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An injury that puts Shane off-ice for the rest of the season is bad enough. Having to endure his rut early is like the cherry on top of a pile of trash.

At least when his ruts are confined to the summers, Shane has time to mentally prepare himself. Can get in a good headspace for the week-long mess he becomes once he's off the league-required rut blockers meant to to “counter the unpredictability of rut and heat cycles” and to “stop unfair advantages during games.” And while it might be fun to watch from a crowd when things get out of hand, the immediate sickness after a pheromone clash makes Shane feel like shit.

But rut blockers can’t be used in combination with major painkillers, and right now, Shane’s on a truckload of them. There’s a constant pressure behind his eyes, wobbling between his temples. He swears the overhead lights dim and brighten randomly.

Some hours ago, his doctor interrupted him mid-nap to speak about his scheduled release.

“Supposing you’ll be out of here in the next two days”—she flipped over a paper in her hand, then looked back up at Shane—”you’ll probably see the early signs of a rut about a week from now, and then you should expect it to hit full force in ten, eleven days. Considering how long you’ve been taking them regularly, it takes some time for the inhibitors to fully leave your body. You might experience that this rut cycle is more intense than usual. That’s not uncommon and you shouldn’t be alarmed, but if you have concerns about the severity, call us. And I would suggest you find a partner for this unless you already have one.”

Shane’s body was like sore jell-o. Every time he shifted, the ache stretched deep beneath his skin, his head buzzing. Every noise was amplified, from the clatter of metal tools to the heart monitor. He should consider himself lucky going this long without a major injury, but all Shane felt was dread.

There was really only one person he could call. Shane did not keep an extensive list of contacts who would be okay disappearing from society for a week to fuck him, and he was not going to do what he knew other players did and post a vague Instagram story. And the crux of it was, general rut messiness aside, that Shane would want to be fucked. Not shove his knot into something and pretend he was making a claim. He doubted it would ease his rut at all.

He’d only ever invited someone to share his rut once, and only twelve hours into the ordeal his partner had excused herself, apologizing about leaving Shane alone, and then promptly left his apartment. The rut blockers, as much as they weren’t a perfect solution, were a blessing. He didn’t have to think about omega-alpha dynamics or heats or ruts or any of those expectations throughout the season.

Now Shane stares at the white ceiling, following the lines between the squares with his eyes, and imagines his body sparking with heat, starting from his gut and outwards, and then pictures Ilya there, his chest against Shane’s back, mouth on his neck. How would Ilya handle him? Would he cater to Shane’s whims or push back against him? Shane needs to find out.

But the Boston Raiders are still in the playoffs.

Until they’re not.

Shane is six days out the hospital when he calls Ilya, mouth warm and slimy, a prelude to the inevitable nausea, and his thoughts are running at ten times their usual speed. Everything is sensitive and frustrating and he’s stuck at his fucking parents house in the aftermath of a concussion and—

“Yes?” Ilya is out of breath, like he’s just finished a workout. His voice rasps over the phone line, the sound crashing through Shane’s entire body. Movement on the other end. A machine beeps. Thudding slows. Maybe he’s at the gym. “Hollander?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Shane says, as if Ilya doesn’t already know who it is. He tries to string a coherent sentence together. Not an easy thing to do, he finds, as he listens to Ilya’s laboured breathing, remembers how those sounded in his ear when Ilya bent him over Shane’s sofa and fucked him. “At the hospital, I asked about my cottage this summer. Remember? Just. I need you to tell me if—if you can go. If you’re coming. But, like, earlier. If you already have… plans, well—”

Silence. A door closing. “Hollander, you sound sick. You are in hospital, yes? You should not be calling. You need to rest.”

“I—fuck. I feel like shit. And no, I’m back home. But just—listen, okay? I don’t have anyone to spend my rut with and I”—need you to fuck me through it—”am asking you to. Even if you can’t stay the whole week, I really want you there.” His teeth grit against his knuckles.

Shane slides further down his bed. He pushes a hand up his shirt, and he can’t help it when his breath hitches. Ilya says something, but Shane catches none of it.

“You are sure?” Ilya asks, clearer this time. “It will not have the same, you know, effect? Would you…”

“I don’t really want anyone else with me,” Shane says. His fingertips brush over his pec, palming the nipple. “I don’t care about effectiveness or whatever, just…” After a moment, he adds, “Please, Ilya.”

And he can hear it when Ilya swallows, his sharp inhale through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “I will come.”

Shane closes his eyes. It would be fine. He’d be fine. “How early can you meet me?”

Another pause. Shane’s rattling pulse does not calm down when Ilya says, “Two days. Send me the address. I will borrow a car.”

Probably a good idea for Shane not to drive right now. Two days. Two days. Two days.

He peels himself off the bed, the back of his shirt already sticking to his skin. He’s never really gotten used to how damp his body becomes, considers the upcoming pile of laundry and the inevitable delirium. Fuck.

“Tell me you are okay and I will hang up,” Ilya says, and Shane’s stomach swoops.

If it was up to him, he would keep Ilya on the phone for the rest of the day. Would lie on his bed and have Ilya tell him exactly how he’s going to help once they’re together. How he’ll take Shane apart. How he will touch him.

Instead he says, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you in two days.”

“... Okay. I will see you soon.”

“Soon,” Shane repeats. He clings to that word when he hears the click on the other end, sinking down on the floor, hands grabbing his bedsheets, phone dropping on the floor between his feet. Deep breaths, or whatever that guide from high school said. Imagine the air sinking down into your stomach and your toes and fingers and try not to think about the heat.

Or Ilya’s wide eyes and long lashes and his tongue on Shane’s chest and throat and nape.

He has to pack.

His bag is mostly ready to go, and he’s taken to leaving a lot of his belongings at the cottage, anyway. Just makes for easier summers; the house morphs into a proper home, not an away-place. And right now, Shane is desperate to be home. He’ll get groceries delivered. He’ll lay out clothes ahead of time and prep the numerous towels for the bed and bath. Then he’s going to wait patiently until Ilya shows up at his door, and when he does, Shane is going to haul him to his bedroom before he can settle in.

That’s a plan. That’s a manageable set of tasks to accomplish.

So Shane changes into a fresh t-shirt, stuffs the prescription pain killers and doctor’s notes into his bag, and goes to ask his dad for a ride. Then, when he’s buckled in and they’re on the highway, he rolls the window down and leans his head halfway out to get the wind in his face, closing his eyes, and tries to transport himself through time.

But time’s not on his side. It drags, mimicking the slow, steady build up of warmth in Shane’s body. Every rut cycle, it’s as if Shane develops a second pulse underneath his skin, tiny heartbeats everywhere. He puts his earbuds in and tries to pretend that the pulse is a drum beat, but all of the music saved on his phone is instrumental ambiance music for his morning yoga. The kind of music that sparkles, wind chimes and flutes. He could do some stretches.

Instead he folds his second and third set of bedsheets and puts them on a chair in the corner of his bedroom for easy access. He lays towels out for both of them in the bathroom and packs his fridge with food, lines up bottles of water on the counter. The sodas go into the fridge. What does Ilya even like to eat? The only thing Shane knows for certain is his fondness of Cokes and tuna melts. They’ve never sat down and had a full meal together. He’s just going to have to hope Ilya’s too distracted to complain about the food. Not that he seems like the type to.

At one point, he texts his mom: I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this on my own, thank you. I’ll call if I need to but please don’t visit, because the thought of having Ilya arrive only to be interrupted by his parents calling kills him.

Twelve hours. Shane strips down to his sweatpants, pops a Ginger Ale open for the sugar and then chugs a full bottle of water. Six hours, he takes a shower, scrubbing every inch of his body. The brand-new, scentless soap is going to be emptied by the end of the week, he doesn’t doubt. At some point he props the windows open to get a breeze in, and it alleviates the stuffiness of his room for a bit. He showers again. Four hours. Three. Shane stands in front of his bathroom mirror and grips the edges of the sink. Again: deep breaths, relax your jaw, think of each individual muscle and imagine the tension lessening with each passing second… Not helping.

Shane stares at his reflection, his damp hair sticking to his face, his dark eyes, his bottom lip that’s sore from how much he’s put his teeth to it.

He knows Ilya likes him. He wouldn’t have agreed to visit Shane if he didn’t at least find him attractive enough to fuck. And there’s more than that, now. They don’t owe each other anything. But Ilya is choosing to help. Despite that, Shane doesn’t feel very desirable at that moment. Because, in reality, Ilya hasn’t confirmed anything about… them. About whatever this thing is. Maybe he’d secretly been hoping to let Shane down easy after the injury, and now the rut stuff is another wrench thrown into an already dysfunctional machine. After all, until only a few months ago, Shane had told himself he was going to end things.

He thinks of their meeting in Florida during the All-Star game. How Ilya’s robust body had felt strangely delicate under Shane’s touch, how it shook with the force of trying not to fall apart. The wet collar of Shane’s shirt where Ilya’s face rested. Even though they’d remained side by side after, Ilya touching Shane languidly, they haven’t actually had one real, transparent conversation, and now Shane’s stupid fucking rut-brain is dealing with the consequences of that. As if this is the best time to think about commitment.

Ilya had asked when he’d get to have Shane for as long as he wanted. Did that count as a confession? Just say it, Rozanov. Just say the fucking words!

But Ilya also talks about omegas. About marriage and women. All of which seemed plausible years ago to Shane, and impossible now.

Several months ago, when Shane realized he didn’t just enjoy Rozanov, it’d been a real blow to his future plans. Or the expectations of what his future would be like, at least. It would be one thing for Shane to be in love with a man. He would not be the first hockey player to marry a man, but those guys had married omegas, have the backing of this is how the dynamic works, guys. And their partners have daytime jobs unrelated to hockey.

Ilya Rozanov is not an omega. He’s the picture boy for boasting alphas, from his wardrobe to his arrogance to his play tactics and leadership style. He’s the type of guy other alphas will complain about to each other, only to take a page out of his playbook to see if it works for them, too. Shane has heard it first hand.

His head spins. Jesus. Ilya is coming over here to fuck him through his rut. His rut. And Shane is probably in love with him.

One hour at a time, he tells himself. Take it one hour at a time. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t try to bite him. Don’t ask to be bitten. Live one hour at a time until has had fever fucked out of him and can be rational enough to have a serious conversation.

Thirty minutes.

Fifteen.

Shane doesn’t wait for the bell to ring. He’s already throwing the door open when he hears the car tires crunch gravel.

No wasted time. Shane’s muscles are fucking twisting with need. Ilya’s bag drops to the floor, and Shane pulls him to the sofa with a hand twisted into the front of Ilya’s shirt, pushing him onto his back.

“Hello to you, too,” Ilya says. He’s splayed out on the couch, face remaining composed. He pushes himself up on his elbows, spreading his legs. The action comes easy to him. “We have time to say hi, yes?”

“Don’t—” Shane starts tells him before he falters, and Ilya raises his brows just as Shane kneels between his thighs, and then goes for the zipper. “Just, shut up for a moment. I need to…”

He’s got one hand down the front of Ilya’s sweatpants when Ilya grabs his chin, twisting his face up so they can look at each other, and then bends down to kiss him filthy. Open-mouthed and deep, it’s everything Shane’s imagined as he’s jerked off the last few days. Longer than that, he admits to himself, his shame temporarily residing somewhere distant and unimportant.

“Been thinking about my cock?” Ilya asks, stroking Shane’s chin with his thumb, brushing up against his bottom lip. What kind of expression is Shane wearing? He’s not entirely sure he wants to know, but he can feel his lips parting, how they’re slick with spit, face hot. And Ilya leans down, pressing his lips to Shane’s ear and goes, “Come on. Take it. I came all this way just for you, Hollander. To fuck you.”

Shane’s body is halfway his. The rest of him is Ilya’s, at that moment, to do whatever he pleases with.

December, 2008. Shane is holed up in one of the audience seats watching the junior Russian team, parents at his side. His body is already taut, the pre-game jitters beginning to ripple from his head to his knees. Constantly tapping his knee with his fingers, his eyebrow twitching, his pulse in the back of his throat.

His mom touches the back of his hand at one point. Shane’s foot starts bouncing against the floor, instead, and his mom reels back, letting him be. Something is strung into the air. Shane takes it to be adrenaline, or something close to it. The sort of excitement which presses flush against the skin, leaving it: everyone’s intention to win a gust of air throughout the rink.

And Russia intends to win. Almost as badly as Shane wants to.

He leans forward, eyes trailing the back marked with 81. Shane’s real target right now.

Of course he’s heard the buzz; how could he not? His mother in one ear, the world in the other. Look at these prodigies. Generational talents, and two at once. Anticipate the draft, folks! Place your bets, get hungry for it: who is going to take home the International Prospects Cup? Is Shane Hollander going to let Canada down, right here at home? Is Ilya Rozanov fast enough to keep up? Does Hollander have what it takes to deal with a player who’s not afraid to get close and personal?

Endless. Even during their practice, Shane’s coach is right there. It’ll be you versus Rozanov, Shane. We’ll just give the press what they’re asking for. No need to do anything too obnoxious. You and him are different players, you know this. Skate your laps around him. Show him what skill looks like, minus the attitude.

And Rozanov is, well, arrogant. From what Shane has heard, at least. He hasn’t even met the guy, but it’s what the articles are printing, what the coaches are whispering, what Shane’s teammates are telling him.

Shane believes it, too, when he watches Rozanov. There’s an effortlessness to his skating that Shane refuses to believe isn’t the result of thousands of hours of grueling practice, because that’d just be—would be so fucking unfair. And at the same time Rozanov is so… fucking large on the ice. Like his presence extends past the boundary of his body. Maybe it’s how easily he crushes someone against the boards, how smooth his edge work is, tight turns mid-stride, speed.

But Shane is faster. He’s sure of that.

Rozanov is skilled. Is, undoubtedly, amazing to watch, even for the casual fan. He’s boastful, a showman, but unlike most people Shane is put up against, Rozanov can back his bark up.

Which is why, shortly after team Russia has cleared the ice for Slovakia and Shane sees a familiar face moving down the hallway, Shane excuses himself and slips away from his family, says, “I have to use the restroom, I’ll be back really soon, I promise," and then sprints down the hallway to the emergency exit door he knows he’s not supposed to use.

He slips around the back of the building. It’ll probably be fifteen minutes before his mom genuinely starts to worry.

Shane’s nose itches, too sensitive not to notice the smoke, even from around the corner. He rubs the side of his nose with his thumb. It must be the nerves; it’s not typical to be this affected. But again, he’s had a particularly stressful few days. It wouldn’t be surprising if his body was responding to the environment. Especially with this many alphas shoved into close quarters for extended periods.

Not to mention that the chatter doesn’t end once he’s off the ice. His mom has been extending the prep way into the evening, only stopping to let him sleep.

Ilya Rozanov is more handsome in real life. This sort of pisses him off, but not enough to linger on it. Shane watches him take a drag from a cigarette—a fucking cigarette, right outside the rink, at, like, the age of seventeen—without acknowledging Shane at all.

“You know, you’re supposed to smoke over there, if you really have to,” Shane says, pointing at the SMOKING AREA sign some distance away. “It reeks all the way around the corner. Other people are probably going to notice.” He jerks his thumb in the direction he came from.

Rozanov turns to him, both eyebrows raised, as if he’s shocked Shane is speaking to him at all. “Sorry?” The sound is slanted at the o.

Eyes rake down the full length of Shane’s body in a way that makes him wish he had more layers on. He shoves both hands in his pockets, trying to appear a bit taller, more relaxed. Inside his pocket, he fiddles with a loose string.

Rozanov kicks off the wall with one foot, holds the cig between two curled fingers, and says, “Your nose is much better than your skating.” He taps the tip of his nose, eyes crinkling deviously.

And wow, this had really been such a dumb fucking idea. Shane should just duck away and hope he never has to spend more than five seconds in Rozanov’s vicinity again. His body grows jittery, mouth warm and strangely damp, like he’s about to throw up. Is he about to get a fever? Right before the finals? He needs to get out of here.

“I just came to wish you good luck,” Shane says, his interest in talking to Rozanov like an equal dissipating. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

Rozanov stares at him, something flickering in his eyes. He takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke between pouty lips, and the scent hits Shane right in his stomach. Whatever brand it is Rozanov is smoking, it doesn’t actually smell bad. Just very oaky and deep, a bit earthy, even. Shane must be getting sick, for sure, to pick out this many nuances.

It is probably showing on his face, because Rozanov has a nick between his brows, and Shane can almost believe he’s concerned when he says, “You are sick?”

“Sorry,” Shane says, choking on the word. “Not sick, I just hate the smell of cigarettes. Anyway. Good luck in the finals, I’m gonna—I’m heading back to my family. They’re waiting for me.”

“Okay,” Rozanov says, looking at Shane like he’s got two heads.

Shane waits, but Rozanov doesn’t say anything back, not even a: good luck to you too or are you gonna pass out? But that’s probably a blessing in disguise, because by the time Shane has stumbled his way to the front of the building and squirmed into the back seat of the car, his mom immediately asking what took him so long, he gags and has to put his head between his legs the whole way home. They roll the windows down and his parents pick up emergency nausea medication at Shoppers.

Shane spends the rest of the evening trying to sleep. Emphasis on trying. He can’t stop thinking about the fact that he might be sick, possibly sick enough to have to sit out the game tomorrow, and eats so much chicken soup he has to lie down, then finishes an entire bottle of orange juice just an hour later. Vitamin overdose or something. His mom hands him two painkillers and a fever reducer and, by some miracle, the nausea passes overnight.

But that doesn’t mean Shane’s body isn’t aching terribly the morning after, or that, as the Russian team passes them by and Shane spots Rozanov waltzing toward the dressing rooms, his mouth doesn’t grow uncomfortably warm again, sweat curling at his nape.

Doesn’t mean that, when he faces off against Rozanov on the ice, he doesn’t sense it again, that unnamable, horrible spark in the air, tension, something pulling deep in Shane’s chest. He needs to win this. He needs to win. This is everything he’s worked for.

He’s going to take gold against Russia, and he’ll be first pick in the draft, and he’ll be set. Everything he can ever remember wanting.

Canada loses. Coach does not comment on Shane’s lackluster performance—maybe because he can tell Shane is already beating himself up over it to the point there’s a fever-flush to his face. An angry, frustrated red.

Happy finals, Shane thinks.

The car ride home is quiet, but they go out for dinner, anyway, and his mom asks how he feels. Shane just shoves pieces of steak into his mouth, and for once does not bother making up any excuses about how he performed, or the fact that right now, he has no interest in talking about hockey at all, and least of all hockey against Ilya Rozanov.

Shane doesn’t get sick again, but whenever he whiffs out cigarettes the awful, warm-mouth sensation returns, sweat dripping down his spine. He gives it until a couple of months before the draft before he goes to the doctor, and they say he’s not sick, and that it might just be his rut stabilizers not quite working for him anymore. You get older, your body changes, and what used to be perfect needs some tweaking, the doctor tells him, and Shane is forced to endure his worst rut yet before being allowed on the new meds.

It sucks. Everything fucking sucks for a whole week. But Shane can’t start his career with Montreal off by getting nauseous around the clock, and if it’s new blockers he needs, then so be it. And they do help. His random, rut-adjacent symptoms lessen until they’re not there at all, and Shane can focus on just being a hockey player, not a man at the whims of something out of his control. It doesn’t matter if the meds also make it, like, really difficult to form a knot sometimes. He’s not going out and having sex on the regular, and even if he was, it wouldn’t be a problem.

It’s not that the team wouldn’t be understanding if he was… sensitive, or whatever. Alpha ruts are about prowess and urges.They’re go-out-and-get-what-you-crave energy, as Olsson put it one time. There’s nothing embarrassing about ruts, every doctor says, even if he prefers to keep any information about his own as private as possible. One time, his high school teammate had said he was kind of like an omega, in that way. Secretive about his cycles, unwilling to brag about potential sexual partners. Shane thought about that for months after. He couldn’t pinpoint why the tone of that teammate’s voice was so strange, like it was the punchline to something.

Shane just prefers that no one knows where he is (or more like is not) sticking his dick. The only place he should have to prove himself is on the ice.

But it is easier, sometimes, to lie. To just tell people yeah, I did go home with that omega. Yes, the pretty one at the club, at the party, at the hotel bar, even if Shane had, in reality, walked his ass home to his bedroom door and jacked off thinking about kissing someone who tasted like cigarettes. About a body that entirely covers his own. His mind keeps circling back to it. Maybe the second-hand smoke has actually caused an addiction. The thought makes Shane’s stomach drop. That’s not possible, but he could maybe ask his doctor. He could absolutely not ask his parents.

During the draft, he avoids Rozanov entirely, even though he can feel the guy’s fucking eyes on him. At one point, Rozanov is just a few tables over, continuing to glance in Shane’s direction, and Shane makes a full one-eighty and locks himself in a bathroom stall until his heart calms down.

There has to be something wrong with him.

Sleep is restless. He considers going to the gym, but considering how busy the hotel is, it probably hasn’t been properly sprayed down yet to clear the air. He does his morning run outside, instead, where the smells are less intrusive than a tiny, sweaty room. So when he returns, panting heavy and leaning against railing in the corner of the elevator, and the doors open at the gym-level floor only for Rozanov to step inside, sweaty and flushed and eyes looking like he’s just found what he was hoping to, Shane knows he made the right decision.

“I saw you are number twenty-four,” Rozanov says, chugging water from his bottle. He rolls his head, showing off his glistening neck and the thin, golden chain around it.

This elevator needs to move faster.

Shane holds Rozanov’s gaze. He swallows hard, presses his tongue against his bottom teeth, jaw tense. Rozanov is standing between him and the elevator doors. “Yes.”

Rozanov cracks a smile. “I think you must really like the number two.”

Shane had somehow, in the midst of everything crazy in his life, forgotten that at the end of the day, Ilya Rozanov is just what everyone says he is: an asshole. An asshole whose breaths are so loud Shane’s brain imagines them on his skin. He watches Rozanov tilt the water bottle back, his exposed throat glistening.

“You’re going to have a hard time keeping that attitude when you get your ass beat in the next game,” Shane tells him as he elevator door pings. “And what does that make you, eighty-one?”

He doesn’t get to see the look on Rozanov’s face, just hear him guffaw, and then a short laugh.

Shane takes the stairs the rest of the way up to his room, fuming and, to his dismay, half-hard.

He manages to compartmentalize all of that until the stupid endorsement deal with CCM.

Rozanov has been his usual charming self, and while Shane hates to admit it, hearing him laugh is kind of… nice. It makes Rozanov seem less like the obnoxious player he is on the ice, and more like Shane’s peer. They could just be two guys who love hockey, as long as Shane doesn’t let Rozanov get under his skin too much.

Which proves difficult, especially when they’re forced to wait as the crew adjusts the lighting, and Rozanov takes a lap around Shane, who is waiting perfectly still. Rozanov bumps into him, so close their skates knock together, and Shane shoves him back, but not hard enough to topple him over.

Rozanov grins at him, says, “You should try this next time we are playing, Hollander.”

“I think you’d like that way too much,” Shane tells him, turning his eyes back to the crew.

Rozanov hums, then pushes his knee against Shane’s, leaning forward so that Shane is forced to look at him. His eyes trail down to Shane’s chest, then back to his eyes, as if he is suddenly intrigued by Shane’s gear. Rozanov takes a deep breath through his nose, then tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

But if Shane’s scent is bothering him, he surprisingly doesn’t comment on it. The crew calls them back, and as they skate over, Shane rubs the back of his neck. He’s not sweaty, and his rut blockers have been working pretty well lately…

His peace of mind only lasts until he makes it to the locker room. That nausea returns full force, and Rozanov smells of cigarettes when he struts through the door and begins to pull his clothes off. Shane rubs his thumb against his nose again, a new habit he can’t shake, taking a deep breath through his mouth to clear his head. Doesn’t work.

“Tired from long day?” Rozanov asks. “You are…” He waves his hand around his face. “Red.”

Awesome, Shane thinks. It’s starting again. He must have brought this on himself just by thinking he was fucking stabilizing. What were those doctor visits for if he’s still not one-hundred percent free from these terrible bouts?

But when he turns his chin up to meet Rozanov’s eyes, he realizes that Rozanov, too, is flushed. His lips are parted, bare chest rising and falling irregularly, like he’s struggling to regulate his breathing. Shane should look away, but he can’t. He’s probably the most attractive man Shane has ever seen in his entire life. Scratch that. Ilya Rozanov is the most attractive man Shane has ever seen. Period. And right now, Shane really, really wants to find out if his mouth tastes like the rest of him smells. If it’s smoke, if it’s oaky like that one day outside the rink in 2008.

Shane takes his water bottle, unscrews it, and dumps it over his head. Rozanov stares, eyes wide, and Shane just says, “I’m going to wash off,” and walks into the showers with his towel swung over his shoulder and his sweatpants still on. He couldn’t have stripped down any further, because his dick is definitely getting hard, and it’s leaking against his thigh, and that’s why he has to squeeze into the furthest corner of this bathroom, ass to the door, and only then can he peel his pants off.

Yeah. Definitely hard.

Shane does not turn around when Rozanov joins him in the showers, much closer than he has any reason to be.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says.

His name in Rozanov’s accent feels thicker, weightier. Or maybe all of the crazy thoughts Shane has been having about Rozanov are finally getting to him. He swallows dryly, angles his body just enough to meet Rozanov’s eyes, to get an eyeful of his wet hair and muscles and that stupid gold chain and his hard—fuck, it’s so over.

“It’s your fucking body wash, or whatever,” Shane tells him, covering his own erection without much luck. “What do you even use? That fake pheromone wash stuff? Is it to cover up the cigarette smell or are you just addicted to—” heat. Someone willing, at least. There are alphas like that, Shane has heard.

And then Rozanov laughs, eyes creasing from his smile. Shane has to focus really hard on scrubbing himself with soap to not look at how his muscles move beneath the skin as he doubles over, then seems to come to his senses, wiping his face off with his hands and pushing his hair back.

“My body wash does not smell,” Rozanov says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, tilting Shane’s world upside down. “It is for, do you know… sen-sive skin? No scent. And I do not think cigarettes would…” Rozanov quirks a brow at him, eyes drifting down to where Shane is shielding himself with one hand. “Must be difficult for you, Hollander.”

“Okay,” Shane manages to say. “That’s—whatever. Fuck off. I am not talking about this with you.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov calls again. Shane’s knees are weak, but Rozanov presses on. “You think I smell nice? Yes?”

It’s only a second, and then Rozanov is right next to Shane, not touching him, but right there, hard and seemingly interested and now leaning down, a curious gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Rozanov says, more to himself. “You like it. I think my scent made you hard. Is that right? Is that why you are so…”

“Fuck off.” It doesn’t have any bite. Shane looks at his own feet. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction. I have a lot going on.”

Shane could ask him to step back, to give him some room. He doesn’t.

“Yes, is natural,” Rozanov agrees. “But that is not what I’m asking.”

“You’re not asking me anything! You’re just making a bunch of assumptions.”

“Assum—Hollander, your dick is hard.” Rozanov raises his eyebrows. Shane wishes he could wash himself down the drain with the water, and it’s bad enough already, but Rozanov keeps going. “Is it the first time? Or were you also hard when you ran away during the draft? I saw you go. I was curious.” He leans down, mouth so close to Shane’s ear that his breath clashes with the running water. “Is it any alpha, or just me?”

It’s the word alphas that brings Shane back into reality. Reminds him that outside of this tiny shower room, he has a life. That this is the type of stupid shit that he avoids because the results would be disastrous, as well as he can imagine them.

And somehow, he finds that he almost doesn’t care. Or cares less than usual. What’s more important is the fact that Rozanov’s fingers are skirting down his own stomach, toward his dick, brushing over his dark, curly pubes, and he is not making any attempt at hiding it. He raises a brow, again, at Shane, just… waiting. Doesn’t touch himself any further down. Like he hasn’t decided if Shane deserves to see it, yet.

Shane lets the warmth take him, for once. Gives Rozanov his room number as the guy grins smugly at him, clearly pleased with the outcome of this. One thousand scenarios runs through Shane’s head, like Rozanov lying about his fucking scentless soap and is fucking with Shane’s head for fun. But it doesn’t stop Shane from opening the door later that night when Rozanov knocks, and when Rozanov kisses him, Shane parts his lips for his tongue.

And it definitely doesn’t stop him from pushing Rozanov onto the bed and taking his cock into his mouth. That buzz under his skin, the heat that never eases up—it shakes his entire existence in the most pathetic display. Shane jerks himself off to completion at the same time he mouths along the half-formed knot at the base of Rozanov’s dick like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, and it kind of is. Is so much better than anything he’s ever dreamt of having. Wasn’t even something he had conceptualized before, because, well, it’s not…

A ripple of shame follows the feel-good, because Rozanov comes on his chin and throat, and Shane’s first instinct is to rub his cheek into the trail of hair down Rozanov’s stomach. To let himself be seen, vulnerable and freshly face-fucked, instead of immediately pinning Rozanov onto the bed and getting himself off that way.

It’s what he tried to imagine all those times he was jacking off, rubbing his fingers over his hole, imagining someone bending him over and taking him. Rozanov stares at Shane with the full intent of doing so. Shane knows this. It’s evident and horrible and Shane is going to die if he doesn’t get to experience it. Not today, but someday. Soon. Real soon.

And now Ilya Rozanov is here, in Shane’s cottage, to fuck him through his rut.

He expects to be coherent for the next day or so. Long enough for him to give Ilya what could count as a tour of his house, if a tour can be defined as Shane getting pushed onto every flat surface they encounter so they can make out. Ilya doesn’t even touch him where he needs it, and even though Shane sank down onto the floor immediately, Ilya hadn’t let Shane suck his cock, either. Shane wonders if it’s a power trip for him, to see how desperate Shane is for it and still hold out on him.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Once, Ilya had made him pull his knees up to his chest and spread his legs, and Ilya just… watched. Took his cock by the base and rubbed it over Shane’s hole without pushing in. Ilya had looked as desperate as Shane felt at that moment, and when he finally fucked into Shane, his thickening knot kept bumping against Shane’s entrance, and he’d really, really wanted it inside of him.

They didn’t, of course. But Shane had imagined it, and it had made him come, and that was disastrous enough. The next time he touched himself, it was to images of Ilya flipping him onto his stomach and breeding him like Shane was worth staking a claim on. It would take a lot of prep. More than they had time for, usually.

By the time they make it to Shane’s bedroom, his cock is sore and leaking. Ilya loves pointing it out to him, even before this. Look how wet you are. And now Shane is actually soaked, has precum smeared on the inside of his thigh, a wet splotch at the front of his underwear. At what point is it reasonable to call the doctor? Surely his rut shouldn’t make him, like, this wet.

“Maybe it is best to get in bed,” Ilya says, snaking an arm around Shane’s waist to urge him up through the doorway. Shane thinks it’s possibly the greatest idea he’s had, ever.

Ilya strokes Shane’s lower back, up and down, steady, steady, and it’s too fucking good. His hand is almost cool on Shane’s bare skin. He backs Shane onto the bed.

“You lie down and I will get you something to drink, and then”—Ilya’s hand massages Shane’s thigh, right over the damp fabric—”I will fuck you however you want. But water first.”

Shane groans and tugs at the waistband of his sweats, shoving them down his lengths as Ilya watches. “I’m not thirsty, I’m—I need you in me now, Ilya. I mean it, I—”

“Shane,” Ilya says. His palm on Shane’s chest, pushing him onto the bed. Shane’s sweatpants are roped around his ankles.

They stare at each other. Shane’s own name reverberates between his temples, fizzles, a slow crawl throughout his body.

Ilya’s brow furrows. His fingers splay over Shane’s skin, twitching. “Do this for me, yes?”

Shane closes his eyes, suffering through the minutes as he listens to Ilya rummage through his kitchen. Even now, Ilya’s voice scratches inside of him. Are alphas supposed to have that effect on each other? He remembers when an opposing player whipped out that sort of commanding tone on the ice and even Shane had felt the urge to trip him. But Ilya’s voice is doing things to Shane it normally doesn’t. His omega friend mentioned tone impact during his heat one time, how nice it was to be told what to do, to just let someone else deal with the decision making.

Is he responding to Ilya as if—as if he… Is his body considering Ilya an option? Like, an actual mate? That’d be crazy. The thought of his own body trying to ease him into accepting the possibility sounds like science fiction.

Shane is just horny. The rut is making him delusional.

He’s horny and he needs to knot and also be knotted and he needs Ilya back right—

“No touching yourself,” Ilya says from above him, and Shane flicks his eyes open to find Ilya’s face in front of his own, the bed dipping from his weight. Shane’s hand is stroking the skin around his cock, not touching it, and their eyes turn toward it at the same time. “Wait a little longer. I want to eat your ass before I fuck you.”

And oh, that’s perfect. Shane nods are stilted.

He reaches for Ilya’s shirt, pushes it off him as Ilya shoves his pants down his thighs with one hand. When Ilya’s cock bobs free, Shane digs his teeth into his bottom lip. Ilya is fully hard already, and when he catches Shane staring, he wraps his fingers around the base and gives it the slowest tug, stopping at the head where precum beads, smearing it over his head with his thumb so that it’s glossy. Ilya leans back on his knees, tapping Shane’s side until Shane scoots back on the bed against the pillows.

“You want on your back, or on your stomach?” Ilya’s voice against his ear.

Shane holds his breath deep in his stomach. “On my back.” So I can look at you.

Ilya kisses the insides of his thighs, slower than Shane wishes but good all the same, and the closer he gets to Shane’s cock, the more his tongue presses against the skin. His palms anchor beneath Shane’s knees, folds him onto the bed, and Shane watches the sturdy muscles of Ilya’s shoulders and arms work to hold him there. Shane’s body protests: this is not how you are meant to bend. Not how he is meant to fuck. And the push of his desire angled against that dissent makes it better.

Shane’s voice rips out of him when Ilya’s mouth finds his hole, tongue flat against it, licking up the precum that has dripped from his cock to his asscheeks. For a moment, Shane wonders if it looks like he’s slick with need for Ilya. If that turns Ilya on.

But Ilya doesn’t say anything, only works steady. The tip of his tongue circles Shane’s hole, dipping but not pressing in. His breath against the wetness, against Ilya’s own spit there as he continues to loosen Shane up with nothing but his mouth. Shane grinds back against his tongue, head knocking into the side of his knee. But he holds his eyes open, drinks in the sight of Ilya between his legs.

He’s shared this sight with many people, he knows, but how many of them have had Ilya there to fuck them during a heat? A rut? Shane revels in it. Being here for his rut isn’t a promise, but it’s damn near close.

Ilya pulls away long enough to kiss the sensitive skin right above Shane’s entrance, licks it up to his sac, and Shane’s back arches off the mattress. His hand flies down to grip his cock, and Ilya raises a brow, dragging his nose under Shane’s balls before ghosting his lips around the thickening base of Shane’s dick.

“How do you want to come?” Ilya asks, mouth right there but not touching. “My mouth? Hands? My cock?”

Shane swallows, trying to sort out his own thoughts. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “Can I fuck your hand? Like I’m—”

“Are you going to knot my hand?” Ilya asks, kissing Shane’s cock, following it with a wet lick. He releases his grip on Shane’s legs and they fall to either side of Ilya’s knees, trembling. “Yes?”

“Yes, yes.” Shane pants, and Ilya grins widely, showing off his wonky bottom row of teeth, dives in to kiss Shane tongue-first, and Shane licks the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to memorize it.

Curved against his stomach, Shane’s cock twitches. Ilya tucks his hand between their bodies, drags his thumb along one of the prominent veins. His palm is calloused and rough, and the ruddy head of Shane’s cock peeks out from his grip. Ilya tugs on Shane’s cock slowly, tightening his grip on the downtwist.

“Come on,” Ilya murmurs. Their foreheads press together. He stares into Shane’s eyes. “You want to knot? Move your hips.”

Shane tilts his head back with a gasp, and Ilya follows, his teeth on Shane’s jugular as Shane pistons his hips up, trying to maintain a pace and failing. His ass clenches around nothing. Scrambling for purchase, he grips the bedsheets with one hand, pushing himself up so he can better fuck into Ilya’s fist. And Ilya smiles at him, eyes drifting to where Shane’s cock glides smoothly through his hand. The sound is obscene.

Ilya gropes at his waist, his ass, but he doesn’t touch Shane where he needs it.

Ilya tells him, “You are so good, just like this, keep going,” and Shane believes him, thrusts into Ilya’s hand until the pressure at the base of his cock peaks. His stomach tightens and for a brief moment it’s like the noise inside of him—the pulse, the buzz, the thoughts, the relentless need—quiet completely.

Shane collapses onto the bed, sobbing into the back of his hand as he comes over Ilya’s hand. Ilya strokes him through it until Shane’s knot is so sore he has to push Ilya’s fingers off. His knot remains thick. Ilya mouths down his chest to where Shane’s come pools along the dips of his abs. Shane’s cock jerks again, spilling more come onto his stomach, some of it dripping off the side. He can’t catch his breath, and his eyes widen when Ilya licks through the spill, swallowing loudly, and then Ilya’s fingers are in his hair, Shane’s own hands clutching desperately at Ilya’s shoulders, and they’re kissing again.

They don’t talk right away. Shane’s words are lodged too deep inside of him, and every part of his body aches and hums at once. Ilya wipes him down, cock still hard, and Shane eyes it.

Shane wobbles when he sits up.

“No, lie down,” Ilya starts, but stops when Shane nuzzles his hipbone.

“Fuck my mouth,” Shane says, kissing a path to Ilya’s hardness.

He runs his fingers through Ilya’s curly pubes until he can cup his balls, massaging the base of Ilya’s cock. Remembers every other time he has sucked Ilya’s dick and felt the stretch of his knot against his lips without ever committing. He couldn’t fit it in his mouth, he knows this. It’s just not fucking possible. But Shane really, really wishes it was.

Ilya rubs his thumb over Shane’s top lip. Perhaps imagining the same thing Shane is.

Then he pushes down, coaxing Shane’s mouth open, and gives him what he’s asking for.

“Must be nice,” one of Shane’s junior teammates tells him as he slugs his plates back onto the weight storage. “Your muscles come in so easy, dude. I guess that’s why the top three drafts are always alphas now. You’re gonna coast through it. Kinda hard to compete with.”

Shane stands in the center of the gym, sweat knotted at the roots of his hair, soaked into the back and pits of his t-shirt. A few years ago, that same teammate might’ve said, You work crazy hard, Hollander! No wonder they’re vying for you. Nowadays, it’s a lot of sideways glances, too. People have always stared; that part he can deal with. It’s the roundaboutness of it all he hates. Just tell me I piss you off. Tell me, if I was an omega, I wouldn’t be playing. I wouldn’t be good enough. But they can’t, because it wouldn’t be true, and then they’d have to deal with whatever incompetency crisis they’re already going through.

But this is also Shane’s teammate, even if they’re not quite friends. Shane rubs his eyelid to stop it from twitching.

“Sure,” he finally says. “I mean, there’s more to hockey than that, though.”

“Right, but…” The guy’s eyes are on Shane’s arms. “It’s a pretty sweet advantage.”

This, Shane can’t deny. Didn’t he also feel an overwhelming sense of relief that day in the doctor’s office when they’d updated his personal info with a bold α? He knows what they mean. He does. But being an alpha doesn’t undo all of the other criteria he is measured by, like when recruiters poke their heads around or speak to Shane’s mother, and are all too excited about “someone like Shane” potentially being on the team. Alpha, but half-Japanese. The unspoken: it might help their image without disrupting the status quo too much.

Shane takes another swig from his water bottle. Half an hour later, when that same guy is putting his dumbbells away, he asks, “Are you staying?”

And though Shane’s body aches, and he’s more than good for today, he says, “A little longer, probably.” Perfectly treading the balance.

He doesn’t leave until his body is burning. Shane knows it’s worse for him to wear down to this degree, but an insidious voice at the back of his mind goes, have you really fucking earned it? Do you really think you should leave right now? You can go another half an hour. Do another set of reps. Make sure everyone can see your exhaustion. Have your hard work be evident from the sweat to your muscles. But don’t be arrogant. Don’t be exactly the person they hope you’ll be so they can hate you a little easier. Shane doesn’t tell his mom that when he finally leaves the gym, he has to double over a trash can in the locker room, clasping the metal sides. The only cold thing in the entire room. You want to feel bad for yourself, Shane. Everyone puts in this much effort. She would probably just send him to bed early and wake him up with more rigorous expectations the day after, to avoid a repeat. Rest is part of the work, Shane. Rest is part of the work. The fucking work.

In their next game, Shane scores twice. They’re both clean goals—one breakaway, one during man advantage. The type of goals that feel as good for Shane as they must be for an audience to watch. And it shouldn’t matter how he scores, but it doesn’t make him as uneasy to hear good hands as a compliment. Look at the skills on Hollander, he’s going places. A generational talent who knows this sport in and out and is able to apply that on the ice. Now that’s someone to watch.

So in the room later, when the player next to Shane whips his phone out and says, “Hey, have you guys seen this? Check this out—Rozanov, from Russia. Even coach was talking about him because he’s definitely playing in world juniors.” He holds his phone up to show a grainy video, no more than a few seconds long. Shane squints at it to try to get a clearer picture, but all he can make out is two hockey players, and one of them crumpling to the ground. The second guy throws his arms up, cutting away.

“What am I looking at?” he asks.

His teammate laughs. “Your, like, natural enemy, dude! I heard from one of my friends who did a summer in Finland he's somehow worse on ice than he is off it. They had a practice match and he didn’t let up even one bit. A guy injured his knee so bad he had to sit the rest of camp out.”

Shane finishes changing and rides his bike home. Then he googles Ilya Rozanov.

He spends what should be an embarrassing amount of time rewatching random clips on hockey forums. Most of the posts are entirely in Russian, but occasionally he will stumble upon an article in English (and right there, alongside Rozanov’s name, is Shane’s own). A few sparse photos. Rozanov’s face is never entirely visible, but he has a cat-like quirk to his lips whenever he grins. The one consistent thing Shane is able to pick up is this: Ilya Rozanov, who is nothing more than a teenager, is being spouted as Prime Alpha Material, and teams are vying for him.

Shane gets out of his chair, picks up his headset, and puts his joggers on. When his mom asks where he’s going, he just tells her, “Training,” and takes off. Pretends, for once, not to hear when she calls after him. He runs until he can’t anymore, and then he sits down on the pavement, head between his knees. There’s no music playing. Shane wonders if Ilya Rozanov knows about him. If his locker mates have held a phone up and showed their own fuzzy clip of Shane scoring, or just brought his name up.

https://forums.netgains.com/threads/2389-who-to-watch/page-1

NET GAINS / Subthread / Men’s Junior Hockey /

Posted October 19, 2008 (16:38)

WHO TO WATCH?

People keep bringing up Hollander, but I'm not convinced yet idk. I saw someone compare him and Rozanov earlier and that was interesting. Kind of seem like natural emerging talents but I like Rozanov’ playstyle a lot more. Feels like it’s becoming more about speed these days and that’s why people like watching Hollander.

Posted October 19, 2008 (16:45)

We get the “who to watch question” all the time you people are fucking incapable of back reading anything or learning to use the fucking search function. Watch more games and make up your own opinion. Also ask a real question when you make a new thread and add something of value when posting rather than pretending like you’re not just looking for people to affirm your opinion. JC folks. Hollander better stay in Canada is all I’m saying and all I will say.

liked by ottawerian, montreal-2381, kentlundgren, 23ragemachine, and 10 others

Posted October 19, 2008 (17:10)

→ “All I’m saying and all I will say”

You just rage wrote a whole paragraph dude.

liked by montreal-2381, nilskarlsson, goaliebark, and 15 others.

Boston kicks their asses. Shane’s skin prickles when Rozanov passes him by with a smirk. Maybe it’s worth picking a fight. Shane ignores it. Scores. Loses, still. There’s not any excuse for why his focus is waning. He played badly. He lost to Rozanov. The worst kind of loss. The mood in the room is sour. Almost so thick in the air Shane can taste it every time he opens his mouth, can fucking smell it along the sweat and the hum of pheromones.Shane should say something to bring the energy back, but all he’s got is: “We’ll get them next time.” And though it feels inadequate on every front, Hayden taps his shoulder, and the rest of the team filter out, conversation rising. Drinks, boys. Next time, next time.

Because there’s always going to be a next time against the Raiders. Shane chews his post-game gum into absolute flavorless mush. In his head, he thinks of the fumbled pass, the shot slightly off to the right. He wiggles his fingers, clenches his hands into tight fists, and then repeats the motion. Same hands as yesterday, but yesterday they were good.

Shane looks at his phone. The last read text message was from hours ago.

Lily: Still on?

What’s the Raiders' room like, right now? How loud is Rozanov’s voice? The floor must be shaking. Rozanov must be feeling real fucking good. Maybe he’s got his phone in his hand, too. The Shane Hollander that belongs to the Metros does not want to see Rozanov right now. He’d be perfectly happy sleeping this loss off. But it’s been weeks since they last met up, and it won’t be the first time he’s had to swallow his pride in order to get laid. And, after all, Rozanov has gone through the same ordeal several times over. When the Metros win, he comes over anyway, kisses Shane just as eagerly. Shane wouldn’t be surprised if it gives him a semblance of control back the way. Because yes, once they’re in bed together, Rozanov is going to work for him. To get Shane off.

Shane still wishes he’d won tonight.

Every time they meet, rolling onto his stomach for Rozanov gets easier and easier. But if he admits that, then every other sense of control Shane is clinging to might start unraveling, too. And then what? He grips his phone and then meets the rest of the team outside. Drinks, they repeat. Let’s go. And Shane does not have it in him to say no.

Jane: Having drinks first.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Lily: So after?

Shane frowns at the screen and is about to respond when Hayden groans next to him where they’re sitting at the bar. If they’d won, he doesn’t doubt they wouldn’t be out in the streets like this, but rather celebrating at the hotel rooftop bar. Half of the team split off just a few minutes earlier, leaving Shane and Hayden alone. Shane considers getting a Corona, too, if only to stave off some of the nerves. But he wants to fuck Rozanov sober. It’s not good thinking to associate Rozanov off-ice with on-ice, but after Shane won the first face-off, Rozanov body checked him so hard Shane could feel the bruises forming. And Rozanov should’ve definitely been more quiet when he said, “Come on. You are going to let me push you around? You are an easy alpha, Hollander,” because Hayden had tried to whack Rozanov for that one right after, during Boston's break out, and then the ref had called interference. Boston scored on man advantage, and Rozanov did his usual delighted wave, winking at Shane as he passed.

Shane didn’t get on Hayden’s ass about it later, not only Hayden’s not any better at dealing with Rozanov than the rest of the league, but also because Shane had imagined Rozanov palming the bruises as he’s fucking into Shane from behind while they were getting changed post-game, and it felt sort of sacreligious to lecture Hayden about something that, ultimately, Shane’s not too mad about.

“Ugh, the fucking Raiders are here, too,” Hayden says.

Shane furrows his brow, looking between Hayden and who Shane believes is Marleau and a slew of the other Boston guys entering through the door. His phone buzzes where it lies screen-down on the bar counter.

“Well, we are in Boston.”

In Boston, after a loss, at one of the few bars that doesn’t seem to mind having them there.

Hayden takes a swig of his beer, looking down at his phone. “Yeah, but did they have to come, like, here? Isn’t it enough that we lost? Now we have to drink with them, too? There’s a thousand bars this close to the rink.”

Lily: Still sore loser?

“Do you want to leave?” Shane asks. He hopes he doesn’t sound too reluctant. Can Hayden see the nervous bob of his throat? How he taps his fingers against his glass, over and over, his eyes swaying from Hayden’s face to Marleau’s figure. Tries to catch a glimpse of something else.

And then Hayden groans. “Fuck, and there’s Rozanov. We should totally dip, dude. I don’t know if I can handle any gloating right now.”

Shane wants to tell him that Rozanov probably wouldn’t give him much shit, but he knows that’s not true. Especially for Hayden. Rozanov just has a special talent for getting under people’s skin. Something he has clearly perfected over the years.

“Are you staying?” Hayden asks. “I might head out before they spot me. I’m gonna call Jackie.”

Shane lifts his half-full can of soda. “I’m going to finish this.”

Hayden raises his brows, a bit surprised, clearly, but then shrugs and says, “Alright, I’ll see you back at the hotel, then.”

Lily: I have something else you can win at.

Shane stares down at his phone, drinks the last of his soda, and slides the empty can over to the bartender. The guy doesn’t even look at him, and somehow it helps Shane feel a little more incognito as he moves through the crowd, away from the rest of the Metros and the Raiders, who have begun to filter in. But he allows himself a pause, right in Rozanov’s line of sight. Shane’s pulse is in the back of his throat, and there is that syrupy feeling in his body, again; it is as if he can feel himself extend. Tension brimming on the outside of his skin, presence colliding with bodies that are centimeters away from his own. Pheromones prickling what should be empty air.

A stranger touches his elbow in passing, gives him a look: chill out, man!

And Rozanov makes eye contact, lips curling, and Shane pushes the door open right after. Gets in a taxi, makes it park a hundred meters away from Rozanov’s house, and then walks the rest of the way to the door before he realizes he’s going to have to wait. He pulls his hoodie over his head, drawing the strings taut, and sits with his head between his legs. And he does wait, for fifteen whole minutes, until Rozanov appears. Shane glares at him.

“You are so fast, Hollander,” Rozanov says, unlocking the door. Taking too much time. Reveling in it, clearly. “And so eager. I like this.”

He also seems to like it when he fucks Shane from behind, teeth to his nape, and tells him, “You are being a bad loser, Hollander. You should say congratulations,” and Shane bites Rozanov’s thumb where it pushes past his lips to stroke his tongue. If his mouth wasn’t already busy, he would tell Rozanov to go fuck himself.

After, Rozanov lights his cigarette, says, “You are louder in bed when you win. Do you know this?”

He looks over at Shane, who is propped up against the pillows behind him.

“What?”

“Yes,” Rozanov tells him. “When you win, you talk more when we fuck. But today? All quiet. This is why I think you are a terrible loser. But it’s okay”—Rozanov leans over to kiss Shane’s shoulder, his smirk pressing into the skin—”I do not mind it.”

This time, Shane does get to tell Rozanov, “Fuck off.”

Rozanov laughs. His body shakes, broad chest moving so that his gold cross gleams. He licks a stripe from Shane’s shoulder to the skin right below Shane’s ear, nips at it gently. “It is a nice challenge.”

“Is that what I am?” Shane asks. The cigarette scent drowns out everything else. “A fun challenge?”

Eyes widening a bit, Rozanov leans back. His weight rests on his palm. “You are irritated with me now? After I help you relax? See, bad loser.” He strokes Shane’s thigh languidly, thumb digging into the groove of the muscle. “Relax. I have said I like your mouth, yes? This part of you I like, also.”

Shane begins to slide out of bed, but he knows Rozanov is right. Should he really need to be comforted by the guy who just beat him? Can’t even answer Shane’s fucking question. “I should go.”

“Hollander.” Rozanov breathes out smoke. “We play and you lose, and you get fucked. We play and you win, and you get fucked. This is perfect, yes? No matter how game goes, you always get what you want.”

With his shirt halfway on, Shane pauses. Turns back to Rozanov, who has one brow quirked but no smile. He considers challenging it: You think this is what I want, Rozanov? But what’s the fucking point?

Rozanov’s right. Shane’s getting exactly what he wants from him.

Nashville doesn’t quiet even after sundown. Lights flicker, big neon bar signs running up the main street, party buses crowding up the regular traffic as people push past each other in droves. No one seems too heartbroken about their hockey team’s devastating defeat earlier that night, even though the rink is right downtown. There are bright yellow hockey jerseys mixed into the crowd. Maybe everyone’s intending to drink the loss away.

March is cold and bare, and Shane is standing on the hotel’s rooftop, staring at his phone. The river below is dark, sparkling with stray lights from the nightlife.

Lily: Easy win.

Shane frowns, but he’s not wrong. Did you watch the game?

Silence for a few minutes. Shane is about to tuck his phone into his jacket when it vibrates again, and Shane hates how quickly he pulls it back out just to see Hayden’s name on the screen: Going out?

At eleven p.m.? Shane’s not sure he’s mentally equipped to deal with bachelorette parties in rhinestone cowboy boots again, nor is he particularly interested in getting drunk. But it is good for team morale to join them, so he probably should. Though he’s sure that if he said no, Hayden would only pester him for, like, a little bit. He doesn’t hound Shane the way some of their other teammates do.

Is that a good idea if we have to be at the airport tomorrow by noon? Shane texts back.

Lily (1). Shane swipes the notification up before he can read it, Hayden’s text message bubble popping up and then disappearing, then, finally: Didn’t ask if it was a good idea or not. Sure you don’t wanna come? Everyone’s in a party mood. Lily (2). Lily (3). Jesus.

Shane clicks into his and Rozanov’s messages.

Lily: Send me a photo.

Lily: Not of view. Of you.

Lily: I am celebrating my win also. But alone. It’s very sad.

As he reads, Shane’s chest twists. For all their back-and-forths recently, he and Rozanov don’t do much more than text. With the exception of one very memorable dick pic that Shane had definitely not looked at again since Rozanov sent it. Unprompted. A photo of Shane? He isn’t one for selfies, and it shows every time he awkwardly stares into the camera, trying to flash a smile that doesn’t scream I hate this.

Shane types back: What do you need a photo for?

Rozanov responds immediately: To look at.

Right. Shane reads the other messages, zeroes in on the “celebrating” and “alone,” and oh. Rozanov doesn’t say anything else, so Shane tries not to think about how warm his face is as he writes: Are you asking me to send you a photo of myself for you to jerk off to?

Lily: Yes.

Shane’s stomach coils hot. His dick twitches in his underwear, very unhelpful to his decision making. The image of Rozanov lying on his bed, touching himself to Shane’s photo, pops into his head. What would one photo hurt? Rozanov has seen him naked several times already. Has been inside of him.

Lily: I will send one too.

Lily: You first.

Shane almost asks what kind of photo, if Rozanov has already undressed, if he will show Shane a version of his fantasy. It’s kind of like he’s waiting for Shane’s permission. Every lick of heat inside of Shane’s body, from the prickling need in his stomach to the red flush on his face, intensifies. And for every time Shane has thought to himself that he doesn’t care to be in charge, he can’t deny that there’s an appeal to forcing Rozanov to wait.

It takes more self-restraint than it should to not text Rozanov back immediately. Lily (1).

Shane sends Hayden a, Sorry, I’m pretty beat, I think I’ll just shower and stay in, and gets a, I’ll head out then, don’t get too crazy without me, in return. He speedwalks the entire way back to the hotel room, relieved to find it empty, and even more glad that he doesn’t run into anyone else along the way.

It’s not a good photo, by any means, and Shane’s fully clothed. But he stands in front of the bathroom mirror and shoves his hand underneath the hem of his hoodie so that it bunches up around his wrist, revealing a sliver of his stomach. The bathroom countertop cuts off his legs, but the top of his sweats are visible, and so is…

The moment he’s sent it, he panics. What if Rozanov saves it? What if he, somehow, accidentally uploads it online? And Shane isn’t naked, and it wouldn’t be so crazy for a guy his age to be sending photos like this, but—Lily (1).

Shane clicks the message the moment the notification pops up.

Rozanov, also in a bathroom mirror, one hand shoved into his pants, teeth flashing in a wide grin. His gaze is focused on the phone, and Shane wishes he was looking into the mirror so he could see Rozanov’s eyes better. His hair is damp and curls over his forehead and prominent cheekbones, shoulders pushed back so his chest is on full display. The gold chain glints under the cool bathroom light.

Shane closes his eyes. He must be deliriously sleepy, because he swears he can smell Rozanov in the room.

Lily: Have fun. I will.

And Shane strips, gets into the shower, and spills into his hand while imagining Rozanov’s cock inside of him, the intrusive scent of cigarettes and pheromones and his presence, large and so fucking overwhelming. Then he lies in bed, staring at the photo for an embarrassing amount of time. They would see each other again in a few weeks, he tells himself. He and Rozanov can get whatever this persistent need is out of their system for a bit.

He is not doing a good job of convincing himself, especially not when Rozanov texts him again, barely an hour later. If it’s only sex, then there would be no point in talking unless they’re in the same city. That’s not what they’re doing.

Lily: Ok. Not as fun without you.

Lily: You leave Nashville tomorrow?

Lily: Good place for drinking. Many bars.

Shane puts his phone on the other side of the room and folds his hands over his stomach, peering up at the ceiling.

The truth is this: Shane likes the aftermath of fucking Rozanov as much as he likes the sex, which is a problem. He likes how now, unlike their first time together, when Rozanov walked out the door without pause, he appears to hesitate. Lingers in Shane’s arms, or next to him, or convinces him to shower together. Neither of them comment on it, but surely Rozanov is aware of it. There’s no way he’s not.

But it’s not sustainable. Eventually, Rozanov is going to get bored. The novelty of fucking Shane will wear off. Shane hopes the same thing will happen to him. Knows it will not. He is going to remember what being fucked by Rozanov is like for his entire life, and when he can’t get it anymore, he’s not even going to be able to chase that high. He doesn’t have anyone he trusts enough to do that with, anyway. Meanwhile, Rozanov is probably out there getting his fill from people other than Shane. Shane, who in the meantime, is completely fucking hooked, and can’t even figure out when it happened.

He swallows hard and screws his eyes shut. Does not allow himself to acknowledge his own conclusions. He can decide that much, at least. Can grip that little bit of power.

The summer after Shane’s first time with Rozanov, he goes off his rut blockers to sweat one out. He wishes he didn’t have to, but it’s unavoidable. Even the slightest thing sets him off—his alarm not waking him up, his smoothie machine deciding to stop working, a line of traffic at a perfectly normal time during the day. Every time something is awry, Shane will clench his hands, bite his bottom lip, and try to rationalize the jittery anger out of his body. He hates it. He can deal with it, but it is like a foreign object in his body. He fills up all his time with practice until his doctor has weaned his dose down low enough to trigger the rut safely, no going cold turkey for his own good, and then what was already bad is worse for a full week.

It’s also the first rut he spends at his cottage, rather than a hotel room. At least he doesn’t have to feel bad about the laundry, or about the noises he makes. No one’s forced to take care of him.

But he almost asks Rozanov to when his phone buzzes, Lily’s name right there on the screen, and Shane’s body remembers all the ways in which Rozanov could help him through this. The idea is so fucking stupid that Shane forces himself to get out of bed and put his phone in one of the kitchen cabinets so he won’t be tempted to reach for it again. He doesn’t read Rozanov’s message. It doesn’t matter that Rozanov has seen him in every compromisable position he could possibly get put in. This is not something they share.

And it is a secret he takes with him when three days into the rut, soaked in sweat and thinking of Rozanov’s fat cock, his knot, his calloused hands and strong grip and his chest against Shane’s back that Shane does dig his phone out from between the cracker boxes. He calls Rozanov, who picks up quicker than Shane expects, and says: “Hollander?” Like it’s the last person he expects. Might just be.

Shane hangs up. Comes all over his stomach in just four tugs, and texts Rozanov through the haze: Sorry. Didn't mean to call. When he looks at the message days later, it says: SsryDnt Mean call. Rozanov’s reply is three laughing faces and: You are still such a bad liar.

Time does not stop moving slowly after Ilya’s arrival.

Ilya’s wrung three more orgasms out of Shane by noon, which is a personal best for him, rut or not. One with his mouth on Shane’s cock, another with just his hands, and the third with his dick. By the time Shane’s stomach growls, his body is already aching. He considers another nap but then his stomach makes a noise so loud that Ilya stirs next to him.

“You are like car engine,” he says, a nick between his brows as if genuinely concerned. “Hungry, yes? So you should eat.”

“I’m so fucking tired,” Shane admits. He groans and rubs his hands over his face. But Ilya is right—he should eat now, before the rut takes to his head the way it has his body. “There’s soup in the fridge.”

“You cannot eat soup only.” Ilya sits up and leans over, stroking Shane’s stomach with his palm, continuing down to grope his thigh. “You need”—he kisses the soft skin right at the slope of Shane’s armpit, then down the side of his pec—”protein”—kisses Shane’s hip—”fiber”—mouths at Shane’s groin, the tip of his tongue so close to Shane’s dick—”a lot of liquids…”

Shane throws his pillow so hard at Ilya’s face that he flops over onto his side again. Ilya holds the pillow up, mouth wide open in shock, and Shane can’t help but laugh. Laughs so hard his stomach hurts, unable to stop even as Ilya grabs his ankle and pulls him toward himself. Ilya wrinkles his note, shaking Shane’s ankle, and furrows his brow.

“I come here to help you and you attack me? Terrible manners, Hollander.” He pecks the side of Shane’s calf. “Stay. I will be right back.”

Ilya snags his sweatpants from the floor, pulling them on while Shane watches from the bed. He drinks in the sight: Ilya’s shoulder blades shifting as he adjusts the waistband that rides low on his hips, the scattered birthmarks on his back. And his nice ass. Ilya throws a look back, smirking, and Shane knows he’s been caught.

“I do not care if you stare,” Ilya tells him, rolling his shoulders so that his muscles flex. A little obnoxious, but Shane’s cock responds anyway. When Ilya leaves the room, he blows Shane a kiss, and Shane sinks even deeper into the bed.

They should have a real talk. In an ideal scenario, that talk happens before rut-brain turns Shane’s well-rehearsed confessions into whimpers.

Ilya returns not too long after with a bowl of Shane’s prepped chicken soup, a sandwich, and a bottle of water, placing them at the bedside table. Then he disappears again, only to put a plate of apple slices and peanut butter down on the bedsheets. None of it lasts very long. Even with his stomach rumbling, Shane hadn’t realized just how hungry he was, and once he starts, he stuffs it into his mouth so fast Ilya has to grab his wrist and give him a pointed look.

“Slow down, you will get sick,” he says as Shane chews. “The food is not running away.”

Shane wipes his mouth with one of the tissues. “You should have some, too.”

Ilya shrugs. “I did. You were sleeping.”

“Oh.” Shane stares down at his empty bowl of soup, and Ilya reaches for it.

“Good?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah, I’m full,” Shane says, letting Ilya take the dishes from him. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

When he comes back, they sit propped up against the headboard, halfway underneath the bedsheets. Ilya rests his head on Shane’s shoulder, letting Shane play with his hair as they stare out through the massive glass windows. Most of the view is obscured by the surrounding forest, but the dock and waters are partially visible, the half-set sun fracturing over the rippling lake.

Shane strokes Ilya’s nape. His thumb presses against the tense muscle, kneading until Ilya gasps and hides his face against Shane’s throat.

“Fuck,” he says. “That’s good.”

So Shane continues, moving his hand so he can massage the stiffness out of Ilya’s shoulders as best as he can. He should rope Ilya into joining him for morning yoga sometime. Ilya hums and his breath is nice on Shane’s skin. Under the sheets, Ilya hooks his leg over Shane’s, urging him even closer.

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks him, looking up at Shane. His hand squeezes Shane’s chest, and Shane thinks of a dozen other places where his touch would do wonders. “Tired, or…” His tongue drags over Shane’s nipple, eyes steady on Shane’s face, lashes pale in the light. “Maybe you are hungry for something else.”

And he hoists Shane on top of him so fast that Shane’s head reels. Rubs one palm over Shane’s lower back, two fingers right at the cleft of his ass. He raises his brows and Shane nods, diving in for an open-mouthed kiss. It’s nothing short of sloppy, spit mearing over Shane’s bottom lip and he gasps into it only to be rewarded with Ilya’s tongue. Without separating, Shane reaches back to grab Ilya’s wrist, forcing his hand down.

“Yeah?” Ilya asks. His face is so red, like he’s the one entering rut, a bead of sweat clinging to his brow.

Shane licks it off, kisses his cheek, his throat, digs his teeth in and Ilya moans loud enough that Shane shakes above him, cock twitching, and for a second he thinks he’s going to come just from hearing Ilya get off. Another fantasy to file away for later. How long would it take with Ilya’s lips to his ear, his teeth on Shane’s earlobe, maybe, speaking filthily? Shane shudders. Can’t seem to get his breaths even.

“Fuck me,” Shane begs into the crook of Ilya’s neck.

His hole stretches easily around Ilya’s fingers. Loose from earlier. He takes them out to grab a condom, and then Shane can slide down his hard cock in one go, chest expanding with relief, like it’s the thing he needed to breathe right again, and then thinks of how fucking stupidly momentous it is for his body to crave Ilya to this degree, how—

“Shane,” Ilya says against his mouth. “Is okay. Let go. Only this is important right now.”

And Shane nods, puts his lips to Ilya’s again, and soaks in the scent of him, softens himself until he’s not holding himself up at all, just clinging to Ilya’s body.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s hair, fucking into him. His knot rubs up against Shane’s hole with every thrust, and then Ilya’s fingers are prodding where they’re connected, trying to get friction on the swelling flesh without pushing it inside of him. “Fuck, you smell—”

Ilya’s nose drags over Shane’s jaw, and Shane can hear him inhale. What does he smell like to Ilya? Is he even able to parse out anything specific with how cloying his pheromones are? Even Shane is losing track of Ilya’s scent as they fuck, the room filled with nothing but that pungent, musky rut-smell. But Ilya doesn’t move his nose from Shane’s neck, pants against it, licks the sweat-soaked skin.

“Look at you.” Ilya strokes Shane’s back through his first orgasm, neither one of them touching Shane’s cock. “It’s okay, Shane. Take what you need.”

Shane’s nails dig into Ilya’s skin, raking down his back. Between them, Shane’s stomach drags over Ilya’s stomach, through his own come. He comes again when Ilya’s teeth grip his throat, not biting, sucking hard, twisting a bruise out of the tan skin—not a real claim, they can’t, they can’t, they can’t. Close enough, though. Enough for Shane to picture himself with Ilya’s teeth permanently scarred onto his neck, gasping at the thought, his body shuddering through the orgasm.

Ilya follows, pulling out of him so suddenly that Shane winces and tearing the condom off before stroking himself to completion, his come on Shane’s ass, the back of his thighs. Shane stays in Ilya’s arms, trying to collect himself, and finding that he can’t quite do it. Ilya guides him onto his stomach, pushes his legs apart and asks, “One more?” And Shane reaches for Ilya’s cock, guides it to his hole, hoping his eyes are demanding enough to speak for him.

A couple of months into hooking up consistently, Rozanov is sprawled out on the couch in Shane’s apartment, dressed in nothing but his underwear. He has to leave in an hour, and Shane considers initiating one more round. The thought of having to wait several weeks before touching him again is sending him spiraling. There’s only so much he can get out of jacking off while sorting through a whole list of fantasies. Some more embarrassing than others.

“You…” Rozanov begins, then cuts himself off. He swirls the can of Coke in his hand. “So, you like being fucked.” It is clearly not a question.

“Right,” Shane says, staring back at him, trying to figure out where Rozanov was going with this. As if there wasn’t an abundantly clear answer to the question considering where Rozanov had put his dick just half an hour ago.

“But you had not been fucked before…” Rozanov gestures between them with two fingers.

“Yes, like I told you,” Shane says. In the middle of a hookup, Rozanov had pressed him for information about some of Shane’s past sexual relationships, and Shane, in his eagerness to get off, and perhaps fueled by a deep desire to please him, as embarrassing as that was, had divulged more than he probably should have. Like how most of those hookups had been fairly disappointing for everyone involved.

Rozanov nods, sipping his drink. “And your ex… You said she was an omega, yes?”

Shane stares down at the can in his hands. “She was.”

“But it was not good?”

He really doesn’t want to talk about this again. Especially not with Ilya Rozanov, of all people. That’s not part of their routine. At most, Rozanov will ask Shane about the city he’s playing in or press him about a loss, or try to find a way to get under his skin as the hour of their meetup approaches.

“Does it matter?” Shane asks, rubbing his hand up and down his bare thigh. He’s wearing one of his Montreal t-shirts. His back is up against the armrest, as far from Rozanov as he can be on the couch.

Rozanov stretches one of his legs out, cold toes nudging Shane’s knee. His shoulders are rolled back, head tilted to the side, and it gives Shane a pretty great view of Rozanov’s chest, his abs and the dark trail of hair leading down into his underwear. Shane moves his hand between his legs, trying to make it look like he’s just shifting in his seat rather than covering up his dick. Rozanov’s eyes darting down to Shane’s crotch tells him he’s definitely been caught.

“I want to know,” Rozanov says and shrugs, as if that is plenty of reason. “You do not like omegas? Or women?”

Shane swallows hard. “I don’t know. I haven’t exactly dated that many people.”

“But it is good with me, yes?” Rozanov places his drink on the coffee table, making sure to use one of the coasters when he catches Shane eyeing the can. “So…”

Good is an understatement. Sex with Rozanov makes Shane boneless. It’s the perfect way to clear out his head after a game. Not to mention how it puffs up Shane’s ego to have someone so handsome in his bed. Because like the first time they met, Rozanov is still irritatingly handsome. Only now Shane has an excuse to stare.

“Yeah,” Shane admits. “It’s good.”

“I see,” Rozanov says, then he crawls over to Shane’s side of the sofa. Shane’s legs are tucked underneath Rozanov’s ass, his hand clutching his own can of soda. And then Rozanov is kissing his throat. “I guess I must work harder so that sex with me is amazing, not good only.”

“And you”—Shane tries to keep his voice steady when Ilya’s teeth graze over the shell of his ear—”think you should work on that now? Oh, fuck—” Rozanov’s mouth on his pulse.

“Yes, now.”

Before Shane can say anything else, Rozanov is spreading his legs and rolling Shane’s underwear down, taking his cock into his mouth. When Shane comes, it’s onto Rozanov’s tongue, which he holds out to give Shane a good look at it before he swallows with a shit-eating grin and pushes himself back up to kiss Shane.

He noses along Shane’s jaw, sighing deeply. “Fuck, Hollander, you smell so good.”

“Yeah?” Shane asks, trying to catch his breath. “You smell good, too.”

Because he does. Shane hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since they met.

“Like what?” Rozanov presses. Their noses are touching. “Tell me.”

Shane’s stomach feels like it has a tiny whorl inside of it that is pulling him in, in, in.

“Like cigarettes,” Shane says honestly. “And, uhm. Some sort of… woody scent.”

And Rozanov laughs, puts a fleeting kiss on Shane’s cheek, and continues to hold his gaze. “I think cigarette smell is from cigarettes, maybe.”

“And you?” Shane says, eager to move on. “What do I smell like to you?”

He’d asked one of his exes one time, and she’d waved her hand. Alpha musk, the typical. Deep and rich, a bit earthy, maybe. Not too noticeable most of the time. But not bad. Shane had been left somewhat disappointed. He remembered a scene from some romance movie, where the two main characters held each other as they tossed out words like honey and jasmine and other romantic scents. His teammate swore his girlfriend’s scent was just like vanilla. Shane hadn’t felt very sexy being told he essentially smelled like sweat and, possibly, wet soil.

“Like winning,” Rozanov says, though, tugging on the neck of Shane’s t-shirt to mouth at his collarbone.

“That’s not a scent, that’s an adjective.” Shane furrows his brow. “I told you, so you have to tell me.”

“Do I?” Peering up at him, Rozanov flashes Shane another smile. “Hm… Is hard to describe. But I like it very much. It is fresh and nice. If I could smell you before a game, I think it would make me… sober? Help with my focus?”

The rational part of Shane knows he shouldn’t be upset that his scent doesn’t send Rozanov’s body into a state of chaos, but the rational part of Shane checked out the moment Rozanov entered his apartment.

“I like it,” Rozanov repeats, pecking the furrow between Shane’s brow. He kisses Shane’s cheek, the side of his nose. His hand strokes Shane’s waist. “Even across a room, I know it is you.”

What does he hope Shane will say? Shane presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, holding the words back until Rozanov kisses him on the mouth one last time and says he has to go. Shane doesn’t replace the bedsheets. He sleeps in his stupid apartment and drags the sheets over himself, knowing he is going to need two showers to rub the damn scent of Rozanov off his body tomorrow before practice. Part of him hopes that it’s already too deep to reach.

They’re in Shane’s Montreal apartment. The Boston Raiders are licking their wounds after their loss, and Shane has their captain in his bed, worn out and satisfied, a lopsided grin on his face. Shane curls one of Rozanov’s locks around his finger.

“Happy winner,” Rozanov says, kissing Shane’s hip. “How does it feel? Good, yes? Such a strong alpha.”

Despite the teasing lilt, a soft, rolling r in strong, Shane can tell that Rozanov is being sincere. He has never gotten the impression that Rozanov uses it as an insult with him—unlike every time he whips it out mid-game to taunt an opponent, or to provoke someone in an interview. Shane blinks down at him, and is reminded of what this is. Of why, in every way, they are implausible.

Rozanov adds, “What?”

“You just never call me that,” Shane says. His grip on Rozanov’s shoulder tightens.

They kiss, Rozanov underneath him.

“You like it,” Rozanov murmurs into the kiss, dragging out the word like until it rings throughout Shane’s body. Smug. Pleased. His mouth on Shane’s ear, “Alpha.”

The lurch of possessiveness in Shane is not unfamiliar, but it is the first time he gives it any sort of name. Once, Rozanov had told Shane he had ruined him for other people. Shane is intent on making sure that the next time Rozanov fucks someone else, he wishes they were someone he could lose to.

Shane’s first brand deal is with Reebok. His mom tells him over dinner while sliding over a printed copy of their back-and-forth emails. Four pages, stapled. He’s halfway through his plate of dinner, fork in his mouth. She beams at him. For the first time in two weeks, he has an evening off. He plans to spend it in bed, reading, or maybe watching TV. Most likely watching TV. Mom never lets him sit games out if there’s one running.

“Reebok! And they want to have you promote the new Pump Omnis! This is huge, Shane. You’ll have to get a bit more comfortable in front of the camera, of course, since there will be an editorial shoot, and they did mention they might want to shoot a short video, but we can discuss that after—”

Shane swallows his mouthful of food and stares down at the papers.

To: [email protected] Cc: kyoung@rebook.com [email protected]

Subject: Shane Hollander ft. Pump Omnis

Hi again, Yuna,

We at Rebook are SO excited to be working with Shane! I have cc’d both Kris and Jeanne on this email so that we can all touch base on the upcoming shoot as now that we have the green light. Jeanne is our wonderful in-house photographer, and Kris has styled our models across several campaigns. I am sure you’re already familiar with the Easytone ads, which is all their magic! You will have to send Shane’s measurements over sometime soon so we can begin prepping the wardrobe, but for now I wanted to introduce you all. I know they’re as enthusiastic as I am about giving Rebook a new look and connecting with a wider community, and we can’t wait to see where Shane’s career goes next!

We understand that Shane’s schedule is fairly strict at the moment, but the shoot will likely require a full day, so please keep that in mind when we decide on a date.

Best,

Matt

Shane crosses his ankles under the table, then uncrosses them. Does it again. His mom looks at him and raises her eyebrows, and he shifts in his seat, straightening his posture before putting his fork down. He waits for her to tap the side of his foot with her own, but she doesn’t.

“Wow, yeah,” he says, trying to recall what even a single pair of Rebooks looks like. “That’s really cool, mom.”

“It’s just going to be one of many, once the other brands understand how valuable you are, and not just as a star player—”

“Mom.”

“—Not just, I said,” she continues, “they will come running, too, and then it’s just a matter of picking the ones that really resonate with you. I think it is probably mostly going to be athletic brands for now, but you’re handsome—”

“Mom!”

“—and an alpha, Shane, and not to mention newly signed to the Metros, a deeply historic franchise, I can just imagine that there are a lot of brands out there frothing at the mouth to work with you. We’re going to start hearing from them, I know it. And that’ll be good for you, too, Shane, and I’m not just talking about the money. You understand that, right? When brands are tied to you, they have to stand by you, to some degree. There are things that the MLH just aren’t going to do for you, even though you might think that they ought to, so this is—”

Shane drops his fork on his empty plate so loud it clatters, and Yuna blinks, eyes flicking between the fork and Shane’s face. She purses her lips, takes a deep breath, and offers him a smile. He tries to undo the furrow in his brow, so heavy his body tenses with it. She reaches out to nudge the papers closer to him, and then pats the back of his hand.

“How many of those people even know who I am?” Shane murmurs into his glass of Ginger Ale.

He hates it when she talks to him like they’re a PR team having a meeting. Like he’s not her son having family dinner with her in their house.

“It’s not really about the people behind these companies, Shane,” his mom tells him. “It’s about all the people those companies can reach. And no, these people you’ll be working with might not be the biggest hockey fans, or know much about it, but they have to care, to some extent, about what you represent, and how you’re, well, representing Canadian hockey, now. People are paying attention to you globally, now. And they will keep doing so.”

Sometimes Shane finds that his mom speaks with such certainty about the future he wonders if she birthed him with the full knowledge of everything that would occur, and that is why she has so perfectly structured out his entire childhood, and now his career. But he can’t deny that to some degree, it is a relief not to have to deal with the slog of paperwork and the people and the business side of things. He just wants to play hockey.

He also understands that he will never be allowed to “just play hockey,” anymore. Even in his early interviews, they’ll toss out a leading question about how it feels to represent the Asian-Canadian community, what he hopes he’ll see as a result of his success, how he thinks it might pave the way for other people (like you), and then he has to stand there, beat and tired and wondering what the hell they want him to say. What is their ideal answer they’re hoping he will give them, something positive and PR-forward enough not to be a problem. Something nice and palatable and still useful enough to slap on a headline. And when the answer comes out a bit stilted, they’ll blast that, too.

When Shane was a kid, he and his parents would go to every Metros home game. They never sat in the same seats, because Shane’s mom wanted him to understand how players moved across the ice. Shane’s mom bought him an official merch jersey, and he wore that thing to pieces. At home, to the games, out to dinner, to his school, days on end, until some asshole with a superiority complex grabbed the collar from behind, said, You think this’ll make people think you're from here? Collar stretching, ice-cold on Shane’s throat. He didn’t even really swing. And the kick barely connected. But it somehow warranted two family phone calls and an intervention with the principal. His mom’s hand on his thigh was pale-knuckled, and she wore her hair down and pushed back, her nice blazer on. The one she wore to work. Dad showed up thirty minutes late, apologetic, but the principal told him it was all good, all good. The drive home was quiet. Shane made knots in his hoodie string and then unraveled them. They told him early bedtime, but he heard them talking outside, just noise, no words.

Shane stayed at home with her for two days. The jersey went in the wash.

Me and your grandparents would always go to these games together, too, she told him. She didn’t have her own jersey, but her dad had bought her a Canada-flag scarf she wore. None of the numbers or rules made any sense, but they sat side by side with everyone else, cheered as part of a crowd, and for a few hours, it didn’t matter who she was. I saw your dad play and picked him right up, she said, also. I saw him and knew he was what I wanted, and I walked right up to him and told him to give me his number, right in front of all his teammates, and he did. He was so red! They laughed at him, but I didn’t think it was all that funny. I was already going to all the games, but now I wore his name on my back. I get it, Shane. More than anyone, probably. Shane had to believe her.

For two days, Shane felt closer to his mom than he ever had. She drove him to school herself on his first day back, his dad waving at them from the front door. He wore the jersey again.

Shane ran into that same kid in after-school hockey camp a few years later. He was slow and fumbling, but he was already designated beta, so he probably thought he’d have a few years in him before he’d get pushed out by alpha kids popping up. If Shane had listened to his mom, he would’ve pretended he didn’t know the boy at all. But for once Shane wanted to be petty. What do I even know about hockey? Everything. He slammed the boy into the boards twice, deked him out more than that, and made sure that when they were changing in the locker rooms after, he congratulated him on his singular goal.

He didn’t tell his mom about it. None of the other boys seemed to notice, either.

Shane’s not sure kids like that are going to have their minds blown after seeing an awkward photo of him in hundred-dollar shoes. But maybe, like his mom says, a younger Shane would have looked at an ad like that and thought much earlier: I know everything about hockey. Or not. If a guy “just like him” had been on some cool shoe ad a decade ago, would the boys in his room look at him differently? Like he’s not the odd one out. Maybe he would’ve never had that fight. One thousand ugly maybes that don’t do him any good.

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

“So we’re good for Rebook, but I received an email from CCM earlier today. I haven't had the time to look over in-depth yet, but it seems to be for a video. I’ll print that out too, or do you want me to forward you the emails?”

“Printing them out is fine. Thanks.”

“And Rebook is sending you a few shoes, so let’s go to the store and select some styles you like and let them know, okay? This Saturday.”

“Saturday, I got it.”

“You’ll make it to practice, but it’ll be tight, so I will pack lunch and you can eat in the car while I drive. Make sure you take your bag with you when we leave in the morning.”

“I know,” Shane says, staring down at the three peas left on his plate.

When he goes to his room, he stares at the ceiling, trying to imagine what a photoshoot with him as the center would look like, and comes up blank. Casual walking, or will they try to sell the hockey angle? Maybe they’ll make him wear partial gear, or something. What if his smile is too stiff? What if he shows up, they take one look at him, and decide that, no we’re good, actually, we think we’ll work with—with fucking Rozanov, or someone. Some other young rookie with star quality and mass appeal. If you could call Rozanov’s abrasive personality appealing. Not that he didn’t have other qualities that were good… Probably. Like his face. And his hockey skills.

Shane reaches for his glasses and picks up The Montreal Metros: 100 Years of Glory from his night stand. The edges are already worn down from his flipping through. SO excited to be working with him, they’d said. Shane hopes he can pretend to match their enthusiasm once he actually has to show up for the shoot and fears that he may not. Maybe that’s what they’re expecting, anyway. Game reporters love referring to him as unsociable at worst, and quiet at best.

His mom knocks on his door. When he doesn’t answer, she slides the printed emails under the door. Says they’ll talk tomorrow. Get a good night’s rest, don’t stay up, don’t fall asleep with your glasses on, don’t leave the bedside lamp on.

To: [email protected] Cc: kyoung@rebook.com[email protected]

Subject: Shane Hollander ft. Pump Omnis

Hi Matt,

Shane is just as excited as you all are about this. As for his schedule, I’ve bulleted some upcoming availability (and some future dates) for your convenience, as well as a document detailing his current measurements. We don’t expect any fluctuation in sizing in case you want to discuss wardrobe as early as next week. Rebook is a staple in his wardrobe and has been for a long time, so this is a wonderful collaboration. Please don't hesitate to reach out to me with any follow-up questions. Shane’s email is not monitored, so it’s easier to go through me as we have been.

Have you spoken to Adrien this week? I remember when we had lunch with you both he mentioned wanting to branch out into sports promotion, and I think there’s great potential for him to acquire another talent to represent outside of entertainment. Shane is adjusting amazingly well to all these new opportunities and I would love to bring him along next time we meet should time permit.

All the best,

Yuna Hollander

The biting November weather does not make it into the club, but Shane keeps his brown jacket pulled tight around him, anyway. He has turned the team down three times in a row now, and with how well the 2014 season is going for them, Shane feels obligated to show his face at least once. But it doesn’t mean that for the most part he just stands around until someone he knows shows up to talk to him. He orders another drink. Some sort of cucumber and mint cocktail.

“That girl is super into you, dude,” Stedlund tells Shane at the bar after vanishing for a few minutes. “If I were you, I’d go over there.”

Shane clasps the drink in his hand. It’s only his second one of the night, but his body takes to the liquor easily, sways to the music that’s mostly bass, no words. There are so many different flashing lights that Shane has to squint just to make out anything past Stedlund’s figure in front of him.

“Who?” he asks.

Stedlund widens his eyes, gesturing to the other side of the bar, not even a little discreet. There’s a woman there with some friends, and Shane is pretty sure he sees another one of their teammates in the middle of the group. Shane has no idea what girl in particular Stedlund is talking about. The scents blend together, too much sweat and alcohol for anything to be special.

“The blonde one,” Stedlund tells him. “Blue dress. She’s been eyeing you this whole time. You should go for it! Omega, too. You’re lucky as shit, I don’t think she has any idea who the rest of us are, honestly, but whatever... I think her other friend’s an alpha, which, you know… Just so you have a heads up.”

He gives Shane a sideway glance that Shane has no idea how to interpret.

“You wouldn’t…” Shane begins, trying to form the question in a way that doesn’t lead to Stedlund talking around the topic. “But you like women when they’re betas, too, so… Does it matter?”

And Stedlund makes a face, then takes several long gulps of his beer. “I mean, yeah, I love women, but there’s something about alphas, you know?” Something else, barely discernable over the music. “... Like, you get it. I just find myself wishing they were omegas. Biology, or whatever. Science. You’re an alpha, you wanna fuck omegas”—Stedlund makes a crude gesture, hand poised on his hip—”and that’s the important part. You gotta be in charge, right? Alpha women just don’t give like that. Can’t imagine it. Something so easy about omegas, anyway, like it’s straightforward and shit.”

His lopsided, sweet grin doesn’t soothe Shane at all.

But Shane also knows the Stedlund outside of this alcohol and this club, and he doesn’t hate that guy, so it makes him sick to his stomach to think: what the fuck would you think of me, then? Your alpha teammate who is getting fucked by another alpha, another man?

“I’m going to go to the restroom,” Shane says, putting his drink down on the bar knowing he is not going to pick it up again.

Stedlund looks at him, bewildered, and then throws another glance across the bar. “What do I tell the girl? Should I give her your number, or…?”

“I’m not really interested,” Shane says. “Sorry, I need some fresh air too, I think. I’m drunk.”

It’s not a complete lie. His face is definitely selling it, because Stedlund pats him on the back and says, “Hey, no worries. You look a bit sick. Let us know if you head back to the hotel, yeah?”

“I will.”

Shane pushes past him and flees into the bathroom. Turns the sink on and splashes cold water over his face, scrubbing it into his eyes before wiping his hands. He washes his hands three times, scrubbing under his fingernails and over his knuckles to his wrists. Lets the action soothe him as his skin cools under the running water.

The last time Shane hooked up with someone who wasn’t Rozanov was at a club not too different from this one. He’d been an omega, but particularly tall and muscular, and when he leaned down to whisper something in Shane’s ear, the scent of cigarettes washed over him. Strong enough for the sweet white-musk scent of his pheromones to not be intrusive. They’d stumbled into one of the bathroom stalls and Shane’s pulse was in his throat the whole time the guy sucked him off, and when Shane returned the favor, he took the man so deep in his throat his nose was pressed against his navel and the only thing he could smell was sweat, sweat, sweat.

After they finished, the guy had slipped out while Shane kept himself locked in the stall, wrung out but not satisfied.

So the next time he and Rozanov meet, Shane licks Rozanov’s soft cock until it is hard, until he begins to knot. Shane’s lips stretch spit-slick over the ruddy tip, the edges of his mouth twinging with pain as Rozanov continues to swell, jaw aching from the stretch. Rozanov tries to ease him off but Shane nudges his hand away until Rozanov understands. He moves his hand to cup the back of Shane’s head. Shane swallows around him, taking soft breaths through his nose and his eyes sting, stomach clenching, his own cock twitching against his thigh. Rozanov groans and comes down Shane’s throat, his swollen knot partially stuffed into Shane’s mouth.

With a baffled laugh, Rozanov falls back onto the bed, shaking his head. His eyes are wide, eyebrows raised. “Whoa, Hollander. When did you practice this? Did you buy second dildo?”

“Fuck you,” Shane tries to say, but his throat is completely fucked, and his voice cracks. “I just…”

“You wanted it all in your mouth,” Rozanov finished for him, a wide grin on his face. “Is okay. It is a very good cock, yes? Thick knot, too. Very delicious.”

And then he reaches for Shane’s hard cock, rubbing his fingers over Shane’s own knot, and fuck, it feels so, so good to be touched by him. He wonders if Rozanov can taste himself on Shane when they kiss, or if Shane’s pheromones are so prominent, so fucking needy right now, that he can smell nothing else.

“You don’t ever…” Rozanov hums to himself, sorting the thought out as Shane cracks open one of the tiny water bottles by the bed. “Do you knot the other people you are fucking?”

But Shane is not fucking other people, and though he already knows, he hates the reminder that Rozanov probably has a line out his door for the nights Shane is not available. This is his only comfort, though that word feels too heavy: Shane knows he is Rozanov’s number one pick. He gets the first text.

“Why?” Shane asks. “Are you?”

Rozanov shrugs. “Sometimes. If they want it, why should I say no? But is a lot of work, even with omegas, so…”

And time-consuming for someone who primarily is looking to dip in and then dip out, Shane is sure.

“You don’t ever worry about, like, getting someone pregnant?”

“I am safe, always,” Rozanov tells him, as if that somehow answers the question.

“Accidents happen,” Shane counters, holding his gaze. He tries to relax his face, but his brow and jaw are tense. His mouth twitches and he raises the water bottle to drink again. “Is it worth it?”

Rozanov’s tongue dips out the corner of his mouth, drags over his teeth. “You don’t think so?”

“You don’t get tired of just giving people exactly what they want from you?”

“Is not that complicated, I think,” Rozanov says. He reaches for the cigarette pack by the bedside lamp, then stops, sighing. He gestures vaguely with one hand. “It feels good, is fun… And I am an alpha, so why would it be problem for me to give them what they want from me? Is simple. No reason to think too hard on this.”

Shane stews in a dozen new questions. Safe as in birth control? Safe as in condoms? Is he on those blockers that work alongside the rut ones? He doesn’t think Rozanov would lie about it; he’s always got a condom on when he’s fucking Shane, and he’s never tried to knot him. Seems perfectly happy without it. Does that mean he wants to? Would he knot Shane, if Shane asked him to? It’s not as if Shane’s never considered it, but they only have so much time. What if he prepped, beforehand?

“What, you are jealous?” Rozanov pushes when Shane goes silent.

Shane stares at him. Is he jealous? Of Rozanov’s numerous one night stands, some of whom he is apparently not just fucking, but also knotting? Jesus.

And it must show on his face, because Rozanov laughs then shakes his head. “I am joking, Hollander. You think too much and too hard, all the time. Sometimes things are just fun and nothing else, and this is okay. Like you and me.”

Rozanov tucks his hands behind his head and pulls one leg out. He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ, but Shane is absolutely not going to tell him that. Doesn’t matter that he won’t, though, because Rozanov can see exactly where Shane is looking, anyway. Too obvious. Isn’t that what he’s here for—to indulge? And to have Rozanov fuck the stress out of him, he supposes.

He stays a little longer than he should, but he can’t bring himself to crawl out of bed. His head rests on Rozanov’s chest. Shane imagines their pulses melding into one. Rozanov doesn’t encourage him to leave, either. Shane wishes he could claw him open and find out what’s going on inside his head. Eventually, Rozanov’s hand wraps around Shane’s body, stroking his chest. It doesn’t feel sexual. It’s just Rozanov following the lines of Shane’s muscles, his fingertips rubbing the skin, as if he’s rubbing a mark onto him. The thought of it shouldn’t be so exciting, but Shane wiggles in his seat, already hardening, and when Rozanov notices, he takes Shane into his mouth again, all too pleased.

Shane drags his shirt over his head while Rozanov lazes around, looking like he’s ready to light his cigarette the moment Shane is out the door. Sometimes things are just fun and nothing else. Like you and me. Just fun. What’s the harm? I’m an alpha. Shane’s temples are fucking throbbing. Is this thing with him… easy for Rozanov? Is it just fun and feels good and why would it matter? Why would it matter if it is? This is just sex, like how the game earlier was just hockey.

Tucked away in Rozanov’s hotel bathroom, Shane brushes his teeth several times over, suddenly overcome with stress at the thought of being so covered in Rozanov’s scent that someone might be able to smell it on him. But they’ve been hooking up for years, and the closest anyone ever came to catching Rozanov’s scent on him had been that time Hayden paused, sniffed, and asked if he’d started smoking.

Shane made up some excuse about passing by a smoker outside, as if the smell would’ve somehow magically caught on him. Hayden hadn’t let up one bit, clearly enjoying Shane’s stiff attempt at an excuse: So Boston Lily’s a smoker, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged that to be your type, but I guess that makes sense. Shane almost thanked Hayden for crafting the perfect excuse for him at that moment, but had said nothing, if only to try to play it cool. Yeah, Boston Lily is a smoker. End of discussion.

Boston Lily is also a man. Is also an alpha. Is Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Some months after abandoning Stedlund and the other guys at the bar, Shane takes a swig of the beer he’d taken out of the hotel mini fridge. A rare occurrence.

It keeps happening. Calling his sexual relationship with Rozanov it rather than what it actually is—something he can’t even really describe aside from rival-with-benefits except the benefits are as stressful as they are fun—allows Shane to relinquish some degree of responsibility. It keeps happening. As in, Shane continuously ends up in bed with Rozanov, somehow. And it’s not his fault that they’re texting because “Lily” will text him first, and the courteous thing to do is to respond. Is to invite Rozanov over because he’s already in the area, and then have him bend Shane over and fuck him.

The reality is that the sex keeps happening because Shane is letting it, because it’s just that fucking good.

It’s a great fucking season, too. Shane is settling into himself as the Metros' captain, and they’re going to win the Stanley Cup. Everything is pointing toward it, and though Shane tries not to get ahead of himself, he tells himself that it will happen. Puts in the work for it.

Rozanov continues to be an obnoxious asshole, but every time they’re put on the ice against each other, Shane’s head reels from how much he needs him. Maybe trying to take Rozanov’s entire knot into his mouth permanently altered his brain or something. That part, the undeniable need, never stops surprising him, but at least he gets over it enough in the moment to enjoy the inevitable aftermath. After all, Rozanov is just as eager for him, and he’s all too happy to tell Shane exactly how badly he wants him. That puts Shane at ease.

He’s never been… pursued, in that sense. Even now, when he and his teammates will go to parties, there are omegas who will gravitate toward his side, who are kind and conversational and who eye him with clear interest, but they don’t chase him down. If Shane looks away for long enough, or pretends to scroll through his phone, they eventually leave.

Rozanov does not.

He’s always right on Shane’s heels, whether in the rink or in bed, chasing. And Shane can’t deny it; he lives for it.

“You love it,” Rozanov tells him, kissing down his chest, teeth scraping the skin but not bruising. “You want to be chased, Hollander, because in the whole world, I am the only one who can keep up with you. During games, for awards…” He presses his cock into Shane’s hole. “Here, in bed… You want to be prey, I think. To be captured, yes?”

Shane moans so loudly he almost forgets the shame. That part comes later, when he’s standing in the shower and considering life decisions. Rozanov is right. Shane likes the chase of this… fuck-buddy thing. He enjoys the pursuit. And he fucking loves that Ilya Rozanov is an alpha, too. That he’s big enough to push Shane around to his liking, that when Shane shoves back, Rozanov doesn’t immediately fold.

And now he’s alone again, drinking his stupid fucking beer, trying to untangle himself.

He recalls the first time they had sex. Not just blowing each other, but that first time Rozanov put his cock inside of Shane, how his entire body had tightened and the heat in him flared. Curious and reluctant at once. It didn’t stop Shane from pushing back onto Rozanov’s cock like it was the solution to every ache. Face pressed into the sheets. Rozanov’s hand gripping his hair, his neck. As he fucked into Shane, Rozanov had put his mouth on every bruise on Shane’s body, then his fingers, kneading until Shane panted and cried, drool smearing on his chin and cheek. And when Rozanov’s knot flared and slapped against him with every thrust, Shane’s brain short-circuited at the thought of it splitting him open and anchoring them together, going against everything Shane had ever been told he should want out of sex. Anything he should need to get off.

The adrenaline snapped like sparks from his curled toes to his cock to his head, and when Rozanov pushed against him harder, chasing his own orgasm, Shane thought he might actually do it. Might put his knot in Shane and tie them together, assert himself over Shane’s body. And Shane couldn’t make sense of the strike of fear at everything that could go wrong, how closely entwined it was with his desire at that moment, his excitement.

Rozanov had called Shane’s name and jacked him off, Shane’s own knot plumping at his touch. When he came, it was with a loud cry, Rozanov’s name somewhere in the middle of the sound, barely discernable.

Now, every time Shane fingers himself, he finds himself wishing they were a bit thicker, even when pushed in to the knuckles, so that he can at least pretend that Rozanov is knotting him. The thought rings in his head, over and over: I would let him. Would push back on it, clench around it, let Rozanov come inside, raw and filthy, until the knot pops loose and spills.

Shane puts the cold beer can against his face to calm himself down. It doesn’t help. The perspiration runs down his jaw, and eventually he pours the rest of the drink into the bathroom sink drain and tosses the can away.

He tucks himself into bed and closes his eyes, trying not to think about anything. But in the dark static behind his eyes, it is so much easier to picture Rozanov there next to him. Recall his warm body, his chest against Shane’s back.

So what a relief that he slides into that empty booth after J.J. 's call that night to find Rose Landry, whose voice is composed even when she prods him. Who laughs with, rather than at, his stiff jokes. She licks the salt from her fries off her fingers, and her lips are pretty. But then again, all of her is gorgeous. There is something ethereal about seeing her in the flesh only to find he likes her just as much off-screen. And she likes him, too. Says so without hesitation: I don’t have any interest in beating around the bush, Shane. That part is easy for Shane, too.

Lily’s name on his list of recent text messages moves down, down, where it stays. In the locker room, someone whistles at him when Shane reaches for his phone, and he knows his ears must be red. Come dancing, Shane. Meet my friends. Oh, they love you. Shane’s heart swells. Her friends are easy to talk to—they don’t mind when he only chimes in occasionally. Rose always keeps her hand on his thigh, links their fingers together, whispers in his ear.

He knows her favorite sushi place and her filming schedule. Remembers her favorite flower because he has typed it into the notes app on his phone. She divulges her life without him needing to ask her for it, over and over. When she asks about him and he hesitates, her expression falters, but she just says, Next time, then.

Lily (0).

Rose tells Shane on their first night together, “Please don’t make a joke about how you thought I’d smell like flowers or something. I don’t care about the scent marking stuff, but you don’t have to give me a whole spiel to try and make me feel better. I know I’m not an omega, and honestly I don’t care. If a guy needs to smell vanilla to get off, then I think that’s his problem to deal with, right?”

She shouldn’t care, Shane thinks.

She’s wearing a set of black lace underwear that Shane has not mustered himself up to undoing quite yet, and she seems content just sitting on his lap, pressing down on his half-hard cock, so he keeps slowly stroking her lower back instead. His pinky finger just barely grazes the hem of her panties.

“I wasn’t going to mention anything about…” His voice trails off. He has a palm on her back, his other hand unmoving on her thigh. “I mean, you smell nice. But not like flowers. Just…”

“Right,” she agrees. “Like, a normal beta smell, right? Or however that works for you guys.”

“Well, you’re wearing that perfume, right? You said you bought a new one.” Shane tries to recall the name engraved on the bottle in the photo she’d sent. Nothing comes to mind, but he remembers the dark glass bottle and the very large black crystal at the top.

For the first time since they’ve met, Rose looks shy. She stares at him as she slides her palm over his chest, her nails scraping the skin, and his dick reacts because it’s nice, her weight on him. Holding him down under her as she indulges in touching him. He moves his hand up and down her thigh once, and her eye falls on it before she looks him in the eyes again, a small smile on her lips.

“It’s Crystal Noir,” she says. “I like that it’s a bit… deep? Don’t ask me to name any notes or whatever, I couldn’t tell you. You seemed to enjoy it when I tried it on before. Remember when you visited last time?”

“It’s nice,” Shane repeats, because it’s true, and then Rose’s mouth is on him.

She’s a good kisser and very direct. Often as Shane falters, trying to figure out how to touch her right, she will take his hands and guide them where she wishes. As she touches him in turn, she talks him through it. He can tilt his head against her voice and close his eyes, listening to her describe what about him she likes, what she hopes will happen next. I don't usually date jock-type guys, she tells him, when he’s on top of her. Her fingers on the thick muscles on his arm. Beneath him, she is lithe, graceful even when she doesn’t move. People would kill to be him. Shane feels like he’s dying. He’s having fun, this is good, he thinks. Skin on skin. Their lips meeting chastely, her tongue at the seam of his mouth. When he presses into her, they are both worked up in a way that has them chasing a quick climax. He buries his face against her hair, then the crook of her neck, takes a deep breath and holds her scent there. She strokes his back, and eventually, when neither one of them can quite get there, she combs her fingers through his hair and says, “Hey, it’s okay. I like this, too,” Shane can’t look at her.

On the night she breaks up with him, Rose is much more gracious than she should be. He watches her leave, wondering what to call this feeling existing somewhere between disappointment and relief. He misses her. He wishes he could love her so well she wouldn’t need to be courteous. That she could, in her comfort, be upset with him. All of his relationships seem to end this way: ambivalent. Shane really, desperately hopes they can remain friends, like she told him.

He wonders what gave it away. If it was the club or the bad sex or something in his eyes or whatever else wrong with him she could spot. At what precise moment did she look at him and think, this man I am dating is never going to love me. Did she nurse a heartache, or was their infatuation short enough for her to sleep easy tonight?

Her fingers brushing the back of his hand. That man, what was he like? The man you’re thinking of right now, when I ask you if you’ve ever been with someone you love? And Shane couldn’t tell her anything. Sat there and pinched his eye, blinking until he could muster looking her in the eye as she deserved. And the words just kind of came to him: he is kind of an asshole. Rose tilted her head, folded her arms. Is he an alpha? Shane kept his breath in his throat, as if to force the ache in his lungs on himself as a punishment. Yeah. Yeah, he’s an alpha.

Rose stroked his hand again. They had drinks. She laughed a lot, but her shoulders were stiff. I think I might buy a new perfume, she told him. Something really fruity and obnoxious.

“This is better, anyway,” Rose ends with. “I’m not interested in being a band-aid, Shane. But I want to be your friend. Like, a real friend, someone you’re not hiding from. Just not your girlfriend.”

Now he stands there, soaking in the cold air and wondering why he can’t make anything work. Can’t even fucking get it up long enough to let her know she’s desired. Of course she should expect her boyfriend to desire her, and Shane can’t give her that. And he is awful for thinking even for a moment that it might be easier with Rose. That they could remove themselves from the strange dynamics that dictate all of Shane’s other sexual encounters. She didn’t call him alpha even as a joke. When they kissed, the only scent in the air was whatever candle of the week she was obsessed with. Even worse, maybe, is how Shane would find himself missing the tension, the sense of relief in giving in without ever giving up. How he got off alone while trying not to think of Rozanov’s voice in his ear.

He stares until the car disappears around the corner, convincing himself for a moment that she is going to have it turn around so she can jump back out and tell Shane he screwed it. Really hurt her. A problem is something you can fix. But Shane had tried to fix them, anyway.

What else is there to do?

He’s going to have to tell his mom they broke up, and she’s going to give him her sad-but-it’s-okay-darling eyes even though her mouth will be pursed. No TV cameos in the future for golden boy Shane Hollander if he’s not being seen next to Rose Landry, that’s for sure. Maybe she’s already sent inquiring emails about it. He doesn’t even want to have his photo taken for his regular promos. She’s very classy, his mom had said. What a lovely young woman. I’m impressed by the work her agent does. Public perception is everything, but they love the two of you together. Shane’s stomach turns.

As people push past him, Shane recalls his last time at Rozanov’s house. How he called Shane “Hollander” right before Shane walked out the door, as if he was scrambling to rectify something awry. Maybe that was Rozanov trying to fix something that just couldn’t be fixed, too. And it makes Shane think of himself as an even greater asshole when he realizes that even now, he wishes Rozanov would text him first.

Rose reaches out the morning after. Shane listens to her on the phone while he gets dressed, and when she hangs up she tells him I love you, as if to remind him that a new label doesn’t undo the work between them. It keeps Shane a little sane, knowing that, at the very least, he is not alone. Then the guilt settles in once more. She shouldn’t have to soothe or reassure him.

He takes it, anyway. Lets the gratitude and shame gnaw at him in tandem.

In sex ed, Shane remembers watching a video with a diagram. Here’s alphas, here’s omegas, here’s betas. This is a secondary gender that dictates your physiology. The basic rule is this: alphas and omegas are inherently attracted to each other, and have a very easy time conceiving children, regardless of their primary gender. It kept going. Some habits are just favored by nature. Consider it that way. Shane hears: this is the method. This is the clear path forward. This is the expectation.

Like everyone else, he gets his bloodwork done when he hits puberty. There’s an alpha symbol added to his medical charts, and he remembers the relief. Everyone knows that alphas make great sports players. This means he can keep playing hockey, and he’ll probably even be able to go professional. One of his teammates is an omega boy. He doesn’t play next season.

Just wasn’t cut out for it, coach says. Shane asks what that means. Coach goes, you wouldn’t understand, Shane. You’re built for this.

Shane hates the sound of it, but he is grateful for the fact that his body is not going to take the one thing that matters away from him. It would be the ultimate betrayal. He fills out, his scent deepens. His body grows more sensitive to the world around it. Or prickly, rather. Even more than before, people in his space put him on edge. He makes eye contact with a stranger when he goes to the book store, and the air frizzles. A tug deep in his stomach, nausea right after.

By the time Shane is fourteen, his regular hockey team is made up of only alphas and three betas. The room dynamic changes. Everyone wants to get their say, young and spry and eager to prove themselves.

But he remembers, just a winter or two earlier as he spoke to a beta friend on the team, how much that guy loved hockey. He would stay behind with Shane and skate laps just for the wind on his cheeks. The cold of the ice. The swooping in his gut at a particularly well-executed sharp turn. Things that Shane loves, too. Guys like that aren’t not-cut-out-for-it, Shane thinks.

Sixteen-years-old, Shane is pulling his sweatshirt on after stripping himself of his gear, and someone holds up a body spray. This stuff has omega pheromones in it, it says on the label, the guy says while snickering. The bottle looks like any other deodorant. Heard it makes you skate even better because it gets your blood racing, shouldn’t we try it? Put your skates back on.

While you can’t really bottle pheromones, it doesn’t stop companies from trying to replicate the high.

Shane’s never smelled heat before, but he knows this is it. Knows it is going to be this, times a thousand, that burnt-sugar cherry-candy scent that scorches the inside of his nose. He gets dressed as fast as he can, but the scent sticks to every layer of clothing. He’s supposed to bike right back home, but instead he sits outside of the rink and chews the mint gum in his bag until it's flavorless. The wind comes on extra strong in front of the building. Tugs on his hair. Grips the strings of his hoodie.

He gets a girlfriend. She’s a beta, and she doesn’t mind when he can’t manage to get his knot to swell. Doesn’t take it as a personal affront, but admits she’s disappointed because she was kinda hoping to see what the hype was about? What’s the deal with big macho alphas? Like, isn’t that the whole schtick? Shane says sure, and tries again, and then he googles: can’t knot is this a problem? Googles: no knot with betas? Googles: how to know if you have a knot issue? Googles: is knotting necessary for sex? Googles: do pheromones matter when dating betas? Googles: can mental stress affect knotting during sex for alphas and how to solve this?

His girlfriend breaks up with him. Some months later, he meets an omega boy who likes kissing him when they’re drunk, and because they’re drunk he doesn’t seem to care that Shane has a hard time knotting. He’s pretty and has nice shoulders and short-cropped hair, long lashes with green eyes. And he wears a lot of cologne. Keeps three shelves full of them, some pheromone-scented. One time, he tests one of his more expensive bottles, a deep amber scent. It simulates the composition of alpha pheromones, isn’t that cool? Shane’s boyfriend sprays some, walks through the cloud, and then presses his scented wrists to his throat, inhaling deeply. Shane fucks him later, on his bed, mouthing over the guy’s nape as he grinds into him, half-swollen at the base. They last a few months before he decides Shane isn’t around enough. There is no major heartbreak, but Shane’s ego is a bit bruised, either way.

He dates another girl, an omega. They break up two weeks later.

A common scene: Gear slamming into lockers, chatter. Someone laughs. A phone going off in the corner. You ever heard about alphas knotting each other? from his right. Laughter from behind. That’s crazy, dude. How would that even work? Someone scrunching his face up. Gross, man, don’t even joke about that shit. Just smell this room, it doesn’t exactly make you wanna fuck, right? The sound of showers running. Shane bikes home straight away.

His teammates invite him to a house party in high school and he gets more drunk than he’s ever been in his entire life, and he throws up in the bushes outside, then sits down on the pavement and tries to wait out the drunk so he can go home. A girl lies down next to him, curly dark hair and a button nose, and all Shane can smell is weed. I can’t kiss you, sorry, he tells her. She shakes her head and then she laughs, tells him she doesn’t even want to, and Shane stares at the sky, embarrassed and relieved at once. He doesn’t go to the next party. Or the next one. Or the one after that. But he gets the invite time and time again—aren’t you awesome, Shane Hollander? Hockey phenomena, good-looking, alpha stuff. Come to the party. Don’t you want to find someone?

And then it is the 2008 International Prospects Cup, and Shane tracks Ilya Rozanov down outside. He wonders what his heart would be like if he hadn’t.

As Rozanov’s visits continue, the interior of Shane’s penthouse morphs. He doesn’t give up the pillows even though Rozanov tears them off each time he gets on that bed, but he finds himself stocking the fridge as game day approaches, checking if he’s out of shower gel. None of those things used to matter when Shane got the place just for… the bedroom. But nowadays, once they’re done, Rozanov will wash up and wander around, picking at the plastic leaves of a plant or staring out the window at the city below. Shane never asks him when he’s leaving.

They’ve untangled themselves and redressed. Their shower has left Rozanov’s nape with a sheen where the curls are still damp. And it is easy for Shane to reach up, to run his fingers over Rozanov’s neck, thumb pushing against muscle right where jaw meets throat, where he is always so tense. Rozanov looks down at him.

“Again?” he asks. He slides his palm down Shane’s spine, fingers dipping into the waistband of his sweats.

“That’s not it,” Shane says, but lets Rozanov’s hand stay where it is. “I’m just…”

Rozanov, for once, doesn’t quip back. He leans into Shane’s touch, moving his hand to cup Shane’s hip. Tilts his head so that Shane can rub his neck, thumb brushing over the five o’clock shadow on Rozanov's face. The hair scrapes against Shane’s skin. Barely an hour ago, he’d felt that on his lips.

“Just…” Rozanov continues for him, finally, raising both brows. He allows Shane to corner him against the kitchen counter, leans back with such an air of nonchalance that Shane wonders what it would take to wear him down completely. Sometimes he thinks he’s seen it, but Rozanov will flash a grin or wink or say something stupid and in a moment it’s gone.

When Shane doesn’t answer him, Rozanov says, “So this is not you asking for my mouth?”

And while it is tempting to say: Yes, Rozanov, I want you on your knees again, he doesn’t. Not that he doubts Rozanov’s ability to draw an orgasm out of him, but it’s not what he’s craving. Instead he lowers his hand, trying not to overthink how Rozanov chases his touch by leaning forward, and then fetches him a cold Coke from the fridge. He holds it out until Rozanov takes it.

“You know, this part of you,” Rozanov says, popping the can open at the same time he shoves his hand under Shane’s shirt, “is very alpha. You want to be in control every time. Even now you are telling me I am in your home. Touching me, marking me…”

Shane stares back at him. “That’s not what I’m doing. I was just—”

“Giving me a Coke, yes, I’m sure,” Rozanov says. His eyes squint, like he’s holding back a smile. He covers his mouth with the soda can.

“You think being an alpha is about handing people drinks?”

“No, that is not what I said,” Rozanov tells him, then pauses. He studies Shane’s face. Puts his can on the counter.

“You’re being obnoxious on purpose. I’d say that is alpha behavior,” Shane says back, reaching for the soda can only for Rozanov to swipe it away, shaking his finger.

“Uh-uh, this was a gift for me, from my handsome alpha lay, you know? So you cannot have it back, sorry.” He grins wide. “A cold, fresh gift.”

“Don’t call me your lay, that’s so…” Gross? Shallow? I mean, what else were they actually doing, other than fucking? Shane retreats and watches Rozanov take another sip.

Rozanov puts his hand back on Shane’s back, stretching his leg out so that his thigh is trapped between Shane’s. In the warm, dim light, his eyes look dark. “Well, you are not totally wrong, maybe, about alphas. It is easy to be arrogant when everyone tells you that you are awesome right from the start, yes? Big alpha, big muscles, big advantages…” He flexes his right arm.

Shane’s eyes flick to Rozanov’s arm, the corded muscles, his tan skin, the birth marks… “Am I supposed to take you seriously when you’re doing that, or do you just like being a show-off?”

Rozanov shrugs. “I have many reasons to show off. You do, too.”

“I’m not going to start fucking bragging about being born an alpha. There’s enough assholes like that to go around.”

“Yes, well, I am not talking about alpha things,” Rozanov says. “I am saying you have many reasons to brag anyway and no one would tell you that you are wrong. It is like this for me, also.”

Shane stiffens.

And Rozanov continues, “You think I am good at hockey because I am alpha? You think if tomorrow, I was not, you would not care about beating me? You would not want to fuck me?” His tongue presses against his canine, lips parted enough for Shane to see. “You want me because I am the only man in this world left to beat, Hollander. We are same and different. You want to beat me more than anyone else, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane says, his mouth dry.

“And when you are done winning you want to be fucked by me as reward, yes?”

Shane swallows hard, repeats, “Yes.”

“And you think this is not, as you say, annoying alpha behavior?”

“I try not to be an asshole about it, that's all, I don’t need to be all macho. I don’t have anything to prove, unlike…” He groans and waves his hand.

Rozanov shifts where he stands, pushing his thigh up so that it slides against Shane’s crotch, and Shane’s inhale is so loud that Rozanov cackles at the sound. Shane’s face reddens, and his grip on Rozanov’s waist tightens. Just the warmth of Rozanov’s skin makes Shane want to lift his shirt up and press his mouth to the smooth abs, lick his way down to Rozanov’s groin. Instead he holds his straight, uncomfortable posture and tries to ignore Rozanov’s leg rubbing against his inner thigh.

“I think it would be okay, Hollander,” Rozanov tells him, eyes soft at the corners, “to be annoying macho alpha with me. I know what you are like on ice and in bed also. You worry what others will think always, yes? But you don’t care what I think, so.”

“So, what? You want me to be loud and annoying and arrogant?” Shane asks. “Because it won’t get on your nerves? Is that the kind of thing that gets you off? You must have a real hard time in the locker room if that’s what makes you hard.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “I am saying when is you and me only, it is okay to take what you want from me. If way to do this is to demand more and be an annoying asshole as you say, then okay, but is also no problem if you are not. No need to worry about what I will think of you. Just have a good time. And this alpha shit, sure, but is also just being Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, yes?” He flicks his finger back and forth between them. “Ok, what I am telling you is, I like when you are greedy. No holding back in bed, and no holding back on ice. I can handle you, and you can handle me… Probably.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he’s already reaching for Rozanov’s neck again, reeling him in, tasting the curl of his smile, licking past his teeth.

Rozanov hums, leaning into the kiss, as if to say: Yes, just like that.

And when Rozanov leaves, later, Shane stands in front of the bathroom mirror, his voice echoing. I can handle you. He thinks of Rozanov’s hand between his shoulder blades, leading Shane into an arch, giving as he’s taking, perfectly balanced. All gold.

Shane wakes up in the middle of the night to the bedsheets kicked onto the floor, Ilya’s arm thrown over his body, and everything is too hot, too little, too right-on-the-edge. It is like an itch in his veins, and Shane groans, rolling over onto his stomach and shoving his face into his pillow, gasping for air. His dick is already hard, has already knotted half-way, smearing precum against his thigh.

Ilya stirs next to him with a groan.

Shane reaches for him, desperate hands coming to a stop at Ilya’s shoulders, then moving up his neck to his face, one twisting into Ilya’s hair. Ilya’s eyes open, as disoriented as Shane is, and then a flash of recognition gleams in his eyes.

“Shane,” he says, cradling Shane in his arms. “I’m here, yes? I’m here.”

His hand stroking Shane’s back as Shane grinds his hips against Ilya’s thigh until he comes with a whimper, not quite in full knot, but definitely rutting.

“Need you,” Shane pants. “Get your dick out now. Fuck.” He doubles over, wheezing.

He can’t look very sexy, right now, and he definitely doesn’t feel sexy, as horny as he is. But Ilya presses him into the bed, doesn’t even let him get on his knees, just holds him down and spreads his ass open with one hand, shoving his cock in without pause. So he must still be doing it for Ilya, somehow. He fucks Shane like it’s his only mission in life, thrusts into him so hard that Shane’s cock is trapped between his stomach and the bedsheets, and he comes again. Then, when Shane squirms as his sensitive cock twitches, he flips Shane over onto his back and puts his mouth on Shane’s hole, and eats him out with Shane’s legs hooked over his shoulders.

It helps, but only a little. Shane spends the rest of the day sleeping, only getting out of bed when Ilya drags him into the shower and essentially hoses him down. Shane sits on the floor, head between his knees, cock red and hard and it’s so fucking embarrassing, every single time, to not be in control of his own needs. He lets Ilya soap him up and rinse him, wash his hair, and when they’re done, he sucks Ilya’s cock while his knees bruise from the shower tiles. Ilya comes on his chest, and in a moment of delirium, Shane puts his mouth on Ilya’s hip and bites down hard while smearing the come into his skin. They wash again. Ilya feeds him more soup and forces him to drink two bottles of water.

Shane sweats through the night. Wakes up semi-lucid only to press his nose into Ilya’s skin and dissipate against him. He licks down Ilya’s body, wakes him up with his mouth on Ilya’s cock, begs to be fucked, begs to be loved, begs for something wordless and primal and gets it in Ilya’s mouth on his knot, begs for a little bit of relief and finds some in Ilya’s teeth on his neck no bite no nothing but for a second he can believe and come and sweat out a bit of rut and then descend and descend and he’s on the sofa on the bed in the shower Ilya holding him fucking him biting him digging into his bruises into his inside and fuck it feels good feels right feels everything everywhere get in me get in me please fuck knot me put it in me doesn’t fit tries again cries into the pillow cries into Ilya’s shoulder sobs through another orgasm and another one and another one and wakes to the sun wakes to the sunset wakes to the night wakes in Ilya’s arms wakes

warm but not hot just languid all goo soap-clean fresh-out-the-bath Ilya next to him ceiling above they’re on the bed and the bedsheets have been changed and

Shane lets out a deep breath. It leaves him light and spacey. Kinda like if he was a bird and his bones were hollow.

His first clear thought in several days is: Ilya is still here.

Shane doesn’t get out of bed, even as his thoughts continue to clear. He can tell the rut isn’t entirely over yet, but it’s like he is back inside of his body, and that’s plenty. Ilya’s head is on his lap. His curls tickle Shane’s stomach and thighs. He rubs the slope of Ilya’s jaw, follows the line along his throat down to his collarbone.

Eventually he wiggles down so he and Ilya can lie on their sides. Shane stares at him, doesn’t say anything at all, and when Ilya cups the back of his neck to reel him in for a kiss, Shane sighs in relief. They kiss, Shane falls asleep again with his head on Ilya’s arm, and by the time he wakes back up it’s noon.

“You feel better, yes?” Ilya asks, thumb stroking Shane’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs. His back hurts, his thighs are sore. And his dick is swelling.

They eat lunch in the kitchen, and Shane has time to drink another two bottles of water before he asks Ilya to fuck him on the couch before they head back upstairs to the bedroom. A little longer, he thinks. The end of the day, maybe through the night. Shane drags his nose over the side of Ilya’s pec, noses into his armpit and then licks a stripe along his bicep, biting down. Ilya lets out a long, pleased groan, then knots his fingers in Shane’s hair to reel him in for a kiss. Shane takes Ilya’s dick into his hand, chest full of that sparking, swooping sensation.

For the first time, it’s as if they can afford to go slow. Shane’s need has dulled into a slow, steady craving, overwhelming but not unbearable. He settles between Ilya’s legs and sucks on the base of his cock and nowhere else until the knot plumps and Shane can run his teeth over it before licking the sensitive skin. Ilya shudders, throwing his head back and grabbing Shane’s wrist, guiding his hand to the head of his cock, glistening with precum.

“Again?” Ilya asks, as if Shane isn’t on his knees with his ass in the air, blowing him.

“What do you think?” Shane asks, furrowing his brow. He takes his hand off Ilya’s cock.

Ilya laughs, squeezing his arm and pulling Shane back up before flipping them over, spreading Shane’s legs with his knees. “Want to see you knot.”

He pauses, then leans down, pressing a kiss to the side of Shane’s nose, and asks, “Would you want to…” He stops, furrowing his brow, eyelids sparkling from sweat. “Do you need…”

“No.” Shane shakes his head, sinking into the pillows. “No, I just—could you? To me? Could you knot me? I’m probably… loose enough.” Because Ilya’ cock has been inside of Shane more times in the last four days than probably the entire time they’ve been fucking. Even the thought of that makes Shane exhausted. He can’t believe Ilya looks as refreshed as any other time.

“Think you can take my knot?” Ilya asks, kissing Shane’s shoulder, his throat. “Alpha enough to let me fuck you with it?”

And Shane doesn’t usually respond to that word, but it scratches an itch he didn’t know he had. He gasps, head tilting back, and Ilya’s teeth are on his throat, his tongue wetting the skin.

“Wish you could claim me,” Shane says. “Where everyone could see it. My hair’s short. It’d—it would show on my neck. Everyone would, fuck”—his throat bobs—“they’d have to speculate on who did it because I’m not with anyone, but you’d know it’s yours.”

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya pants. Breathes in the musk of Shane’s rut. Does it cloy his thoughts the way it does Shane’s? Has he ever tried to remember Shane’s scent with his hand around his cock?

Ilya shoves his hand between Shane’s legs, rubbing his fingers over Shane’s hole, sinking two inside to the knuckles. His thumb on the seam up to Shane’s sac, stroking the underside. Ilya takes a ragged breath, holding his teeth to Shane’s pulse point. What kind of face is he making? If being under his bite wasn’t so perfect, Shane would take Ilya’s face into his hands. Kiss him again.

He arches his back so that their chests touch and spreads his legs wider. Ilya grabs the bottle of lube from where it was left by the pillows and lets it drip right onto Shane’s cock, jerks him off until the liquid has slicked his hand, and then he fingers Shane quick and filthy.

“Enough, enough,” Shane grabs his wrist, staring up at Ilya.

His chest heaves, body glossed with sweat. He can’t make out his own scent, but he can see the effect of it on Ilya, his blown-out pupils, his parted, eager lips, the red flush from his hairline to his chest. Ilya looks as fucked out as Shane is. Shane nods jerkily. “Put your dick in me, and—don’t hesitate, okay? Fuck it into me. I want to feel you everywhere.”

Ilya groans something in Russian, kisses Shane’s chest. His arm brushes against Shane’s inner thigh as he grabs his cock, and then he’s sliding into Shane in one go. Shane moans when Ilya tugs at his nipple with his teeth, mouthing to Shane’s shoulder, biting without breaking the skin. It works as a reassurance for Shane, anyway. Ilya would do it. He would do it if Shane let him. He’d claim him and keep him if Shane just asks him to, knows this—he will get it, deserves it. Deserves Ilya and everything he can offer.

Ilya fucks him hard, the sound of his hips against Shane’s ass cutting through Shane’s choked whimpers and Ilya’s own groans. And then Ilya leans back, wrapping Shane’s legs around his waist, and begins jerking him off. Shane’s hand flies up to Ilya’s shoulder to steady himself as he squirms, trying to push back onto Ilya’s cock while also fucking up into his hand. His toes curl, stomach clenching.

“Yes, like that,” Ilya praises him, holding his hip with one hand while continuing to touch his cock with the other. “Are you going to knot for me? Spill into my hand? Come, Shane. Mark me.”

“Fuck, Ilya, fuck.” Shane sobs into his own hand before Ilya grabs it, pinning it to the bed. His other hand continues to stroke Shane as the heat in his body continues to build. “Harder—want to come with your knot in me, please, please—”

And Ilya’s mouth finds his, tongue clashing against Shane’s as he groans. His hips slam down and he grinds slow and tortuous until his knot finally pushes inside, so thick that Shane gasps and his teeth hit Ilya’s bottom lip. Ilya cusses, but before he can pull back Shane grabs his neck, holding him there as he laps his tongue over Ilya’s mouth and groans, tasting blood. All those years ago, Ilya’s mere presence sent Shane’s body into overdrive. Kept doing so.

He rides the high of giving in. Ilya’s knot continues to swell and his hips slow to a steady rhythm, pressing into him without pulling out. Shane reaches for Ilya’s hand to hold, gasps every time he rocks into him, and when Ilya says, “Show me,” Shane’s sensitive knot plumps under his touch. His skin is red and so fucking sore and then he’s coming, fully knotted inside of Ilya’s grip, come spurting between his fingers. It hits Shane’s stomach and chest, drips down the side of Ilya’s hand.

Ilya’s hips stutters, weighs down on Shane, and then he’s coming, too, and Shane’s brain short circuits, because that is Ilya coming inside of him, knot holding them together. Ilya’s mouth comes down on him, biting his jaw, kissing his way to Shane’s mouth, kissing him filthy and perfect, moaning so deep the sound sinks into Shane’s body.

He strokes Ilya’s face, putting his forehead to Ilya’s. Touches his hair, his shoulders. Keeps him there as Ilya grips one of his thighs, folding him in half to get a deeper angle, hips jerking through the last twinge of his climax.

Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist and puts his head on his shoulder, waiting for his knot to soften. Shane kisses his forehead, continues to play with his hair, so damp now that it sticks to Ilya’s forehead and cheeks. Peering up at him, Ilya puckers his lips, and it’s such a ridiculous sight that Shane laughs and tilts his head down, kissing Ilya softly.

“Okay?” Ilya asks, massaging Shane’s thigh.

“Sore,” Shane admits. “But your weight on me is nice.”

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows. “And my knot…?”

“If I tell you, you’re just going to stay hard,” Shane murmurs, grinning. He wiggles his ass and Ilya gasps, pinching his brows together. It fills Shane with contentment every time he sees how easily he can give Ilya pleasure. How his body can handle all of Ilya’s needs.

“Tell me,” Ilya says, pushing himself up on his forearms, looking down at Shane. “I want to know.”

Shane swallows. Ilya’s pupils are still wide, eyes nearly completely dark. Ilya repeats, “I want to know,” and Shane’s body responds with a prickling, insistent need to do what Ilya says. Ilya’s used that tone on him before, and every time Shane’s brain clashes against his desire to get off, to cave. What does it matter that Ilya’s an alpha?

Just two bodies tending to each other, trying to express their needs one of the few ways they know how.

“Wanted it for so long,” Shane admits, breathless. “The first time you fucked me, I felt it—wanted it so fucking bad then. It was the only thing I could think about when my rut started. Your knot in me, you”—he gasps as Ilya grinds into him again—“breeding me. Calling me, fuck, Ilya—”

Rozanov’s kisses on his skin grow sloppy.“Calling you what? Say it—”

“Alpha, shit—calling me alpha while you fuck me.” Shane tries to keep his eyes open, focusing on the gold chain around Ilya’s neck, his blown eyes, his furrowed brow. All Shane’s. So fucking good. “I want it. I want you to—oh, fuck, that’s perfect.”

Ilya pushes his fingers into Shane’s mouth and Shane bites down, brain singing. It’s not the same as putting his mouth to Ilya’s neck, but it soothes the primal part of his brain, and Ilya doesn’t pull away even when Shane’s jaw tenses, teeth clamping hard.

“Alpha,” Ilya repeats, his body trembling. “You could—you can take it, shit, you take all of it. So perfect, so good for me, my alpha.” When he noses into Shane’s hair, he fucking whimpers, staccato breaths, unabashedly needy as he drives his cock into Shane. “Fuck, and you’ll let me—I can—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Shane can imagine: you’d let me breed you, have let me come inside of you, knot you, put my scent on you. And Shane doesn’t feel any less an alpha for it. He looks at Ilya, the mess of him, how fucking satisfied he is, thinks: I did that. I fucking did that. Then he grabs Ilya by the neck and kisses him again until Ilya’s breaths are shallow. Shane rubs the base of Ilya’s cock where it stretches Shane open, touches Ilya where he is most sensitive until Ilya cries out and can finally pull out, cock smeared with his own come.

Shane rubs his hands over Ilya’s chest and squeezes his shoulders. Kisses him deep and tries not to think about the stained bedsheets or how much he must reek.

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs, closing his eyes, as if he can see Shane’s thoughts spiraling. “Relax. We will clean up after nap, okay?” His voice is already gravelly from exhaustion. He kisses Shane’s bicep, the crook of his arm, then pulls Shane into his arms.

It takes some time, but tiredness comes for Shane, too. The air is cold against his sweat-slicked skin.

He’s so fucking exhausted.

Somehow, he always manages to forget how his body will ache after a rut. Maybe if he had to go through it more than once a year it wouldn’t be such an ordeal every single time. He’s sitting on the dock with his legs in the cold water, two days out of the haze, and Ilya is next to him, fully soaked. It’s way too early in the year to be swimming, but that didn't stop Ilya at all. His arm presses against Shane’s and then he shifts a bit so that their thighs touch, too.

“Want to go inside?” Ilya asks. He rests his weight on the palms of his hands. Water droplets follow the contours of his muscles, his underwear clinging to his thighs and crotch, outlining everything in much greater detail than is good for Shane’s wellbeing. Ilya said he hadn’t thought to bring swimwear, which Shane can’t fault him for. But still. “Maybe good idea to shower, yes?”

So they go. Afterward, Ilya kneads each of Shane’s sore muscles, kissing the lingering bruises from his grip that have begun to turn greenish. Shane vaguely remembers asking to be held harder. When Ilya finishes, Shane’s entire body hums, as if the energy inside of him is expanding outward, past his skin. He cups Ilya’s face and kisses him slowly. Anything to get some more of Ilya’s body against his own.

They eat dinner on the porch. Sit on the couch, draped in one of the quilted blankets. Time passes. Ilya does not mention needing to leave, and Shane doesn’t ask about the details. Decides he will live in this contentment until Ilya breaks the illusion of an endless spring.

Ilya presses his lips to the top of Shane’s head while rubbing his shoulder. There are only so many days left before he has to leave.

“You should come back,” he murmurs, eyes on Ilya’s hand moving steadily up and down Shane’s arm.

“Come back?” Ilya asks. He shifts so that they can look at each other.

“You should come back here, to my home,” Shane clarifies. “This summer. You don’t have to go to Russia. You can be here, instead. With me.”

And because it matters, really matters at that moment, he holds Ilya’s gaze. Hopes that Ilya can sense the longing in him, the reluctance to just be whatever until they both wear down from the ambiguity. It is an almost-answer when Ilya rubs his thumb over Shane’s cheek, kisses where he just touched; it is tender. Shane would give anything to have that for the rest of his life, that gentleness. That and everything else Ilya can offer him, hopes Ilya can be greedy enough to ask for more in turn. I would empty myself out for you if I had to, Shane almost says.

Would scrape his edges raw against Ilya if it meant fitting together.

“Shane…” Ilya’s eyes are tired.

Shane is tired, too. He wonders how long they are going to pretend this isn’t everything they’ve sought out in each other.

“You asked me when you could have me to yourself,” Shane says. “Do you not want that anymore?”

If he didn’t, then Shane would let him go. He would take this last week; the last months; years; would let it die inside of him. Or hope so, at least. In reality, Shane knows if he does not get Ilya, there will be no one else after. Not like this, or close. He has already hollowed himself out to let Ilya in.

Ilya’s bottom lip trembles as he purses his lips, jaw tensing against Shane’s palm on his face. He says, “Of course. It is all I want,” and Shane tells him, “Me, too,” and does not feel empty at all.

Eventually Ilya does have to leave. Shane washes the bedsheets and then regrets it the moment the room smells of nothing but detergent. He keeps the sweatshirt Ilya forgot to pack neatly folded at the edge of the bed so that when Ilya comes back, he can reclaim it. He stays with his parents through the end of the Cup. Tries not to pay attention to each day that passes without Ilya confirming their summer plans, even though their texting does not slow down whatsoever.

But his phone is in his hand when the Admirals win, buzzing before Shane can even make sense of what is happening. Lily (Incoming).

July. Ilya stands in Shane’s bedroom, picking up his sweatshirt that Shane kept for him. He lifts it to his face, burrowing his nose into the fabric, and then lowers it. “I didn’t forget it,” he says. So later, when he presses Shane down on the bed, kissing the soft spot beneath his chin, Shane asks him again if this is still all he wants. And it is—it is, it is. Ilya’s palm rests on the center of Shane’s chest.

They sit outside, bare feet against the warm grass, Shane’s fingers tracing the dips of Ilya’s knuckles. Ilya’s tank top sits a bit loose on him, showing the clear tan lines. His shoulders are pink from forgotten sunscreen as he swam laps around Shane. Every now and then he will tilt his head back, eyes closed, and take a deep breath as Shane watches him. He leans over, puts his nose to Ilya’s throat, kisses the line of a collarbone and the sensitive, reddened skin to watch Ilya squirm and scrunch his nose.

“Is it easy for you, now?” Shane asks.

Ilya turns to him, the sun on his face. For a moment, he looks younger, as if Shane has been gifted a vision of the boy he first met all those years ago. But it is his Ilya. He can handle any variant of him, wants them all, wants him tired and angry and boastful and grieving and longing and lonely and together.

“Was only easy at first, anyways,” Ilya tells him. Shane presses his thumb against the soft lines at the corner of Ilya’s left eye. “When I said you should take what you want I did not think you would want all of me.”

His tone is light, but Ilya’s hand twitches under Shane’s touch. He rubs the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. Aching for a cigarette, Shane suspects. But he doesn’t reach for one, doesn’t move away.

“And now I am in love with a man who hates easy things, so,” Ilya says. “I will also take everything I want, I think.”

Shane entwines their fingers, lifts their linked hands to his mouth so he can kiss the back of Ilya’s. He holds Ilya’s eyes, kisses each knuckle, his wristbone. Ilya pulls their hands to the side so that he can press his lips to Shane’s, slower than usual, seeking something other than a quick fix. Shane feels Ilya’s nails against the curve of his nape. He hopes that one day it won’t make his stomach drop to imagine Ilya’s teeth sharp on his skin, giving him something more permanent than the word “everything.”

“And what do you want?” Shane asks, bottom lip glossed with spit. “Other than nice cars, a good lay, another Cup…”

Ilya is so close the bridges of their noses meet. He stares right at Shane, nowhere-no-one else.

During the earliest days, when the desire was just an urge, Ilya Rozanov tucked his head onto Shane’s lap, cigarette clutched between two fingers to hold it out of Shane’s space. His nose brushed Shane’s hip, eyes closed, as Shane rubbed his thumb over the birthmark on Rozanov’s cheek. Crescented his finger up to the edge of Rozanov’s brow. Thick, curved lashes, a five o’clock shadow. Something thick lodged itself in Shane’s throat at the sight of him.

Everyone’s had you, Shane almost said. Everyone’s had you but not like this. I don’t think anyone else has seen you curled into yourself, resting. Stripped of every taunt. Boastfulness left at the foot of my bed. Just two guys who play hockey.