Chapter Text
(Cover Art Commissioned by Ka-Ren)
“Take the shot.” Shane told himself.
“A little closer…” Shane growled.
“Take the shot.” Shane insisted.
“No, it’s got to be perfect. It’s got to be angry and violent. It has to send a message.” Shane barked.
“What are you doing, idiot!? Take the shot! LOOK AT THE CLOCK!” Shane finally screamed to himself.
Shane tried to get as close as he could to the goal before the shot, his skates carving into the ice of the hockey stadium, and his sweaty, muscular body going into overtime underneath the layer of gear. His black hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes narrowed in.
Reeling back, he made the shot. Hard, like a crack of lightning. The puck flew across the ice, between the goalie’s feet, and hitting the game-winning goal.
The crowd's roar and the buzzer of the game’s end hit Shane like a wall of thunder that came after the lightning. Above the ice, the Voyagers' fans rattled in their seats, his fellow teammates screeching from their bench, and the colossal LED screen strobed his own name across twenty thousand faces to announce the final goal.
Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyagers, lifted his stick, savoring the high, and let the cameras burn holes through his jersey, his face, the places where the sweat clung. He screamed, practically a howl that echoed the stands and made for a good press clip.
Behind him, the Boston Bears slunk to their bench, humiliated once more. The Boston home crowd howled for more, screamed obscenities at Canada’s Golden Alpha, smashing fists and foam fingers against the plexiglass, hungry for blood or whatever passed for it in today's league.
Shane grinned, teeth bright as cut ice, and tapped gloves with the next line cycling by. He skated off, feeling the vibration in his calves and thighs, the phantom echo of a shot gone clean past the Boston goalie, the one that made the final score a “fuck-you” seven-to-two. This would be the last knife in Boston’s ego for a while. Especially for them losing at their home arena, it would be humiliation on the sports channels that night.
The air inside the arena was thick with Alpha musk, artificial and deliberate, pumped through the HVAC so even Betas left smelling a little more primal. Shane drank it in, let it cling to his tongue and the roof of his mouth, suffocating the part of him that wanted anything soft.
He did a final turn, helmet off for a cocky bow. Cameras zoomed, banners dropped from their side of the arena, and the Voyagers’ fan voices rattled the rafters: "Hollander! Hollander! Hollander!" He could barely hear as both teams shook hands, not a single Alpha on the Boston team able to look him in the eye like a man.
The chant built and mutated, some sections turning it into "Captain! Captain! Captain!" which made him puff his chest for the crowd, just as PR demanded. He high-fived a little kid stationed by the bench, giving him a moment to remember forever.
In the tunnel, sound dropped from tidal wave to pinprick. The white walls, still humming with adrenaline, were lined with signed jerseys and a few battered sticks from Boston’s glory years. Shane drifted past, unstrapping his pads, nodding at the Beta equipment guys who never made eye contact for more than a heartbeat. The Beta staff kept things moving, fast and discreet, no matter how much the players trashed the place after a win.
He hit the locker room doors and braced for the onslaught.
Inside was pure chaos: players hollering, towels snapping, beer cans already hissing open. The air was five degrees warmer, sweat-soaked and layered with deodorized spray and hints of real, dangerous Alpha. Gatorade pooled around the drains. Someone had taped a rookie to the massage table with three rolls of medical wrap, a tradition borrowed from the old days. At least three guys were already naked and shaking their asses, because there was always some guys that just had to pull their dick out.
Shane beelined for his cubby at this away game, an open slot with a blue nameplate and a battered metal shelf. The bottom of his gear bag thumped as he slung it under the bench. With practiced fingers, he unscrewed the small glass bottle tucked in the side pouch. The label was worn off. He'd scraped it himself with the dull edge of a skate blade. He turned away from the room, hunched shoulders up, and dropped two careful beads of fake Alpha musk onto his inner wrists. Another under the chin, right at the pulse, and one more dab for insurance at the base of his throat. Sweat and the stress from the game had practically evaporated his first coating from earlier that day.
The bottle’s contents were sharp, chemical, not quite matching the real thing, but good enough that even the trainers couldn't clock him during routine checks. His own scent, naturally sweet, like vanilla extract, mixed well with it to make it seem all that real.
“Good enough to keep the lie alive.”
He capped the bottle, palmed it with the old trick, just another game puck in a world of pucks, and tucked it back in the seam of his bag. After a quick scan, he realized nobody noticed. He exhaled, let himself smile, and pulled off the rest of his jersey, slow and easy, like he had nothing to hide.
A rookie, Anders, still soft-faced and hopeful, yelped from the far side of the room. "Hey, Captain, you see this?" He jabbed a finger at the corner TV, which played a muted feed of the Canadian Figure Skating Nationals. The camera zoomed in on an Omega skater, a male one, with feathered red hair and glitter so thick on his skin-tight outfit it looked like body armor. He was competing against Rose Landry, and clearly had gone all out to beat the Canadian Princess. He probably wasn’t going to succeed, but good on him for trying.
A defenseman sneered. "Holy shit, I didn’t know they made Omega boys in that flavor. Why not just wear a fucking dress at that point?"
Another voice, higher up the bench: "Dude, he’s got better legs than my sister."
“Dude, he’s probably got a better pussy than your sister. I’ll have to test it out and compare,” another said.
A ripple of laughter, mean but not unfamiliar.
Shane’s jaw locked, just for a second, and he felt the anger percolate. He counted to two, always two, never three, and slid his voice right into the easy authority that came with the C stitched over his heart. "That Omega," he said, pointing at the screen, "has more discipline in his toes than most of you have in your whole body. You ever see the bullshit figure skaters have to go through? Focus on your own game, jackasses."
Somewhere, an Alpha forward mimed an exaggerated curtsy, and the laughter twisted, but softer now, drifting out and away.
Shane watched the Omega on the TV land a perfect quad, arms outstretched, then the camera cut to a close-up. The skater’s eyes were glazed with adrenaline, his chest heaving, but he never blinked at the crowd, never let the smile drop. Applause. Cheer. Adoration. For a man who was just being himself and being celebrated for it.
It hurt, in a way that was old and familiar, watching someone own what you could never show.
The rookie, Anders, blinked and then nodded at Shane, a little embarrassed. He went back to towel-drying his hair, missing the quick pulse of Shane’s nostrils, the way he had to force his own smile back into place.
He could still hear the voices from years ago, the ones that taught him how to play through pain, how to hate what made him different.
"Omegas should stick to figure skating. Leave real ice to the big dogs, little Omega." That had been Coach Marley, old-school Alpha, who liked to wrap his insults in a joke. He’d been a pee-wee coach in Shane’s hometown, and those words set a fire into little 11-year-old Shane Hollander, and inadvertently created the greatest hockey player of the current generation.
“Look, Omega, I respect your grit, but the first time you get knocked on your ass, you’re going to go crying to Mommy, and I can’t have that. I need real guys on my team, not whatever… You are.” Marley had said, before ripping up Shane’s pee-wee application and skating off to his team of young Alphas.
It was a miracle, really, that Shane hadn’t eaten the puck and skated away back then and gone into figure skating. An even greater miracle that he didn’t get caught a few years later in a new city, playing under his new alias, when the first Omega scents had landed and he’d had to wrap saran around his wrists and neck to keep the scent in under his jersey.
Instead, he learned to fake the signals, learned to play through it, learned to hate and admire the Alphas who could just walk into a room and fill it up without ever worrying someone would sniff out what they were.
He turned away from the TV, clapped Anders on the shoulder, and let himself be swallowed by the next round of back-slapping and beer-soaked celebration.
Shane made a circuit of the room, collecting congratulations for his game-winner, tapping helmets, slapping asses, making jokes, never letting the performance slip. The win felt good. It always did. Though behind the rush was the old, iron-edged fear: That one day, he’d make a single mistake, forget the musk, drop his guard, and everything he’d built would be gone.
He drifted, as he always did, to the corner where Ilya Rozanov had claimed his kingdom that night.
The Russian sat on the far bench, near the wet sinks and the stack of old-towels, smoking a cigarette he wasn't supposed to have. His hair was a wild mess, always damp, never tended to, like he'd just come from a gunfight and not a hockey game. He’d stripped down to his jockstrap, one of those old school Bike models, and nothing else.
Ilya’s body was built for violence. He was a massive Alpha, at 6’5 to Shane’s 5’9, broad, with muscles that weren’t for show, perfect for crushing people against the boards. He used those muscles, too, and he played with the calculated savagery of an armed mercenary out for a kill.
Everyone called him "The Dirty Russian". Not because of his looks, his heritage, or his smell, but because he used every underhanded trick in the book when he was on the ice and was particularly brutal and violent, even for an Alpha's standard. Even in Montreal, among their own Voyager fans, he was disliked. If he wasn’t the second best player on the team, he probably would have been traded by now.
Shane didn’t dislike Ilya. Call it an Omega’s intuition, but behind those dead, cold eyes, he could sense something like loyalty deep within.
He looked up, eyes flat and unreadable. "Captain," he said. The word was loaded, half-mock, half-respect. He’d gunned for the Captain spot for years now, but publicity (and team morale) wouldn’t give it to him.
Shane nodded. "Rozanov. Good work on that last line change. Helped us get that last shot in and humiliate them."
Ilya shrugged. "Team needed to win. I smack a bitch. Is what I do, no?"
He blew smoke up into the vent, watching the swirl dissipate, then stubbed out the cigarette in the heel of his skate. He eyed the can of beer Shane offered, then ignored it, reaching instead for the battered water bottle at his feet.
"You going to join the team for the bar run tonight before we fly home?" Shane asked, keeping the tone casual, captain-to-player.
Ilya leaned back, the muscles in his stomach pulling tight, his legs wide open and unselfconscious. He made no attempt to hide the heavy scent of Alpha, sweat-soaked and honest, none of the fake shit Shane had to wear.
"Is bad luck to celebrate with Deborah downer, no?" Ilya said, grinning. "We win, but everyone knows I’m not welcome. Even as hard as you try, Captain, you can’t wash stink off The Dirty Russian. I’ll nap at airport instead."
The rest of the room heard and laughed, but only lightly, not wanting to be the next target. Ilya was the only Alpha on the team who could get away with shit talking Shane.
Shane let himself smile, even as his heart did its old stutter-step. "Suit yourself," he said. "…but if you change your mind, first round’s on me."
He caught a glimpse of himself in the row of lockers behind Ilya, tall, angular, built for speed, not brute force. The fake musk was already blending into the room, but up close, the Russian’s scent was like an exposed nerve: all dominance, all honesty.
He envied it, hated it, wanted it, in ways he didn’t have words for.
Ilya tilted his head, studying Shane for a beat too long.
Shane met his gaze, steady as stone.
A flicker of something, approval, maybe, crossed Ilya’s face, and then he went back to his cigarette and water, ignoring the noise as if he'd already left the building.
Shane turned on his heel, still feeling the heat of the gaze on his neck, and merged into the celebration. There was another rookie to give shit, another trainer to thank, another round of bullshit to keep everyone loose and happy.
Though every move was measured. Every word, every laugh, every slap on the back was a calculation: was the performance holding? Did anyone suspect? Did the musk mask everything that needed masking? Was he being aggressive enough? Was he being “too” nice? Alphas didn’t act nice. Not unless they wanted something, anyway.
He checked his phone, found a text from his mother, Yuna, always knowing when he needed grounding.
Good game, Shane. Make sure you don’t forget your night patch. I left it in your bag. Love you! Proud of you!
He thumbed back a quick response: Thanks. I won’t. Love you, too.
He pocketed the phone and let himself be swept up in the noise, the mess, the joy.
Tomorrow would be another test. Another performance, another round of hiding in plain sight. Tonight, though? He was Captain Hollander, king of the ice, Canada’s Golden Alpha, and no one was going to take that from him.
Not yet.
+++++
By the time Shane hit the lobby of his apartment after the long flight back home, the city outside had drained itself of adrenaline, leaving only the milky glow of snow-filtered streetlights on the cold walks below. The doorman was a Beta, quiet, efficient, trained to offer a nod and nothing more. Shane crossed the marble floor and into the elevator, punching the penthouse code with the side of his thumb.
The doors shushed closed, sealing him off from the world, and he let himself breathe.
His apartment crowned the top peaks of Montreal, thirty stories above the city, the windows so wide they gave the illusion of floating over the skyline. He stepped into the opening of his apartment, swept his hand over the biometric panel, and watched the special digital readout ping green:
Welcome, S. Hollander.
Immediately, the environmental system whirred to life, stripping the space of all ambient scents that wasn’t his. The filter hissed, and he tasted the sharp, empty tang of ozone, his cue that it was safe to drop the act.
He locked the door, deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying, heavy click.
Inside, the apartment was dark except for the pulse of city lights outside and the blue glow from the kitchen's cabinet LEDs. Shane didn't bother turning on anything else; he liked the ambiguity, the way the walls seemed to fall away after a game. He slid his gym bag onto the entry bench and stood there, letting the silence wrap him up.
First, the wristbands. He peeled the matte black adhesive off his right wrist, then left, and dropped both strips into the biohazard bin by the door. Each one tugged at the sensitive skin, leaving faint red lines that would fade by morning. Next, he popped the collar of his undershirt and fished out the micro diffuser, a slim, white pod that clung to the base of his neck, pulsing every twenty minutes with synthetic Alpha signature. Too dangerous to use during games, but good for when he was in public. He thumbed the release and set it gently beside the bands.
His shoulders dropped half an inch. The smell of Alpha was already dying.
“Thank Christ.”
He moved to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a bottle of water. He downed half of it in three quick swallows. With the apartment stripped of all but the faintest hint of his own sweat, he could let his scent bleed through for the first time all day.
He toed off his shoes and walked the living room barefoot, gaze flicking to the city in pieces: skyscraper lights in the west, the slow snake of cars along the river to the east, the blinking red on top of the other towers. From this high up, it was easy to believe nothing could reach him.
He hit the bathroom and started the shower, set to maximum pressure. While the water heated, he leaned into the mirror, staring at his own reflection. The line of his jaw, the cut of his brow, the clean-cut of his hair. He looked every bit the Alpha he’d built for TV and press, but underneath, the real Shane, smaller, softer, eyes too quick to betray feeling, begged for permission to rest.
He stripped, stepping out of the clothes and tossed everything into the hamper, though on the inside he’d prefer to burn them. The shower’s white noise was a cocoon, and he stayed under the spray until the tension dissolved out of his calves and neck and all the sweat and smell of others was wiped out of him.
When he finished, he wrapped himself in the thick gray towel and started the only real “Omega” thing he allowed himself in his life.
Skin care.
Shane applied moisturizing, lotion on every inch of skin, hands moving with quiet urgency. He massaged his wrists, the sides of his neck, the place behind his left ear where the first heat symptoms always landed.
It was stupid, maybe. Childish for a 28-year-old man to spend so much money and effort into keeping his skin “pretty”, but this kind of care was the one comfort he’d allowed himself, the one piece of his Omega nature that nobody could take from him.
Once finished, he padded back into the main room. He poured himself a neat whiskey and let the burn remind him he was alive. His phone buzzed on the counter.
Mom, read the caller ID. She always called after games, even if she’d already texted.
He thumbed it open, heart clenching in a way that had nothing to do with scent or status.
"Hey, Mom."
Yuna’s voice was calm, low, but always colored with gentle warning. "Good win tonight, Shane. I watched until the end."
He smiled, real and tired. "Thought you hated hockey now."
"I hate what it does to you. I hate that you have to hide being an Omega and make yourself miserable so you can play. Not the game," she replied, which was typical. "You remembered your night patch? The doctor says you need it so the Alpha musk doesn’t trigger anything."
He glanced at the bottle of scentless transdermal patches on the kitchen island. "First thing I did. Promise."
"Tomorrow is your appointment with Dr. Levine. You’ll be on time?"
Shane paused, then nodded, knowing she could hear the motion through the phone. "Yeah. I’ll be there. Is he really going to go down on my suppressants?"
A click of tongue. "He says the levels are not optimal. Your bloodwork came in, and you’re… pushing yourself. You’ve had too many suppressants in your system for too long. Most Omegas only go on them for a month or two out of the year. You’re wearing them 365 days of the year."
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to talk about heats or suppressants or the risks of burnout, not now.
"Thanks, Mom," he said, softer. "I’ll take care of it. I’ll be safe,” Shane lied, knowing the perfect lilt of voice to use. The truth was? He’d pay off the doctor as he always did, to ensure he had the same dosage as ever. He’d fake a “good report” to placate his mother and father, even though he didn’t “legally” have to tell them anyway.
"I know you will." Her voice lost its edge. "You played well. You looked strong."
He blinked against the sudden wash of pride and guilt. "Thanks. Means a lot."
They let the line settle, neither wanting to hang up first.
"Goodnight, Shane."
"Goodnight, Mom."
He set the phone down and watched the ice cubes dissolve in his glass. He walked to the other end of the penthouse where the wall-sized trophy case waited in the dark.
He tapped the light, and the display illuminated: photos, plaques, and five replica cups from his championship seasons. Centered, behind the glass, was a blown-up image from his rookie year, Shane in a red-and-white junior jersey, holding a stick overhead, the first time he’d been called “The Golden Alpha” on live TV. The memory felt like a lie now, but the picture had been everywhere, proof to a watching world that he belonged.
Shane hated that picture.
Hated it so much he almost wished someone would come smash the glass, end the charade with a single, honest blow. If the world ever found out, these trophies would mean nothing. They’d be revoked, relabeled, re-contextualized in history, his face scrubbed from the records.
"Not a real Alpha," they’d say. "Not real at all."
He pressed his forehead against the glass, cold and perfect, and let his eyes drift shut.
There’d been a time, maybe three years ago, maybe a lifetime, when he thought the new league rules would be enough. After the lawsuits, the protests, all the hollow promises about Omega rights.
Legally? There was no reason why Omegas couldn’t play in “Alpha” sports.
Politically? The league never took Omega sides in matters of play time, and Omegas never got drafted. Omegas could sue, of course, but nobody had the kind of money to win a discrimination suit. Not against “big hockey”.
Socially? Yeah, no, sports fans across the world thought Omegas belonged in figure skating, swimming, or tennis.
Even if Shane “came out” now, the world had not changed and it would not be kind.
Not for people like him.
He straightened, looking himself in the eye through the reflection. He would keep the secret. He would win, keep winning, and one day make it safe for the next Omega who dared to step on the ice.
“I am going to be so great, so amazing so fucking untouchable that nobody and I mean nobody is going to question me. Or if they do? I crush them.” Shane told his reflection.
He padded back to the bedroom, closing the door with a gentle click, and crawled under the covers. The sheets were scentless and cold, but as he drifted off, the smell of his own skin, faint, clean, no longer Alpha-sharp, was the only comfort he needed.
Tomorrow, he’d go to the appointment and get everything straightened away.
Tomorrow, he’d train harder, play smarter, keep everyone fooled.
Tonight, he let himself be real, if only for the space of a few slow, honest breaths.