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The NHL insists it no longer believes in hierarchy.
That’s the line they sell in press conferences, in glossy diversity statements tucked between sponsorships and salary caps. The language has softened over the years, sanded down into something that sounds almost kind. Equality. Opportunity. Merit.
But anyone who has ever stepped into a locker room knows better.
Hierarchy doesn’t vanish just because you stop naming it. It sinks deeper. Becomes instinct. Becomes something you feel in the way rooms tilt toward certain people, in the way eyes follow some bodies and slide past others.
Alpha.
Beta.
Omega.
Three letters that once decided everything.
In the early years, the league didn’t try to hide it. Alphas were captains by default, faces of franchises, built for leadership and pressure. Betas were the stabilizers, the adaptable backbone of every roster. Omegas were liabilities. Too emotional, too volatile, too “biologically inconvenient” for a sport that demanded control above all else.
The solution had been simple then.
Don’t draft omegas.
When that became illegal, they benched them. When that drew lawsuits, they traded them. When public opinion began to shift, the league pivoted, smiling tightly, rewriting its rules just enough to survive.
What no one expected was that omegas would survive too.
Not quietly. Not gratefully.
Violently well.
The game changed because it had to. Speed increased. Playmaking evolved. Strategies adapted around players who read the ice differently, who anticipated movement not just with training but with instinct. Omegas brought something dangerous with them: unpredictability sharpened into precision.
The league learned to tolerate them. Then to profit from them.
Still, tolerance isn’t the same as respect.
Every omega who made it to the NHL learned early that success wasn’t enough. You had to be undeniable. You had to be better than your alpha counterpart just to be considered equal. You had to absorb scrutiny without flinching, insults without reacting, and suspicion without ever giving it what it wanted.
Because the moment you cracked, the hierarchy would reassert itself like gravity.
Ilya Rosanov grew up knowing this before he ever laced skates.
In Russia, the system was even less forgiving. Omegas were steered away from contact sports early, encouraged into “safer” paths, praised for discipline while being quietly redirected elsewhere. Ilya resisted every attempt. He fought. He skated. He learned how to take a hit and smile afterward, blood in his mouth and defiance in his eyes.
By the time he crossed the Atlantic, he wasn’t asking for space.
He was taking it.
The NHL called him disruptive. Analysts used words like volatile, high-risk, emotional liability. The same phrases recycled endlessly, just polished enough to sound professional.
On the ice, none of it mattered.
Ilya didn’t play like an omega trying to prove something. He played like a force correcting the universe. Fast, brutal when needed, surgical when it counted. He didn’t apologize for dominance just because it came from the body the league least expected it from.
Fans loved him for it. Teammates trusted him. Opponents learned quickly not to underestimate him.
Still, the whispers never stopped.
And then there was Shane Hollander.
The league loved Shane.
From the moment he entered the draft, everything about him fit neatly into the narrative they preferred. Alpha. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Calm under pressure. Coachable. Dependable. The kind of player commentators described using words like solid and steady, like he was an anchor holding everything else in place.
He was leadership embodied. Or at least, that’s what everyone saw.
Shane had learned early how to hold himself. How to be still. How to project certainty even when his thoughts raced and his chest tightened under scrutiny. Being an alpha didn’t come with the loud confidence people expected from it. For Shane, it came with responsibility first, expectation second, and self-awareness last.
He was good at hockey because hockey had rules. Clear lines. Cause and effect.
People were harder.
The locker room hierarchy slotted him neatly at the top whether he asked for it or not. Younger players looked to him instinctively. Coaches relied on him. Media trusted him to say the right thing, never too much, never too little.
No one asked if he wanted it.
And Shane, polite to a fault, never thought to refuse.
The first time Shane played against Ilya Rosanov, he felt it like static under his skin.
It wasn’t attraction at first. Not consciously. It was awareness. The way Ilya moved across the ice with unapologetic presence, omega scent controlled but unmistakable, threaded through adrenaline and ice and sweat. Shane had faced dominant alphas before, players who tried to establish control through aggression and volume.
Ilya didn’t bother.
He skated like he already knew he’d won something Shane hadn’t realized he’d lost.
Shane told himself it was just competition. Rival teams always sharpened awareness. Studying an opponent didn’t mean anything beyond strategy.
But awareness lingered.
It followed Shane off the ice, into interviews, into quiet moments when his thoughts drifted back to a smirk caught in passing, a look held half a second too long. He hated that his pulse betrayed him. Hated even more that Ilya seemed to notice.
Because Ilya noticed everything.
Omegas like him had to.
The league tried to sell a narrative where biology no longer mattered. Where designations were paperwork and not instinct. But instincts don’t disappear just because society wishes they would. They adapt. They find new channels.
On the ice, hierarchy showed up in subtler ways now. In who took control during chaotic plays. In whose voice cut through the noise during timeouts. In who players gravitated toward when pressure mounted.
Shane should have been the gravitational center.
And yet, whenever Ilya was present, something shifted.
It wasn’t that Shane felt challenged in the traditional sense. It was worse. It was that Ilya didn’t challenge him at all. Didn’t try to undermine, didn’t posture, didn’t provoke for dominance like other players did.
Ilya simply existed, fierce and self-possessed, omega designation worn like a blade instead of a weakness.
And Shane, despite everything he was supposed to be, felt the urge not to push back.
He felt the urge to yield.
That terrified him.
Because in a league that still quietly believed alphas should lead and omegas should follow, there was no script for an alpha who didn’t want to take.
There was no language for submission chosen freely.
And there was certainly no room for an omega like Ilya Rosanov, who didn’t ask permission to dominate.
The hierarchy was cracking. Not loudly. Not publicly.
But in the spaces between rules.
Between skates cutting ice.
Between two players who felt the shift coming long before the league ever would.
Shane Hollander learned how to disappear in plain sight.
It wasn’t a conscious decision at first. It was survival dressed up as politeness. As being easy to coach, easy to like, easy to rely on. When expectations gathered around him like a second skin, he learned to wear them smoothly. To nod. To listen. To do what was needed without asking whether it cost him anything.
Being an alpha meant people assumed certainty lived inside him.
They mistook his quiet for confidence.
Shane didn’t correct them.
On the ice, it worked. He knew exactly where to be, how hard to push, when to pull back. He played a controlled game, one that looked effortless from the outside and felt meticulously managed from the inside. His instincts didn’t roar. They whispered. They asked permission before they acted.
He’d learned early that wanting too much was dangerous.
Alpha instincts were supposed to demand. To take space. To assert. Shane’s instincts curled inward instead, cautious and observant. He liked structure. He liked being told what was expected of him. He liked meeting those expectations perfectly and disappearing back into the role afterward.
No one questioned it. Why would they?
He fit the shape.
The locker room saw a steady presence, someone who didn’t rattle easily, someone who could anchor a line without drama. Coaches praised his discipline. Teammates trusted him because he never surprised them.
What they didn’t see was the way attention made his skin prickle. The way direct praise tightened something uncomfortable in his chest. The way he preferred following a plan someone else had already drawn.
Especially when that someone was decisive.
Especially when that someone didn’t need him to be anything other than present.
Shane didn’t think about submission in those terms. He didn’t give it a name. It was just a quiet sense of relief when someone else took control, when he could lean into expectation instead of carrying it.
He told himself it was normal. That all alphas didn’t have to be loud. That restraint was a virtue.
And then there was Ilya Rosanov, who refused restraint like it was an insult.
Ilya had never learned how to make himself smaller.
Every attempt to shape him had failed. Coaches tried discipline. Media tried narrative. Opponents tried intimidation. None of it stuck.
He was an omega, yes. But not the kind the league liked to parade as proof of progress. He didn’t soften himself to be palatable. He didn’t perform gratitude. He didn’t apologize for being dominant in a way that made people uncomfortable.
His reputation followed him like a shadow.
Too aggressive.
Too emotional.
Too intense.
Ilya listened to it all with an expression that suggested he was filing it away, not to internalize, but to weaponize later.
On the ice, he played with a ferocity that wasn’t reckless, just unflinching. He took hits without flinching, delivered them with precision, and never once backed down from an alpha who assumed size equaled authority.
If someone badmouthed him, especially about his designation, Ilya didn’t argue.
He smiled.
Then he outplayed them so thoroughly the commentary had no choice but to change its tune.
Shane noticed the pattern long before he admitted it to himself.
He noticed how Ilya’s presence altered the energy of a game. How alphas who usually dominated play found themselves reacting instead of initiating. How betas instinctively adjusted their positioning around him, drawn into his orbit without conscious thought.
Ilya didn’t lead by commanding. He led by certainty.
It unsettled people.
It fascinated Shane.
He watched from the bench sometimes, helmet off, breath fogging in the cold air, eyes tracking Ilya’s movements with more attention than strategy strictly required. He told himself it was analysis. Studying an opponent was smart.
But analysis didn’t explain the way his pulse jumped when Ilya glanced his way. Or the heat that crept up his neck when their gazes met for half a second too long.
Shane hated that his body reacted first.
He hated that Ilya seemed to know.
Because Ilya looked at him differently than he looked at other alphas. Not with challenge. Not with defiance. With curiosity. With something assessing and sharp, like he was cataloguing details Shane didn’t know he was giving away.
The first time someone insulted Ilya within Shane’s earshot, Shane froze.
It was off the ice. A passing comment in a hallway, muttered by a player who thought no one important was listening. Something about omegas being liabilities, about the league bending over backwards to accommodate them.
Shane opened his mouth.
Ilya didn’t let him speak.
He turned slowly, expression calm, eyes bright with something dangerous. His response was measured, devastatingly polite, and ended with a reminder of his stats, his performance, and the very recent game-winning goal that had secured his team’s playoff position.
The other player retreated, red-faced and silent.
Ilya didn’t look at Shane afterward. He didn’t need to.
Shane stood there, heart pounding, painfully aware of his own uselessness. Of how instinct had urged him to step in, to protect, to assert alpha authority and shut it down.
And how thoroughly unnecessary it had been.
Ilya didn’t need protecting.
That realization lodged itself somewhere deep and refused to move.
Shane began noticing smaller things after that. The way Ilya held eye contact a fraction longer than polite. The way his omega scent never spiked with stress, always controlled, always intentional. The way he occupied space like he expected the world to adjust around him.
Shane, for all his alpha designation, was the one adjusting.
He caught himself deferring in subtle ways during games. Anticipating Ilya’s movements not just to counter them, but to accommodate them. It made no tactical sense.
It made perfect instinctual sense.
And that terrified him more than attraction ever could.
Because attraction could be rationalized. Explained away. Buried under professionalism.
Instinct was harder to deny.
Shane started avoiding Ilya’s gaze. Started tightening his poker face, locking everything down so tightly that even he struggled to feel where one reaction ended and another began.
It worked.
Mostly.
Until it didn’t.
Until the league brought them into closer proximity. Rivalry games. High-stakes matches. Press events where they stood a little too close under too-bright lights, cameras flashing, questions skirting the edges of rivalry and respect.
Ilya never broke.
Shane almost did.
Every interaction sharpened something between them, unspoken and unresolved. A tension that didn’t fit neatly into the narratives the league preferred.
Alpha versus omega. Leader versus liability.
This wasn’t that.
This was something inverted. Something dangerous. Something that lived in the quiet spaces between words, in the way Shane’s instincts leaned instead of lunged, and in the way Ilya noticed and smiled like he’d been waiting for exactly this.
Neither of them named it.
Not yet.
But the ice was thinning.
And both of them could feel how close it was to breaking.
-----------------
The game is ugly.
Not sloppy. Not undisciplined. Ugly in the way high-stakes hockey always is, when speed sharpens into aggression and every shift carries consequence. The kind of game where bodies collide harder than necessary and no one apologizes for it.
Shane thrives in games like this. Or he’s supposed to.
His line holds steady. His positioning is flawless. He plays the way he always does: controlled, precise, unshowy. He absorbs pressure and redirects it, lets the chaos flow around him instead of through him.
Across the ice, Ilya Rosanov is doing the opposite.
He creates chaos.
Every time he touches the puck, the rhythm changes. Defenders hesitate. Passing lanes collapse. He doesn’t just skate into space, he makes it, forcing the game to bend around his choices. His omega scent flares just enough to unsettle without overwhelming, a low hum of presence threaded through adrenaline and ice.
Shane feels it even from the bench.
He tells himself it’s awareness. It’s his job to track threats, to anticipate danger before it manifests. That’s what good alphas do. That’s what good players do.
But awareness doesn’t explain the way his focus keeps narrowing until Ilya is the axis everything else spins around.
Every shift they share the ice, Shane feels pulled. Drawn out of position in ways he has to consciously correct. He catches himself anticipating Ilya’s movements not to shut them down, but to meet them, like something in him wants alignment instead of opposition.
It makes his chest feel tight.
It makes his jaw ache from holding himself back.
The game goes to the wire. A goal separates them. Tempers flare late in the third, sticks clashing, gloves grabbing jerseys just long enough to skirt penalties. Shane plays peacemaker more than once, stepping between players, steady voice cutting through raised ones.
Ilya watches him do it.
Not with mockery. With interest.
The final buzzer sounds like release.
The crowd roars. The bench erupts. Shane exhales, muscles burning, lungs screaming for air. He pushes himself off the ice, letting the noise wash over him, helmet still on, visor fogged with sweat.
They pass each other in the neutral zone during the customary post-game drift.
It happens fast.
Ilya veers just enough to clip Shane’s shoulder.
Not a check. Not even a hit.
A calculated interruption.
Shane stumbles half a step, momentum carrying him forward. His skate catches awkwardly, and before he can correct, there’s a solid presence in front of him. Ilya’s hand comes up, pressing flat against Shane’s chest to steady him.
They stop.
Too close.
The world narrows to the space between them. To the press of bodies through layers of gear. To breath fogging the cold air between their faces.
Shane’s heart slams hard against his ribs, right where Ilya’s hand rests.
Instinct flares.
Every alpha reflex he’s ever been taught screams to reassert. To straighten. To step back. To dominate the space he’s momentarily lost.
He does none of it.
He freezes.
Ilya looks up at him.
There it is.
The smirk isn’t cruel. It isn’t even particularly smug. It’s sharp, satisfied, like Ilya has just solved a puzzle he’s been working on for a while.
Shane feels it then. The moment his poker face cracks.
It’s subtle. A hitch in his breath. A faint flush creeping up his neck. His eyes flicker, just for a second, betraying something softer, something startled and exposed.
Ilya sees all of it.
His grip doesn’t tighten. He doesn’t push Shane away immediately. He lets the moment stretch, lets the tension bloom until it’s almost painful.
“Careful,” Ilya murmurs, voice low enough that it’s swallowed by crowd noise and clattering skates. “You’re not very good at pretending.”
Shane swallows. His mouth opens. No sound comes out.
Ilya’s eyes gleam.
“Interesting,” he adds, and then he pushes off, clean and controlled, disengaging like nothing happened.
He skates away with easy confidence, back straight, victory in his stride that has nothing to do with the scoreboard.
Shane stands there for half a second too long.
Heat floods his face. His pulse races. The echo of Ilya’s touch lingers like a bruise he can feel forming under the pads.
Teammates brush past him, shouting, laughing, already shifting focus to the locker room. Someone claps his shoulder. Someone says his name.
He nods automatically. Moves when he’s supposed to move.
But something has shifted.
Because that wasn’t rivalry.
That wasn’t aggression.
That was recognition.
Shane strips his gear in the locker room with hands that feel clumsier than usual. He keeps his head down, focused on routine, on muscle memory. Skate guards. Tape. Water bottle.
Don’t think about the way Ilya’s hand felt on your chest.
Don’t think about the smirk.
Don’t think about the way your body responded before your mind could intervene.
The truth settles heavy in his stomach.
Ilya knows.
Not everything. Not yet. But enough.
Enough to see through the alpha veneer. Enough to recognize the hesitation, the compliance lurking under all that carefully curated control.
Enough to use it.
Shane tells himself it doesn’t matter.
They’re rivals. Different teams. Different paths. This was a moment born of adrenaline and proximity, nothing more.
Except his instincts don’t agree.
They hum, low and restless, like something has been awakened and doesn’t intend to go back to sleep.
Across the building, in a different locker room, Ilya Rosanov is smiling to himself as he peels off his gear.
He hadn’t planned the push.
But he’s glad he did.
Because now he knows exactly how deep this goes.
And he intends to see how far Shane Hollander is willing to fall once someone finally gives him permission.
The locker room smells like sweat, metal, and relief.
It’s the familiar aftermath of a hard-fought game. Gear clatters onto benches. Laughter spikes and fades. Someone blasts music from a tinny speaker, the bass rattling against concrete walls. Trainers move through the space with practiced efficiency, taping, checking, murmuring.
Shane sits at his stall and goes through the motions.
Helmet off. Gloves down. Skate laces loosened.
Routine is a shield. If he keeps his hands busy, maybe his thoughts will stop circling the same point of heat in his chest. Maybe the echo of Ilya’s voice won’t keep replaying, soft and knowing, like it carved itself somewhere under his skin.
Careful. You’re not very good at pretending.
Shane presses his lips together and focuses on unbuckling a pad.
He almost doesn’t hear the locker room door open again.
Almost.
The scent hits first.
Omega. Controlled. Deliberate.
Shane’s hands still.
Conversations around him stutter, then resume at a lower volume, curiosity threading through the noise. He looks up despite himself.
Ilya Rosanov steps into the room like he’s been invited.
He’s still in his base layers, hair damp from sweat, expression relaxed in a way that sets Shane’s nerves on edge immediately. This isn’t the sharp, game-ready Ilya from the ice. This is something looser. More dangerous.
A few players glance at each other. One of Shane’s teammates frowns.
“Hey,” someone says cautiously. “You’re in the wrong room.”
Ilya smiles at them, polite and entirely uninterested.
“I know,” he says.
His eyes flick back to Shane.
Shane’s stomach drops.
Ilya walks closer, boots echoing softly against the floor. He doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t rush the moment. He lets awareness ripple through the room, lets people notice, lets them wonder.
Shane feels exposed, suddenly, like the carefully maintained walls around him have gone transparent.
“Relax,” Ilya says mildly, stopping just short of Shane’s stall. “I’m not here to steal anyone.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room. Tension eases, fractionally.
Ilya leans against the edge of the bench, arms folding loosely across his chest. He looks entirely at ease in enemy territory, omega presence steady and unchallenged.
Shane swallows.
“What do you want?” he asks, keeping his voice even.
Ilya’s gaze flicks to his face. Slowly. Deliberately.
“To talk,” he says. “Unless you’re scared of that.”
A couple of heads turn more sharply now. Shane feels heat creep up his neck. He hates how easily Ilya can do this. How little effort it seems to take.
“I’m busy,” Shane replies. It’s a weak defense and they both know it.
Ilya hums softly, like he finds that amusing.
“Funny,” he says. “You didn’t seem very busy out there.”
Shane’s breath catches. He grips the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening.
“Not here,” he mutters. “This isn’t—”
“Professional?” Ilya finishes for him. His eyes gleam. “You’re right. Let’s be professional.”
He straightens, expression smoothing into something neutral enough that the watching players lose interest. Conversations pick back up. Music swells.
Ilya leans closer anyway, voice dropping just enough that only Shane can hear.
“My room,” he says quietly. “1221.”
Shane stiffens.
“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too loud.
Ilya doesn’t look offended. He looks entertained.
“You don’t even want to know why?” he asks.
Shane shakes his head once, sharp.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Ilya tilts his head, studying him. His omega scent shifts, just slightly. Not flaring. Not aggressive. Intentional.
“I didn’t ask,” he says.
The words land heavy. They’re not loud. They don’t need to be.
Shane’s instincts react before his brain can catch up. A shiver runs down his spine, heat pooling low in his stomach, traitorous and undeniable. His mouth goes dry.
Ilya straightens, already stepping back.
“Room 1221,” he repeats, like he’s confirming a detail rather than issuing a command. “You have ten minutes.”
He turns and walks out.
The locker room door swings shut behind him.
Shane sits frozen, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat.
Ten minutes pass like a blur.
He finishes undressing on autopilot, hands shaking just enough that he has to steady himself. He avoids eye contact. Avoids conversation. Mumbles something about a shower and leaves before anyone can ask questions.
The hallway outside is quieter. Cooler. The noise of the locker room fades behind him, replaced by the hum of overhead lights and distant voices.
Shane walks.
He tells himself he’s just clearing his head. That he needs air. Space. Time to think.
He presses the elevator button anyway.
The ride up is excruciatingly slow. Each floor that passes tightens something in his chest. He watches the numbers tick upward like they’re counting down to something inevitable.
When the doors open on the twelfth floor, he hesitates.
This is where he stops, he tells himself.
This is where he turns around and goes back to his room and pretends none of this ever happened.
His feet move anyway.
Room 1221 is at the end of the hall.
The door opens before he can knock.
Ilya stands there, already waiting.
“Right on time,” he says softly.
The room is dimmer than the hallway, lights low, curtains drawn. The air is warm, heavy with omega scent that wraps around Shane the moment he steps inside.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
Shane’s pulse spikes.
Ilya turns, leaning back against the desk, watching him with open appraisal.
“You look nervous,” he observes. “That’s adorable, coming from an alpha.”
Shane flushes. He hates how exposed he feels. How easily Ilya reads him.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says honestly.
Ilya’s smile sharpens.
“I do.”
He pushes off the desk and moves closer, slow and deliberate. He stops just inside Shane’s personal space, close enough that Shane has to tilt his head down to meet his eyes.
“You don’t like being in charge,” Ilya says quietly. “You wear leadership like a borrowed coat. Looks good on you, but you’re always adjusting it.”
Shane’s breath stutters.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Ilya interrupts gently. “And you hate that I noticed.”
He lifts a hand, stopping just short of touching Shane’s chest, hovering there like a promise.
“You’re an alpha,” Ilya continues. “Strong. Disciplined. Everyone expects you to take.”
His eyes flicker downward, then back up.
“But you don’t want to,” he finishes.
Shane’s hands clench at his sides. His voice comes out rough.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Ilya steps closer. The space between them disappears. Shane can feel heat radiating from him, scent curling insistently around his senses, making his head spin.
“You came,” Ilya says. “After I told you not to argue. After I told you where to be.”
He smiles slowly.
“That tells me everything.”
Shane swallows hard.
“Ilya—”
Ilya lifts a finger and presses it lightly to Shane’s lips.
“Quiet,” he says.
Shane goes still.
The silence stretches, thick and charged, the room holding its breath along with them.
Ilya’s eyes darken with satisfaction.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Now stand there and let me look at you.”
Shane obeys.
The air between them tightens until it’s almost unbearable.
And that’s where I stop.
The silence after Ilya’s command is not empty.
It presses in from all sides, thick and deliberate, shaped by the steady hum of the hotel’s ventilation and the muted city noise seeping through the windows. Shane becomes acutely aware of every inch of himself standing in that space. The weight of his body. The heat under his skin. The way his instincts have gone unnervingly quiet, like they’re waiting for further instruction.
Ilya doesn’t rush.
He circles Shane slowly, steps unhurried, eyes tracking him with open interest. Not hunger yet. Assessment. The kind that strips pretense layer by layer without ever laying a hand on him.
“You hold yourself like you’re braced for impact,” Ilya says lightly. “Always ready to absorb.”
Shane swallows. His throat feels dry. “That’s… part of the job.”
“Is it?” Ilya asks, stopping behind him.
Shane feels the presence at his back immediately. The warmth. The omega scent that doesn’t beg or bloom but claims space, curling around him like it has every right to be there. His shoulders tense instinctively.
“Relax,” Ilya murmurs. “I’m not going to touch you. Yet.”
The word lands heavy.
Shane exhales slowly, forcing himself to loosen the tight line of his shoulders. He hates how easily his body responds. How relief threads through him at the absence of contact instead of disappointment. How his instincts are bending toward compliance without resistance.
Ilya steps into his line of sight again, facing him now.
“Look at me,” he says.
Shane does.
Ilya’s gaze is sharp but not unkind. There’s amusement there, yes, but also focus. Intent. This isn’t a game to him, Shane realizes. Or rather, it is, but one with rules Shane doesn’t know yet.
“You know what people say about omegas in this league,” Ilya continues calmly. “That we’re reactive. That we follow. That we need direction.”
He lifts his chin slightly. “Tell me if that looks like me.”
Shane shakes his head once, barely perceptible.
“No.”
“Good.” Ilya smiles faintly. “Then let’s stop pretending your designation decides anything about what you want.”
He steps closer again. Close enough that Shane can feel the heat between them, close enough that he has to fight the urge to drop his gaze.
“You came because I told you to,” Ilya says quietly. “Not because you were curious. Not because you were reckless.”
Shane’s breath stutters.
“You came because you like being told what to do.”
The words should sting. They don’t.
They settle.
Shane’s jaw tightens. “That’s not—”
Ilya lifts a hand, palm out. Not touching. Commanding anyway.
“Don’t correct me,” he says softly. “You’ve been correcting yourself all night.”
The hand lowers slowly, stopping just short of Shane’s chest. Close enough that Shane can feel the warmth radiating from it, his pulse thrumming in response.
“An alpha like you,” Ilya continues, voice low, “is taught that strength means control. That leadership means taking responsibility whether you want it or not.”
His eyes flick up to meet Shane’s again.
“But submission,” he adds, “is a choice.”
Shane’s chest feels tight. Something unravels inside him at that word. Choice. Permission.
“I didn’t come here to humiliate you,” Ilya says, almost gently. “Though I could.”
A flicker of heat runs through Shane at the thought before he can stop it.
Ilya notices.
His smile sharpens.
“I came because you’re honest when you think no one’s watching,” he continues. “And because the look on your face when I pushed you into the boards told me you’re tired of pretending you want what everyone expects from you.”
Shane’s voice is barely above a whisper. “What do you want from me?”
Ilya’s gaze darkens. “Nothing you’re not already giving.”
He steps in fully now, their bodies close enough that Shane can feel the solid line of him, the certainty in his posture, the omega dominance that doesn’t need force to be undeniable.
“Stand still,” Ilya says.
Shane obeys.
Ilya reaches up then, finally, fingers brushing along Shane’s jaw. The contact is light. Intentional. Shane’s breath catches sharply, his body reacting instantly, like it’s been waiting for permission to respond.
“See?” Ilya murmurs. “You don’t resist. You listen.”
His thumb tilts Shane’s chin upward, exposing his throat. Shane doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even think about it.
“That’s not weakness,” Ilya continues. “That’s trust.”
Heat pools low in Shane’s stomach. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure where to go, what to do without instruction.
Ilya leans in close, breath warm against Shane’s ear.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “And I will.”
Shane’s lips part.
The word doesn’t come.
Ilya smiles, slow and satisfied.
“Good alpha,” he murmurs.
The praise hits harder than any insult could. Shane’s knees feel weak. He sways slightly, and Ilya steadies him with a firm hand at his waist, grip confident, grounding.
“There it is,” Ilya says softly. “That look.”
He steps back just enough to take Shane in fully, eyes lingering on the flush creeping across his face, the way his posture has softened without him realizing.
“An alpha,” Ilya muses, “with all that power. And no idea what to do with it unless someone tells him.”
Shane’s voice is rough. “Ilya…”
Ilya steps in again, closer this time, their chests almost brushing. His hand slides from Shane’s waist to his wrist, lifting it just enough to pin it lightly against the wall behind him.
Not forceful.
Certain.
“You’ll do exactly what I say,” Ilya murmurs. “Because you want to. Because it makes you feel steady.”
Shane’s breath comes fast now. His pulse hammers under Ilya’s fingers.
“Yes,” he breathes, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
Ilya’s eyes flash.
“Say it again,” he commands.
“Yes.”
The room feels charged, humming with intent, every nerve in Shane’s body alight and waiting. Ilya leans in, lips brushing close enough to make the promise unmistakable.
“Good,” he whispers. “Now…”
"Kneel" Says Ilya. Shocked isn't the word to describe the expression on Shane's face but within a second he falls on his knees. Ilya pats his head, "Good boy".
Shane can see the hardness of Ilya from his pants. "You want that, don't you?" Shane whimpers..
"Remove my pants" comes the order and Shane hands shake but follows through. He touches his pants and get close with his hands when another command follows through, "with your teeth".. Shane just looks above at disbelief but is so turned on at the point that he starts leaking.
Ilya just smirks as Shane moves forward and uses his teeth to lower the zip and then looks at Ilya for help who kindly obliges and his pants with his underwear is down.
Ilya then closely walks towards the bedroom while Shane is just kneeling. Ilya turns back and says walk on all fours and come.. Shane is so hard right now that he might come but he knows better.. he silents walks and shame comes onto him.
If anybody gets to know that the captain of the NHL team, an alpha, a leader is walking on all fours, hard and leaking for an omega who is going to fuck him.. He cannot even begin to imagine what shall....
Ilya is waiting for him at the edge of the bed while Shane is reaching closer.. He still kneels to him as he waits for the next order.
Ilya's hand goes to hold Shane and he lowers him towards his dick. Shane tries to accommodate as this is his first time and Ilya is no way gentle with him.
"You are only here for my pleasure, right Omega? Only for me? take me all in.." Shane tries to nod while hollowing his cheeks as he tries to take every bit of Ilya.
Ilya gets close while Shane has tears from his eyes. "You will swallow for me Hollander... Do not drop one bit or you will be punished.."
Shane as he tries to comprehend suddenly has to take in all of Ilya as he start to come inside his mouth. Shane tries to swallow everything and does a good job as he gets gentle pats from Ilya.
Ilya then kisses Shane while he almost melts into the kiss.
Shane is pulled onto his legs and pushed into the bed. Ilya wastes no time as he goes to kiss him everywhere. Marking him and scenting him all over.
Shane is already so hard from blowing him with those kisses, he stats to plead Rosanov... "please.. Please.. ahh.. Please.. oh god.. I can't.. I am gonna come Rosanov"
Suddenly everything stops Ilya looks at him with such intensity. "You do not come till I am inside you Hollander"..
He then goes to remove all of Shane's cloths, leaving him empty. Ilya then goes to prep him with lube while jerking him off too.
"All of this big dick, full of knot and come but of no use huh Alpha.. What to do with all of this.. All good for nothing right? since you like to take it in only.."
Shane is ashamed and in shame but he is equally so hard and so close... Ilya's fingers turn from 1 to 2 to 3 while twisting and scissoring him.
Shane pleads with all his might, "please Rosanov, I will do anything please I need you in.. Please ahh.."
Ilya then looks at him "Call me Ilya..". "huh?".. "Call me Ilya when I am into you".. Shane rolls his eyes back and he feels he might just come...
He opens his legs wider to accommodate Ilya as he grabs a condom and gets close to him.
He slowly pushes in feeling him incredibly tight but since he is prepped well, he doesn't feel much pain only pleasure of being filled by Ilya.
Ilya murmurs in Russian as he goes fully in and waits. Shane takes deep breaths.
Shane then says, "Please.. move..". Ilya then starts to slowly start with small thrusts and the and when Shane tries to move with him, he starts to go faster.
Ilya is precise in his moves, fast and hard and hitting his prostate repeatedly... Shane is moaning in syllables as he cannot form any words..
All he remembers is the pleasure throughout his body.
Both of them are close.. Ilya starts jerking him off too.. "come for me Shane" and he comes by calling "Ilyaaa..".
Shane pulls Ilya towards him to kiss him deeply. They kiss for a long time while taking deep breaths.
They both calm down after a while just connected together not wanting to move away.
The room is different afterward.
Not calmer exactly, but settled, like something restless has finally found its place. The lights are still low, the curtains still drawn, but the air feels warmer now, heavy in a way that isn’t sharp anymore. Shane lies where Ilya left him, chest rising and falling unevenly, body humming with the echo of obedience and release.
He feels loose. Unarmored.
That should scare him.
Instead, it feels like relief.
Ilya moves first, not rushing, not pulling away completely either. He’s unhurried in the way of someone who knows he has all the time he wants. He grabs a glass from the desk, fills it with water, and brings it back without comment.
“Drink,” he says.
It’s not a command this time. It doesn’t need to be.
Shane pushes himself up with effort that feels disproportionate to the movement, muscles pleasantly heavy, mind still drifting somewhere between thought and instinct. He takes the glass with both hands, fingers brushing Ilya’s briefly.
That small contact sends a shiver through him.
Ilya notices. Of course he does.
“Easy,” he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly against Shane’s wrist. Grounding. Intentional. “You’re allowed to breathe now.”
Shane huffs out something that might be a laugh if he had more energy. He drinks, slow and careful, water cool against his throat. When he finishes, Ilya takes the glass and sets it aside without ceremony.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Shane stares at the wall, then at the ceiling, then finally at Ilya. His face feels warm again, heat blooming under Ilya’s steady gaze. He’s acutely aware of how open he must look right now. How much of himself is still laid bare.
“I didn’t know,” Shane says finally, voice quiet, rough around the edges, “that it could feel like that.”
Ilya’s expression shifts. Not smug. Not teasing. Something softer settles there, something almost careful.
“Most people don’t,” he says. “They think power is loud.”
He reaches out, brushing his knuckles along Shane’s shoulder, light and reassuring. “You let go. That’s harder.”
Shane swallows. His instincts, finally satisfied, curl inward instead of straining outward. He realizes dimly that he’s leaning closer without consciously deciding to.
Ilya lets him.
They sit like that for a while. Close but not tangled. The kind of proximity that feels earned.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Shane says, not because he believes it, but because part of him still needs to hear the answer.
Ilya snorts softly. “You absolutely should have.”
Shane glances at him, uncertain. “What does this mean?”
Ilya considers him for a long moment, head tilted, eyes sharp but warm.
“It means,” he says slowly, “that tonight stays tonight unless we decide otherwise.”
Shane nods, even as something tight coils in his chest at the thought.
Ilya catches it. Of course.
He smiles then, small and dangerous.
“We’ll meet again,” he says. Not a question. Not a promise. A fact delivered gently. “When you’re ready to stop pretending this surprised you.”
Shane’s face heats instantly.
“I—” He stops, shakes his head, embarrassed and helplessly fond all at once. “I’m not very good at hiding things from you.”
“I know,” Ilya says, pleased.
He stands, stretching languidly, completely at ease in his skin. At the door, he pauses and looks back.
“Get some rest, alpha,” he adds lightly. “You did very well.”
The praise lands softly this time, settling instead of detonating.
Shane watches him go, heart still racing, body still humming, the certainty of it all sinking in slowly.
He presses his face into the pillow and lets himself smile.
Just a little.