Chapter Text
March, 2013. Ottawa.
The front door clicked open, and Shane had only a few seconds to compose himself where he stood absentmindedly in the kitchen. Shoes clacked on the floor before being taken off and being replaced with house slippers. The footsteps led to the kitchen, and the tall body stopped to survey the scene.
“Smells okay,” Rozanov said as he unbuttoned his coat with one hand, his wheeled duffel slung over his other shoulder. “Dinner?”
“Yep,” Shane responded passively. “Lasagna.”
“With cheese? Meat? Uh, what is…carbs?”
Shane turned his back to his husband and bit his lip. “Uh, kinda. I substituted a few things.”
Rozanov let out a loud sigh. “Why do you still do this? Food is food. No need to make it your version of healthy.”
Shane’s grip on the oven door tightened. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to ten. Nothing good would come from snapping at Rozanov about this, not after years of marriage.
“You are what you eat,” Shane said petulantly. What was so wrong with eating healthy?
Rozanov gestured at the oven. “Is not what I want to eat.”
This was infuriating. Shane released the oven door handle and threw the oven mitts right onto the counter instead of at his husband like he wanted to. “You fucking cook it then. Sorry that it’s not up to your standards.”
“I didn’t…” Rozanov trailed off, frowning deeply. “I just meant that you do not need to put so much effort into it. Just cook whatever, and I will be fine with it.”
Shane threw his hands up in the air. “I cooked whatever, and apparently you’re not fine with it! So fuck off with the excuses!” So much for not snapping at him. Shit.
Rozanov took a deep breath, his wide chest heaving with it. “I am sorry. Is it almost done? I can plate it.”
“No, not yet,” Shane said, nose wrinkling as if it could block the heavy cinnamon scent of the alpha. Rozanov was wearing scent patches, like they both always did, but his scent always managed to leak out this late in the day. “Go shower, you stink.”
The alpha nodded slowly as he wore an unreadable look on his face. He backed out of the kitchen, eyes on Shane until the last possible moment. A few seconds later, the shower started in the guest room, and Shane’s shoulders dropped.
Moving into this house had been quite the debacle. It was in a nice area in Ottawa, and thankfully private, given the large hedges that surrounded it. Four bedrooms—one they had kept as a guest room, one had been turned into a home office, and the third into a home gym. The last was clearly the master bedroom, meant for a couple with its en suite bathroom (fitted with two sinks, of course), a huge walk-in closet, tasteful lighting. It was big enough for two queen-sized beds to have fit, probably, but neither of them wanted to sleep in the same room.
When they (Rozanov) had bought it, Shane had tried to argue that he should be the one in the guest room.
He had been shot down definitively.
The timer went off, so Shane quickly pulled the lasagna out of the oven. Ground turkey instead of beef, cottage cheese, zucchini pasta. Not the most appetizing meal, but…
But Shane had been watching Rozanov’s games this year, which was a new development. His performance seemed off from how Shane remembered him playing in the World Junior Championships years ago. And though Shane had a lot of mixed feelings about that, he still wanted to help. You are what you eat, he’d said, and it was true. Honing his diet had made a big difference when Shane was playing hockey, before…
Shane gulped. Before…
It had been an unprecedented event, for many reasons. One, Shane was the first omega to be drafted to the major leagues. Omegas hadn’t been barred from it for years, but apparently it took generational talent for the league to draft one. Two, he was on the same skill level as the other prodigy in his age range—Ilya Rozanov. The perfect hockey player; loud, confident, and most of all, alpha. They both showed their skills in the World Juniors Championships, leading each of the countries to gold in back to back years. Which, subsequently led to them being the first and second draft picks for their rookie season.
Third, Shane had been on a careful plan of suppressants since presenting to make sure his dream of becoming the first omega hockey star came true. They were much stronger than alpha suppressants, able to both prevent heats and block his scent. Year-round, with no breaks.
The draft happened, and Shane had been frustrated to be picked behind Rozanov. Still, though, Montreal had chosen him, which had been a huge ego boost given his mom’s alliance to the team. She was happy, his father was happy, Shane was happy, even with a newly implemented diet that honestly worked wonders on his performance on the ice. It was a dream come true.
Then he had been slotted for a commercial for CCM alongside Rozanov, who had been declared as his rival on the mere fact that they were the best upcoming rookies in the league. It hadn't been supposed to be a big deal. It was a good idea, even, to play up their rivalry even more at the dawn of their rookie season. Shane had actually been excited about it, not just nervous, because while having such a fierce rival was daunting, it was also motivating. He'd known it would push him to do better.
Then Rozanov had teased him during the shooting, which was nothing new. Being called pretty, even though the tone had been sarcastic, and being winked at had thrown Shane off enough to forget to take his afternoon suppressant pill.
His scent had started leaking out in the shower, right next to Rozanov, since obviously the facility didn't have a separate locker room for omegas. And Rozanov had bitten him.
The rest of the day, and all the days since, had been a complete shitshow. Shane had freaked out, his parents had freaked out, because according to the regulations, mated male omegas were strictly barred from competing in any sport. Since a mating bite was required for a male omega to get pregnant, and no league wanted to deal with the risk of a player getting pregnant, especially in a high-contact sport like hockey.
Rozanov had freaked out, too, in his own quiet way, as the aftermath dawned on them that day while surrounded by league officials and lawyers and a few doctors. Shane had no choice but to resign from the league, to end his career, before even getting to debut. And they had gotten married soon after in order to somewhat protect Rozanov's own career, a deterrent against the many, many allegations that he had bitten Shane to purposefully get his rival off the ice.
It had worked enough to allow Rozanov to keep playing after Boston traded him, not wanting such a controversial alpha on their roster anymore. Traded him to Ottawa, who needed a star center more than they needed to keep their toes out of the absurd situation.
That had been almost three years ago. Rozanov still played for the Centaurs now. Shane still didn't play hockey at all. They were still married and shared Rozanov's house in Ottawa, where Shane spent a vast majority of his time since his parents remained in Montreal and his relationship with them had never been the same.
Being married to Ilya Rozanov wasn’t the worst thing in the world, all things considered. Shane had to constantly tell himself that it could be worse. Rozanov could have left him in the dust, could have embraced the narrative that Shane had seduced him on purpose, as illogical as the notion was. But he married Shane, and provided for him, and kept out of his way for the most part.
They rarely saw each other, since Shane knew Rozanov's schedule. When the alpha wasn't at practice or traveling for an away game, or shooting some dumb commercial, Shane would hole up in the home gym, or in his room, to avoid seeing him.
Or, at least, that had been the norm until this year. Shane had never admitted it out loud to anyone, and rarely even to himself, but he longed to be back on the ice. He missed the thrill, the competition, the cheers of the fans and adrenaline from a win. He would never have that again, of course, but he knew he still had talent. And his relationship with hockey may have still been complicated, but there was still love there.
So he was starting to consider coaching summer camps for kids, here in Ottawa. It wouldn't be easy, with his name and his reputation and his lack of experience, but it was…it was something that he could fight for again.
"Camps?" Rozanov had asked when Shane had brought it up a few months before. "Like, training camps?" Shane had opened his mouth to defend himself when he had been interrupted. "Could be good idea. But, uh, when was the last time you skated?"
"Commercial," Shane had muttered, and the subject had been dropped when Rozanov scowled and stalked out of the house, muttering something about going to the store.
Bitter and tense, like all of their rare interactions were. But Rozanov hadn't said no, and Shane still liked the idea, so he had started preparing. Upping his training routine, being more diligent about his diet, and even watching hockey again. Just on the television, but still, it had been three years since he'd interacted with the sport.
Which was when he had noticed that Rozanov didn't play like he used to. He was still quick, and tricky, and instigated fights, but he also seemed distracted way too often. Quick to anger, too, and quick to tire by the third period.
That was when Shane started cooking for the two of them, together, instead of them taking care of their meals separately like before. Healthy food, food that would fuel the both of them—Rozanov for winning his games, and Shane for his delve back into hockey by the means of coaching kids' summer camps. Very, very different goals, but still.
Rozanov was usually the one to try to initiate conversation during these dinners, during this new territory of actually acknowledging each other. Never about hockey, never about their marriage, so usually the topic fell on the food. Or how Shane's day had been. Or…other mundane things.
"Do you want a pet, Hollander?" Rozanov had asked one night in February, over a dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables. "Dog?"
"I'm more of a cat person," Shane had answered, but shook his head. "But no, I don't want one of my own. Too much hair."
"Hairless cat?"
Gross. Shane had shivered. "Absolutely not."
"Hollander, you have already read that one," Rozanov had noticed a few weeks later, when Shane was reading some dumb novel at the table during lunch. He'd looked up, surprised that Rozanov knew that. "Do you need more books?"
"We have plenty of books," Shane had said sharply, not a fan of spending his husband's money on anything other than groceries, basic clothes, or household necessities. But…new books sounded nice, since he filled most of his time other than cooking and exercising by reading.
"We can get more," Rozanov had offered. "Plenty of room in the home office for them."
Shane had shrugged. "Maybe. I'll get a library card or something if I need to."
Boring conversations with no conclusions, usually. It was fine. Shane was used to it, being in a marriage with no real relationship to back it.
Shit.
“Stop it,” Shane said to himself as he set the table with plates of lasagna. “There's no use thinking about it.”
“Hm?” Rozanov smiled as Shane jumped and whirled around, startled by the freshly-showered presence of his apparent ninja of a husband right behind him. “What were you saying? To nobody, apparently.”
Shane hated how good his English had gotten and how he seemed able to move around the house silently. “Nothing,” he said. “Just eat.”
“Is good dinner,” Rozanov said later, once their plates were mostly clean. “Not too bad, despite your…our restrictions. You did well.”
“Shut up.” Shane ignored how his ears heated up. “You didn’t do so well in your game last night.”
Rozanov's eyes shot up, wide and interested. “You have advice?”
Fuck. Shane had jumped the gun. He hadn't meant to tell his husband that he was watching hockey again now, always careful to shut off the television before Rozanov got to the house. Well, whatever. He could play this off. "No," he said simply.
“Tell me,” Rozanov tried, his hand clenching around his fork. “Go on. I want to hear it.”
“You won the game,” Shane retorted, because it was true. Chicago was worse than Ottawa this year, after all. "You don't need my advice."
“I still want to hear it.”
Dammit. Shane sighed. It was…fine, right? To delve back into talking about hockey, like they hadn't done since the draft.
“It's hard to explain,” Shane said slowly. Rozanov watched him like a predator did prey. “Especially since I'm not…you know, on the ice. But your usual antics did you more harm than good."
Rozanov's strong brow furrowed. “I do not understand.”
Shane waved his free hand in the air. “Like, in the second period. You and, uh, what's his name? Number thirty-six."
"Ah, Brown," Rozanov nodded, looking annoyed at the mention of him. "I may have pissed him off."
"But he pissed you off back," Shane pointed out. "Your whole thing is—or, well, used to be—getting under people's skins and disrupting their game without a fight. This time, you threw the first punch. The resulting penalty may have made you lose the game if it was against a better team."
Rozanov swallowed dryly. "Control myself better, you mean."
"I know that's not always possible," Shane corrected. "It gets heated on there, on the ice."
"You never started a fight," Rozanov said quietly.
Shane scoffed at that. "You don't know that. We only played two games against each other, at the World Juniors." Rozanov seemed to have no response to that, just closing his eyes. "But, anyway. You're the main trash-talker on the Centaurs. Which is fine, every team needs at least one in hockey. But just be careful. If you're on the verge of losing control, rely on your team. You can bitch to them instead, and avoid a penalty."
“Trust team,” Rozanov said, nodding. “Is hard for me, I guess. The Centaurs were very bad before me.”
Shane had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. “They’re still bad now.”
“We won yesterday!”
“Could have won by more,” Shane said under his breath, but Rozanov managed to hear it given his loud chuckle.
“I’m glad you watched,” Rozanov murmured after his laughter died down. “This one, at least. I know you usually don’t.”
Well, that wasn’t true, and Rozanov probably knew it given all the advice Shane had just spewed without thinking about it. Though he refused to admit that he hadn't missed a game for a few months now. It wasn't like the Centaurs had any shot at the playoffs, of course, but still. It was nice to still be able to watch the games and follow along without missing anything, to be able to dissect the strategies and dynamics of the teams. It would be useful this summer, for the camp.
“Not much of a game to watch,” Shane said dryly. “It’s not like Chicago is any good. No challenge even for Ottawa. I just used it as background noise.”
“Ah,” Rozanov remarked, “but somehow you noticed how I could have done better in second period?”
Damn him. Shane scoffed, “Fuck off.”
Rozanov grinned and shook his head as he stood from the table. “You are done eating, yes? I will do dishes.”
Shane yanked his empty plate away from the large outstretched hand. “No, I’ll do them.”
“No, me.”
“No.” Shane leveled him with what he hoped was an intimidating glare. “You just flew into Ottawa a few hours ago. You must be exhausted. I can do it.”
He watched as Rozanov’s throat bobbed. Just a little, barely noticeable. He was dressed comfortably after his shower—sweatpants, T-shirt, and that ever-present cross necklace that Shane had never bothered to ask about, but now had Rozanov's wedding ring on it. His curly hair was still wet at the ends. He smelled clean, like soap, but his alpha scent is starting to fill the room like it sometimes seemed to do. Shane's eyes locked on Rozanov's neck, where a fresh scent patch was slightly misaligned. That explained his scent seeping out right now.
“You are sure?” Rozanov asked softly, jerking Shane back to awareness.
“I’m sure,” Shane said. “Go the fuck to sleep so I don’t have to look at you anymore.”
Rozanov laughed, but it was quiet. Sad, almost, if Shane thought the alpha wasn’t capable of such emotions.
“Have good night,” Rozanov whispered as Shane was gathering the dishes. “I, uh…I hope you sleep good.”
It was jarring, sometimes, that Rozanov’s handle on English seemed to fluctuate. Sometimes, it was nearly perfect. Sometimes, he made silly mistakes like using ‘good’ instead of ‘well.’ Sometimes, Shane would call him out on it for no purpose other than to pick a fight.
But this time, he let it go.
Early April, 2013. Ottawa.
Shane had been weaned off of the suppressants for the past two years. As the mate of a player, he had access to the services of the Centaurs' medical team. The omega specialist had been flabbergasted that he had been on such strong suppressants, nonstop, for more than half a decade, and had immediately ordered for him to gradually start taking them so his system could reset itself.
He hadn't taken a pill since February. The effects had been ignorable so far, at least for him—slightly improved hearing, a more sensitive nose, and going through multiple scent patches per day. He wasn't affected by his own scent, of course, but he really didn't want his husband to get a whiff of it. Again.
This morning, though…his body ached something fierce. Not his whole body, just the lower half for the most part, but it was bad enough that it was nearly debilitating. It took great effort to haul himself out of the king-sized bed and drag himself to the bathroom.
His reflection looked just as bad as he felt. Dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, and…scrawny, almost. Despite his strict gym regimen and diet, he didn't look well.
“Jesus,” he whispered as he poked under his eyes, then at his neck.
The right side of his neck, which bore the scar from Rozanov’s teeth. Years-old, but still extremely visible as all mating marks were. This damn thing that had ruined everything for him.
It was grueling to get through the process of showering. Usually, Shane waited until after his morning workout in the home gym to shower, but he had sweat excessively the previous night and felt gross. Fuck, he’d have to wash the sheets too. His skin was red as he scrubbed it, his hair greasy. His vision went hazy a few times, but he powered through it.
Abnormal body aches. Red, sweaty skin. Hazy vision. Shane knew what it was, and unfortunately, it wasn't some illness.
Preheat fucking sucked.
Shane cursed his current doctor in his head, despite knowing that this was best for him at the moment. Apparently, the doctor he had been seeing since presentation had been a conservative one, who thought the prolonged use of suppressants on an omega's system had no negative side effects. The Centaur's omega specialist—a kind older woman named Clara Turner—had been appalled at this information. With his (and Rozanov's) permission, his suppressant dosage had been gradually lowered until recently, when it had hit zero.
And now, right before the NHL playoff season, Shane hadn’t been taking anything for three months. So he was on track to be in heat in a few days, like he hadn’t been since he was sixteen years old. That first heat had been brutal to the point that his parents had taken him to the ER. Nothing had been wrong, per se—his body just seemed determined to give him a hard time. Hence the suppressants, both to ease his suffering and to ensure he would be able to keep playing hockey without omega bullshit getting in the way.
Until alpha bullshit got in the way, in the shape of Ilya Rozanov.
This train of thought led Shane to grab his phone while he toweled off to shoot a quick text to his husband.
Shane, 11:02 AM
Heat’s coming soon, I think. In two days probably. I can find a hotel if you don’t mind the expense.
The latter part of the text was a formality. Rozanov was loaded. His salary hadn’t been fantastic when he first got traded to the Centaurs, but it had built since then as Rozanov's talent trumped the legacy of the bite incident over time. And it showed—huge house, quality décor, organic groceries, and all the items Shane could ever ask for. Not that he did, really. In fact, he hated spending their money when he contributed absolutely nothing financially.
But this situation was different. Unprecedented. Shane hadn’t had a heat in seven years, since his first one. Rozanov hadn’t been around him in heat, ever. Despite all the mixed feelings Shane had toward his husband, he wasn't going to subject him to dealing with this in his own house. This overly sweet scent that was now clogging Shane’s own nostrils, these body aches and cramps that were causing him to lay on the bed in his bathrobe and nothing else, this heat burning inside of him.
Rozanov was his husband, his mate, but they weren’t in a relationship. He shouldn’t have to worry about this.
Shane’s phone buzzed.
Rozanov, 11:04 AM
No. You stay in house. I will stay elsewhere.
Shane rolled his eyes. Rozanov must have had a break in practice, or something, to text him back in the middle of the day like this.
Shane, 11:05 AM
Don’t be ridiculous. This place is gonna stink if I stay here.
He jolted when his phone started ringing in his hand. A FaceTime call, from Rozanov. While Shane was naked other than his bath towel, sitting on the master bed with its still dirty sheets. He flushed and quickly declined the call before dialing back, this time just a normal call.
“Brat,” Rozanov scolded as soon as he picked up. He was breathing hard, which meant he must have just gotten off the ice.
“Shut up,” Shane said immediately, on instinct, before sighing. “FaceTime? Really?”
“I wanted to see you. Are you okay?”
Shane paused. That wasn’t what he expected. He expected teasing, probably in the form of an insult—not this genuine concern lacing Rozanov’s tone. “I’m fine,” he muttered finally. “I just…why would you be the one to stay in a hotel?”
Rozanov mumbled something in Russian, then said, “Would be better. Is your first heat in a while, better to be somewhere, uh…I forget word. Somewhere you know.”
“Familiar,” Shane finished, his mind racing. He looked around the room—his room, which was scarcely decorated, given it still didn’t really feel like a home.
“Yes, familiar,” Rozanov agreed. A few lockers slammed, and he didn’t speak for a minute until he had apparently moved to a different area at the rink. For privacy, maybe. “I already found place to stay. How long is your heat, usually?”
“How long?” Shane repeated, flabbergasted. “You mean the thing I haven’t experienced since I was sixteen? Fuck off, asshole.”
“I didn’t…” Rozanov swallowed loud enough for his phone’s microphone to pick up. “I just was looking for estimate. For how long I should stay away.”
Shane sighed, “I don’t know. A full week, maybe? Just to be safe.”
“Is fridge stocked?” Rozanov asked softly.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Well, I guess most of it is the meal prep I did for you this week.”
“You eat it.”
“But your diet—“
“I am not on diet!” Rozanov protested harshly, then lowered his voice. “Thank you for making food for me, but is not a loss. You eat it this week. I…fuck.”
“Huh?” Shane asked, confused by how baffled Rozanov sounds.
Rozanov let out a long breath. “I am…lost. I have not dealt with omega in heat before.”
Dealt with. Shane’s shoulders tensed up. “You don’t need to deal with anything. I’ll handle it, it’ll be fine.”
“We have tea in pantry,” Rozanov said, which was confusing until he clarified. “Is ginger tea, supposed to be good for cramps. Scent neutralizers are in the entryway closet. Medicine cabinet should be full. Oh, wait, do you want blankets?”
Blankets? Shane blinked and wrapped the bathrobe tighter around himself. “Huh?”
“For nest.”
Nest. Something primal within Shane roiled, acting like a damn predator rising from hibernation. Never in his life had he nested. His first (and only) heat, he had been so wracked with pain that he couldn’t even move, let alone build a nest. Surely he wouldn’t have the urge to do so this time.
Shane glanced at the bed pillows next to him. The covers needed to be washed, and the sheets, of course. Yes, fresh and clean so he could scent them, could make his den smell like him. Only him, not like a cinnamon-scented alpha who was the bane of his existence. The bed had pillows, yes, and a throw blanket, but it wasn’t enough. Not soft enough. Not fluffy enough. Shane needed—
“Omega,” Rozanov’s voice rumbled through the speaker of the phone Shane forgot he was holding. “You are mumbling, I can not understand.”
“Sorry,” Shane said instinctively, mortified that he had apparently been voicing his thoughts. “Um, we have enough blankets here.”
“Not what I asked,” Rozanov whispered, his voice scratchy. “Do you want more blankets? Is okay if yes, I will send to house.”
Shane shook his head, then remembered that his husband couldn’t see him. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“I…” Rozanov paused, then inhaled deeply. “I can call your mother, if you would like.”
What? Shane flopped back on the bed, dumbfounded. “What? My mom? Why?” He hadn't spoken to Yuna since…last year, probably.
“Is your mother. She is omega too. She may be able to help with the, um…discomfort.”
Shane scoffed. “You think I can’t deal with a little discomfort?”
“Not what I said.”
“Fuck off.”
“Shane.”
He froze. This…this wasn’t a thing that they did. Shane technically wasn’t a Hollander anymore, not for three years. Since he had married Rozanov and taken the alpha’s last name. Yet still, they only referred to each other by their surnames. But Rozanov still always called him Hollander. Hollander, stop cooking such boring dinners, or, Hollander, have you seen my brown sweater? Hollander, Hollander, Hollander.
Fuck.
“Shane,” Rozanov said again, impossibly soft. “Is fine to be nervous. This is big deal. Let me know what you need, anything. Or tell your mother, if you don’t want to text me. Just…just do not do it all on own.”
Shane vowed to do it all on his own. Two days went by where he was in preheat—muscles aching, legs cramping, eyes heavy—before it really went downhill. He (begrudgingly) drank the ginger tea Rozanov had mentioned every other hour, but it didn't help too much. Pain meds didn't help, either.
It felt like his entire body was wound up like a spring. Where before he’d doubted his capability to move, he was now completely unable to. His legs twitched now and then where he was sprawled on the master bed, breathing hard. His whole body was flushed, red and hot. He knew he was close to full heat now, but was still somehow cognizant enough to grab his phone, whining the whole time.
Heat relievers, he typed into the search bar on Google, before revising to, Heat relievers, DIY. The subsequent articles recommended ginger tea, warm baths, and—ugh, fuck. Shane couldn’t even read the words anymore; his vision was so hazy. Fuck this.
Fuck this right up the butt. He was so miserable. His feet felt like they have military grade knots in them. His stomach was cramping. His womb—god, he wasn't even horny, it just hurt.
He hadn't even realized he’d dialed his dad until he picked up, tone tentative. “Hey, Shane?”
“Hurts,” Shane whimpered. He had been close with his parents in different ways before his marriage, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d called his dad, but he just needed to hear the voice of his sire. “Hurts so bad, I dunno what to do!”
“Hold on,” David said. A moment passed, then his voice sounded different. He was on speaker now, Shane realized dully. “Your mom is here now, too. What hurts, kiddo?”
“Everything. My stomach, my feet, my—oh my god, ow!” His abdomen clenched, feeling like it was about to burst open on itself.
“Honey, do you have a pad?” Yuna asked, then clarified. “A heating pad? That always helped a lot throughout my cycle before menopause.”
He did. He did have one, but it was in one of the closets in the hallway outside of the bedroom. But his body wouldn’t cooperate enough for him to even get out of bed. “Yeah, but it’s…it’s out of reach. Fuck, I can’t—“ he broke off with a small sob.
Shane felt so helpless, so vulnerable. He hated being an omega, more so in this moment than ever before.
“We’ll send Ilya back over,” Yuna said quickly. “He’ll help.”
Ilya? Shane had less than a second to contemplate the use of his husband’s first name before an excruciating cramp wormed its way through his abdomen. “Fuck!”
“Sit tight,” David said coolly, though his voice was tinged with worry. “Ilya will be there soon, we’ll call him right now. Just try to breathe and hang in there, okay?”
“Okay,” Shane breathed, because there was nothing else to say.
He must have lost consciousness, because the next thing he registered was that there was something soft on his forehead. He reached for it, perplexed to find a cool and damp cloth.
“Relax,” someone said, deeply and quietly. “Just try to relax, Shane.”
“Rozanov?” Shane asked dully despite the fact that the alpha was there, right in front of him, when he opens his eyes.
Shane was in the same clothes as before, but the bed had been changed. Fresh sheets, thankfully, and there were a handful of unfamiliar blankets draped around him.
The blankets smelled like cinnamon.
“Is me,” Rozanov whispered. He was in the middle of plugging something into an outlet near the bed. “I am here. How are you feeling?”
“Like absolute shit.”
Rozanov chuckled softly, but it was humorless. He unfurled something—the heating pad, Shane realized vaguely. “Tummy still hurt?”
“Stomach,” Shane corrected petulantly as he watched the alpha come closer. “On my stomach, please.”
Rozanov’s cheeks went red, inexplicably. “Yes, of course.” He maneuvered through the blankets to get the heating pad right on Shane’s stomach. “Here?”
“Lower.”
“Here?”
“Yeah,” Shane sighed as the pad settled over his lower abdomen. It felt good, but it would take time for the relief to spread. Fuck, his legs ached. “Mom and dad called ya?”
“Mm-hm.” Rozanov kept a hand on the pad, on the other side of Shane’s stomach, and stroked it gently. “We—I mean, they were worried.”
Shane frowned, staring straight up at the blurry ceiling. “Ruined your fun.”
“What?”
“Your fun. It was supposed to be like a vacation for you, during my heat.”
Rozanov stood and leaned over the bed so he was right in Shane’s vision. His gold necklace glinted, the wedding ring on it dangling like a tease. “What the fuck? Does heat make you lose brain?”
“Huh?”
The hand on his stomach moved to flick Shane’s forehead, and he felt…weird. He and his husband didn't do physical contact, really. And this was barely anything, just a brief passing of a fingernail on his face. Yet…
Fuck. His boxers were getting wet. Fucking heat. He hated being in heat, especially when Rozanov was in the same room, talking all the while.
“—not a fucking vacation,” Rozanov was saying roughly. “I nearly go insane thinking of you during practice, and then I get call, and I come here to take care of you, and…ah, fuck.”
Rozanov moved away from the bed, clamping his fingers over his nostrils. Oh.
“Told you I would stink up the place,” Shane muttered, avoiding his husband’s intense gaze.
“Not stink, I just—“
“Can you leave?” Shane interrupted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rozanov flinch. “Master bedroom’s s’posed to be my space. Fuck…ah, fuck off.”
The heat was settling in again, slurring his words and melting his bones and making Rozanov’s scent tantalizing instead of repulsive. Shane wanted to rip his own skin off.
“Yes,” Rozanov whispered, almost too quiet to hear as he backed away from the bed and toward the door. “I will leave room. I will still be in house, though, so yell if you need anything.”
“Leave house,” Shane mumbled, even as his stomach twisted under the heating pad as if it protested the idea. “Leave, Rozanov. Please.”
“No, swee—Shane. It was bad idea for me to leave at the start. I will stay, and will be here for anything you need. If you need nothing, then that is fine too.”
Shane pulled one of the new blankets over his head at that. Then he pulled it down just enough to sneak a peek at Rozanov leaving the room and closing the door gently behind him.
His ass looked good in his joggers.
Shit.
Shane woke with a jerk, and immediately felt weird. A quick check on his phone told him that, yep, a day had passed since he remembered calling his parents during his preheat. He didn't feel in heat now, which was strange. And then he swiftly realized that he didn’t remember much else from the previous day.
Were heats supposed to invoke amnesia? Were they only supposed to last less than a day? Fuck, he didn’t know! All he could recall were brief flashes of sensations. Something cool on his forehead, something warm on his stomach, and the smell of…cinnamon?
Shit! He shot up and immediately regretted it when his head throbbed. Shit, his parents had sent Rozanov over. Was he still here? Had he…
It was unthinkable, but Shane still slowly reached a hand into his disgusting boxers. They were the same ones he’d worn in his last memory, so that was a good sign. And his hole was…tender, and wet, but still tight enough to be deemed unused. That was good.
Ugh. This wasn't good. Shane needed a shower.
He spent too much time in the shower. Usually, he showered quickly and efficiently, not wanting to use too much water, but this time he relished how it felt on his skin. After days of feeling so hot, even if he didn’t remember most of it, being able to soak in hot water without overheating felt nice. He took extra care scrubbing down there, multiple times, even though the whole house must have still stunk of his slick by now.
At one point, Shane paused and rested his forehead against the cool shower tile. His fingers found the bite mark on his neck and traced it almost reverently. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” he asked himself quietly. “How am I even going to face him now?”
His phone buzzed from the sink counter, prompting him to wrap up his shower so he could check it. He left the water on as he stepped out onto the bath mat. His phone screen displayed a text from—fucking of course—Rozanov.
Rozanov, 3:57 PM
You okay? I hear shower.
Shane took a deep breath before typing his reply.
Shane, 3:59 PM
Yep. Weirdly quick, but my heat is done, I think.
A voice echoed through the house, but the sound of the water drowned it out. Shane turned the shower off, then called back, “What?”
“You think?” Rozanov asked, louder this time. His voice sounded weird. Nasally, almost?
Shane rolled his eyes and didn’t answer, choosing instead to quickly dry off, get changed, and put on fresh scent patches so he could leave the master bedroom. He didn’t get far, because as soon as he stepped through the door, he bumped into something warm and hard. “Ah!”
“Sorry,” Rozanov said immediately, taking a step back. He looked as tired as Shane felt, with deep bags under his eyes and…and a clothespin on his nostrils? That explained the nasally voice. “I was making sure you didn’t slip and fall in shower.”
Shane bristled. “What, you think one measly heat is enough to make me incapable of taking a damn shower?”
Rozanov’s eyes narrowed. “You fell last night trying to get out of bed. Almost hit your head on the dresser.”
Oh. Oops. Shane blushed. “I don’t remember that. Sorry.”
“No sorry,” Rozanov dismissed. “Memory loss is normal for first heat after so long on suppressants.”
“It is?” Shane asked, then frowned. “Wait, how do you know that? I thought you said you’ve never been with an omega during their heat.”
Now it was Rozanov’s turn to flush, a pretty pink spreading over his high cheekbones. “I haven’t. I uh, I called doctor when I came here at the start. To get advice, other than Yuna’s.”
Yuna, Shane mouthed. He vaguely remembered his parents calling his husband by his first name, too, on the phone. “Since when were you so familiar with my parents?”
“They are my in-laws,” Rozanov said quietly, looking away. “Is not unusual.”
“Yes it is. Even we don’t call each other by our first names.”
Rozanov looked at him, opening his mouth and then closing it like he didn’t know what to say. Shane had never seen him speechless like this before. It was…unnerving.
“Would it be so bad?” Rozanov asked finally, after several moments of silence.
“Would what?”
“Calling each other by first name.”
Shane huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re Rozanov, I’m Hollander. That’s how it’s always been.”
Rozanov tilted his head to the side, a small smile on his lips. “We are both Rozanov now. Have been for three years.”
A hot flash of anger curled through Shane’s gut. “And whose fucking fault is that?”
Rozanov’s smile dropped, and his eyes darkened. “No, I didn’t mean…Shane, I—“
“Don’t call me that!” Shane yelled, feeling entirely too overwhelmed all at once.
Because what the fuck? Why was Rozanov calling him by his first name so freely? Why had his heat been so quick? And…and the unwanted heat and its aftermath, Rozanov’s unwanted presence during it, their unwanted farce of a marriage…the damn unwanted bite on his neck. It was mind-boggling, all of it. Their past, and this situation.
Fuck. Shane could see that his husband was hurt by his outburst, given the way his moled cheeks were pale and his large fists were clenched. Shane tried to reign his anger in, taking slow and deliberate breaths. In and out. In and out.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbled after a few moments, a bit annoyed that Rozanov wouldn’t meet his eye. “Sorry, I think my hormones are still messing with my head. I didn’t mean it. I know it’s not your fault.”
“It is,” Rozanov said dejectedly, and it would be funny the way he took the clothespin off his nose if it weren’t for the absurd situation that was their sad life. “Is my fault. All of this.”
Now Shane was speechless. They didn’t really talk about this, ever. Three years of marriage, and he couldn't remember the last time they had discussed…the incident that started this all. After the commercial, where they had giggled together like close friends. In the showers, where Shane had realized just how attractive Rozanov was, and his scent glands had responded by pumping out an equivalent of a mating call, given he hadn't taken his suppressant pill.
Where Rozanov had lunged and bitten Shane without second thought. Which had resulted in Shane being kicked out of the league as a mated omega. Fuck.
“I don’t want you to think that,” Shane said reluctantly, because it was true.
Sure, he had negative feelings about everything, but he could admit to himself that in that moment, in the showers, he had wanted Rozanov to bite him. Or maybe not bite him, but at least touch him. Subconsciously, at least. Had it just been a response to the gap in the suppressants? Maybe. Had it been a continuation of the evening the previous year when they had worked out together, after the draft, when Rozanov's fingers brushing against Shane's had felt like lightning? Probably. But still. Shane had seen Rozanov's body, and had gotten aroused. Rozanov had bitten him in response, entirely without either of their consent.
“It’s complicated," Shane breathed. There was no other way to describe it. "Again, hormones. On both of our parts. I don’t really blame you. Honestly.”
Rozanov finally lifted his gaze from the floor, seeming to search for something in Shane’s face. “Really?”
“Really.”
The large alpha let out a long breath. “Okay. I…thank you for saying this.”
Shane let out a rare chuckle. “Thank you for being here. I’m sure I was a brat during my heat. Even if it only lasted…what, a day?”
“Just a little bit,” Rozanov admitted, finally smiling again. “Yes, just a day. Doctor said it may have been a false heat, since it may take time for your cycle to fully…uh, fix itself." His smile turned crooked, and Shane's heart skipped a beat. "I had to order a grocery delivery, since you hated your own meal prep. Tuna is your favorite meat, apparently." Shane blushed, and Rozanov laughed. "I also did not know you were so fond of cheesecake.”
“What?” Shane’s jaw dropped, utterly embarrassed. “You got cheesecake? And I ate it? That’s not in my diet!”
“Do not worry about it,” Rozanov dismissed. His left hand raised, the ring on his fourth finger glinting, before it dropped again. That was…weird, but Shane couldn't place it, his mind still a bit lost after everything. “First heat in a while. You were allowed to cheat.”
Shane groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “Fuck, no wonder I feel like shit.”
“Hormones.”
“Cheesecake.”
Shane peeked up at his husband, and Rozanov’s eyes were so fond. Pupils dilated despite the daylight flooding in from the windows. Smiling widely to display his pristine teeth, including the fake ones. Clothespin still in his right hand. He watched as Rozanov lifted his left hand again, definitively this time, to tuck a lock of hair behind Shane’s ear.
“I need a haircut,” Shane said thoughtlessly.
“Mm, maybe,” Rozanov rumbled. “Looks fine though. What you really need is breakfast.”
Shane threw his head back and groaned. He ignored the sharp inhale of breath he heard from his husband. “Yeah, probably. Is the blender clean? I should make a shake.”
Rozanov muttered something in Russian, then said, “No. No nasty protein shake this morning. I will make you breakfast.”
“But—“
“Sit,” Rozanov said bluntly, steering Shane to the couch in the living room with his hands on Shane’s shoulders. “Watch hockey or whatever, since you do that now. Good recovery from heat is important, your mom said. So just relax.”
Relax. Shane’s eyelids drooped, then he sat up straight as the mention of hockey washed over him. “Wait, hold on!” Rozanov froze from where he was on his way to the kitchen. “Ottawa had a game yesterday!”
“I did not go,” Rozanov said easily, like they were talking about the weather and not his career.
“You’re the star of the team!”
Rozanov smiled smugly. “Yes, I am, but since we are married, I get leave for my mate’s heat. Not big deal.”
Big deal. Shane briefly remembered Rozanov calling his heat a big deal, but shook it off. “So you didn’t play in the game? Did they lose?”
Rozanov sighed. “Yes.”
"Badly?”
The alpha stepped back to the couch and, after a moment’s hesitation, tipped Shane’s head up with fingers on his chin. “Yes. Team is bad without me, but is fine. We won't make playoffs anyways.”
Shane felt…he didn’t know how to feel. Rozanov used to be so competitive, so fierce in his loyalty to Boston before switching to Ottawa after the incident. He used to, seemingly, love facing Shane on the ice, used to badger him during games just like he did any other player who wasn’t an omega. Shane didn’t know how he’d missed it until now, but it seemed like Rozanov had lost that spark.
“When is the next game?” Shane asked, wracking his brain. “Sorry, I can’t remember. My mind is still fuzzy.”
“No sorry,” Rozanov said again. “Tuesday, in two days. I will need to fly to New York.”
“Okay,” Shane said softly, absentmindedly wrapping a throw blanket around himself. “Are you skipping practice today?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Huh?”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “I can skip today to stay here. If you want.”
That was…fuck, that was unreasonably tempting. Rozanov was wearing his scent patches as usual, but there was still that ever-lingering scent of cinnamon around him that Shane hated to love. Shane…he really wanted company—or at the very least, some hands to massage his still aching legs. Rozanov’s hands.
But they didn't do anything like that. Massages, god.
“I don’t want,” Shane said, and Rozanov’s lips twitched downwards. “I mean, I’ve already made you miss out on so much. So you should go.”
“You cannot make me do anything.”
They stared at each other after that. Shane was dumbfounded, again, at such a blunt and bold statement being said out loud. Rozanov looked…vulnerable, almost, with wide eyes and a slack mouth.
“Is lie,” Rozanov admitted before Shane could get anything out. “You can make me, but I also do what I want.”
“I know,” Shane whispered, even though he didn't totally get it. “And I know you probably want to get back to hockey. So go today.” Rozanov scowled, brows furrowing and thumbs going white from how hard he was gripping his pants. “Please?
“Yes,” Rozanov said immediately. “Yes, Sha—ah, fuck. Hollander.”
A weird, warm feeling bloomed in Shane’s chest. Shane. Rozanov had called him that, hadn't he? Just try to relax, Shane. Rozanov had said that. It should have felt horrifying, like an extreme invasion of privacy. But for some reason…Shane kind of liked it. And he especially liked that Rozanov was hesitant to repeat it now, as if it were some point of no return.
Should he pretend that he remembered absolutely nothing from this preheat, heat mess? Shane met Rozanov's eyes again, and found a mix of emotions. He wasn't able to interpret them, not without a matching mating mark on Rozanov's neck, but those hazel eyes were more expressive than Shane had ever thought possible. Extremely expressive, yes, but Shane couldn't put a name to any of the emotions swimming in those irises.
Well, that was a lie. There was one emotion that was pretty apparent. Fear. What Rozanov was scared of, Shane didn't know for sure. But he had a feeling it had to do with his first name.
“It’s fine,” Shane admitted quietly, because it really was. “Call me what you want. Shane is fine." Rozanov's face brightened, and Shane couldn't really handle that, so he quipped, "Since you do what you want.”
Rozanov smiled gently. “Yes, Shane.”