a veritable archive of dick pictures and he loses three hours scrolling back through chat logs. The Dallas Stars and Pittsburgh Penguins are particularly well documented and it only takes him a moment to find the connection between the two.

Olli blushes hot at a picture of Geno even though he sees Geno naked every other day at least. He’s never seen him quite from that angle.


Kristopher Letang is the undisputed leader of the defense, the alpha of alphas, if you will. Unlike Sid, Kris’ eyes do rest on Olli’s mouth, his hips. Olli straightens his back and mentally prepares to put Kris in his place (as politely as possible), but Kris just doesn’t. Doesn’t bother Olli with unnecessary touches or try to corner him after practice or make derisive comments.

“Little bird,” Kris calls him, though Olli is two inches taller, and his eyes still rest on Olli’s mouth, his hips, but Kris’ words and actions are only helpful. Olli plays his best hockey at Kris’ side.


After Olli’s cancer scare, Kris’ eyes rest at the scar at his throat.

Olli doesn’t like it.


The first substantial contribution Olli makes to the group is a dim, shaky clip from the Penguins Christmas party. Kris and Trevor are on the dance floor. Trevor is bent over touching the ground with Kris’ hands at his hip, ass to crotch. Teammates, significant others are shouting encouragement in the background. Olli hadn’t been able to say anything, mouth as dry as Arizona.

Nealsy sends back heart eyes. He gets “kinky” from Staal and Atkinson, both of whom rarely comment on anything.

Matthews sends back, “I need a freak like that.”

All in all, it’s a successful text.


The Penguins hit their usual stretch of debilitating injuries and Kris hangs around the locker room, looking good and smelling like distress cut through with boredom. He drifts in and out of Olli’s space, an aggravating, distracting presence, until Olli reaches out a hand to touch his wrist.

Kris stops fidgeting and looks at Olli, eyes dropping to his mouth, his neck, his hips. “Little bird,” he says and Olli ducks his head.


Olli texts, “How terrible would it be to sleep with a teammate?”

Parayko sends, “?!,” because he’s a glutton for gossip.

“Are you serious?” Giroux sends, “Thornton has fucked his whole team,” and then, “Is this about Crosby?” Because everything has been about Sid for Giroux, Claude (Olli guesses), lately.

Nealsy sends, “My baby is all grown up,” and Olli’s going to have to run him into a wall or two the next time they play Nashville.

Thornton doesn’t reply until much later, a simple, “Jealous much?” Olli assumes is aimed at Claude.


The next day before practice Kris touches Olli’s shoulder blade, leans in close to ask about his mother – stricken with the flu – and hands Olli his favorite Gatorade.

Olli spends practice wondering what Kris’ beard would feel like between his legs instead of focusing on his drills. Hornqvist burns him for a goal and his face flushes hot.

Coach yells, “Pay attention, Olli!” and Olli wants to fade away.

In the locker room, Kris stands very close to him and says, “You seem distracted today.”

“Um,” Olli says, eyes skipping from Kris’ intent gaze to his mouth and back again.

Kris smiles, slow. “You want to go back to my place to talk about it?”


They take Kris’ car. The ride is fraught, but not uncomfortable. Olli shifts in the passenger seat, grimaces. His boxers are soaked through just from the anticipation.

Kris is taking deep breaths beside him, hand deceptively light on the steering wheel. He keeps licking his bottom lip and Olli is going to die before anything even happens.


The inside of Kris’ house is warm. Olli takes off his coat and hangs it in the receiving hall; he slips off his shoes and after a slight pause, his socks.

When Olli looks up, Kris is watching him. Olli swallows and steps forward until they’re standing toe to toe. Kris tilts his head back slightly to hold Olli’s gaze as Olli places his hand on Kris’ cheek. His beard is thick and soft beneath Olli’s fingers.

Kris turns his face into the touch, kisses Olli’s palm. “How much talking do you want to do?”

“We can,” Olli licks his lips, “we can talk later.”

Kris pulls him to the floor right there in the living room.

Olli makes a hot, shocked sound, eyes wide, staring up at Kris. Kris kneels up between Olli’s legs and pulls his shirt up over his head. Kris takes working out to the next level and it shows. His chest is thick with muscle, pecs topped with little brown nipples, tight. Kris places Olli’s hands at his waist and leans down to suck on Olli’s bottom lip.

“Ah.” Olli’s hips jerk like they’re on a string and Kris rides the movement. He kisses Olli, quick, close mouthed, before tugging on his t-shirt. Olli raises his arms, obligingly. The wood floor is briefly cold beneath Olli’s shoulders, but then Kris drops his weight down so that they’re chest to chest and Olli’s burning up.

It’s the work of moments for both of them to struggle out of their jeans and underwear. Kris leaves a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses down Olli’s torso, pausing to push his tongue teasingly into Olli’s bellybutton.

Olli pulls at the wild strands of Kris’ hair and Kris looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Kris,” Olli says, pleading.

Kris tucks his face into the bend of Olli’s thigh and inhales. “You smell so good,” he says, voice dreamy. “I want to fuck you with my tongue.” Kris presses Olli’s thighs apart, and oh, his beard feels fucking wonderful, scrapping against the soft, tender skin of Olli’s inner thighs as he diligently eats Olli out.

Pulling at Kris’ hair only seems to make him hungrier; so, Olli resorts to begging. “Please, please,” he pants, all the while rocking up against Kris’ mouth. His dick feels so heavy, leaking against his stomach. He lets go of Kris to clutch at his own hard dick.

After pressing one last kiss to Olli’s taint, Kris pulls back. His beard, is dark, wet with Olli. Olli bites his bottom lip at the sight and Kris growls. “Here, here,” Kris says and tugs Olli until his upper body is resting against the couch and his legs are spread wide.

Kris disappears briefly, leaving Olli off balance and waiting. He closes his eyes and breathes harshly through his mouth. Kris touches the small of Olli’s back when he returns and Olli hears the telltale sound of a condom wrapper. He arches his ass up higher in anticipation and Kris makes an appreciative sound.

“Little bird,” he says and lines up, rubbing the latex covered head of his dick between Olli’s ass cheeks.

“Oh,” Olli says as Kris presses in, his dick as thick as the rest of him. Kris presses a soft kiss between Olli’s shoulder blades when he’s as deep as he can possibly get. Olli breathes out, shaky, and rolls his hips back against Kris.

Kris wraps his hands around Olli’s hipbones and proceeds to fuck him so good, tears spring to the surface of Olli’s eyes. Kris keeps up a steady, hoarse commentary of which Olli can understand absolutely nothing because it’s in French.

Olli moans, fretful, when Kris pulls him up from the couch, essentially sitting Olli up straight in his lap, back to Kris’ chest. Kris sets his teeth in Olli’s shoulder and holds him in place as he fucks upward, powerful thrusts that have Olli setting his nails in the hard muscle of Kris’ thighs.

The swollen push of Kris’ knot against him is almost a relief and Olli lets his head drop back against Kris’ shoulder and accepts everything Kris wants to give him.


It’s awkward moving from the floor to the couch locked together, but Kris spends the remaining time pressing kisses to the parts of Olli he can reach, whispering incomprehensible, sweet sounding words.

Olli, because deep down he’s as terrible a gossip as Parayko and as shameless as Thornton, says, “I’m going to tell all my friends I fucked you,” and Kris laughs, delighted, into the soft, sweaty hairs at Olli’s nape.