Chapter Text
(December 25th, 2016)
There is nothing to drink in Ilya Rozanov’s expensive penthouse apartment.
Not in the liquor cabinets, not in his refrigerator, not even in the pile of gifts sent by teammates and management that he opened days ago. No, his liquor is gone, the empty glass bottles of various sizes lined up neatly in his recycling bin like the skyline of a city. The only thing left in the fridge is eleven cans of ginger ale, still nestled in their twelve-pack cardboard case.
Ilya Rozanov makes it halfway to the liquor store before remembering—oh, it’s Christmas. Retail stores are closed. He returns home empty-handed, soaked head to toe by a slurry of rain and snow. Messages buzz on his phone, grainy gifs of Christmas trees and strings of emojis like hieroglyphs he does not care to translate. He gets home and changes, wondering why he even bothers getting dressed on days like this.
Ilya snags a can of ginger ale and collapses on his sofa. How bad can it be? He does not turn on the television, especially now that ESPN has decided to continuously post paparazzi photos like a fucking gossip magazine. Ilya pops open the tab on the ginger ale and takes a single, long sip.
“Fucking disgusting, Hollander.” Ilya says to no one in his big empty apartment, tilting the can back until he’s drained every drop. He does not think about printing out that tuna melt recipe, or choosing between twenty fucking cans of fish at the grocery store, or trying to make sure the pickles did not touch the sandwich on the plate because he’d noticed how fussy Hollander was about such things. He does not think about his plan falling to pieces, of Hollander’s departing back, of the black hole of inertia pinning him to the sofa for hours after he was gone.
He does not think of Shane.
And then, his phone vibrates. The screen lights up.
A message notification:
Jane: Can I call you?
Ilya reacts before he can think, snatching his phone up. It slips in his suddenly sweaty fingers, his big clumsy thumb flicking uselessly at the slide lock.
“Son of a bitch,” Ilya wipes his hand on his track pants and, finally, unlocks the phone. He swipes to Shane’s message and hits the call button. It rings twice and then clicks.
“What is it?” Ilya demands before Shane even has the chance to greet him. A thousand scenarios buzz through his brain like a swarm of hungry locusts, because Shane has never called him before. “Are you—”
“Ilya,” Shane breathes his name in a tone Ilya has never heard before and never wants to hear again. It’s a raw sound, a desperate one, some unholy lovechild of agony and terror made tangible.
“Shane,” he answers, forcing his voice to remain steady. His hand shakes. “Tell me.”
(THE BEGINNING)
When Ilya had first learned that one of the teams in the World Junior Hockey Tournament had an omega as their first line center, he’d assumed it was a translation error.
“Pardon?” Ilya said, the pronunciation clumsy on his tongue. At the confirmation, his mind whirled. This was unheard of, impossible, like the sun changing directions in the sky. But then, he’d seen Shane Hollander skate, blurring across the ice, slapping the puck through the net with pinpoint accuracy, responding to degrading chirps with a dark, flat stare and another two goals shot past the opponent’s scrambling goalie. You did not walk away from seeing Shane Hollander play hockey with the belief that omegas were incapable of participating in the top-level leagues intact. It would be like an agnostic gazing upon God and still insisting that he may not exist.
Hollander deserved to be there, and he knew it.
Before Shane Hollander, Ilya had not thought much about omegas. Father and Alexei were betas, and the concept of an omega did not exist apart from the occasional classmate suddenly presenting or the faceless future spouse he’d always assumed he’d start a family with. As far as male omegas, which were exceptionally rare, he didn’t think about them at all. He was expected to grow up and choose a blushing beta or omega bride to continue his family legacy.
Russia and North America were not very different when it came to how they treated their omegas, no matter what the mutual propaganda claimed. No matter how many laws were passed or public campaigns were created to change people’s minds, there is a substantial percentage of the population that would always see any working omega as a waste of a womb. Ilya’s mother had been an omega. He wonders if that isolated her, what made her think she had no choice but to…
Going overseas to compete was exhilarating, each victory a lingering high, a sliver of hope that all his hard work actually meant something. Ilya often found himself slipping away somewhere quiet to have a cigarette and calm down. That was where he was the day he met Shane. One moment, he was thinking about the tournament and clinging to the pathetic hope that a win would earn his father’s pride. The next moment, a voice spoke behind him. Only Shane Hollander would walk up to someone with the intent to introduce himself and end up scolding them for breaking the rules instead. Ilya was, quite instantly, smitten.
Later, he had time to reflect on how much pressure Shane was under. Ilya only had to endure the judgmental expectations of his small, miserable family. But Shane? It felt like the fate of millions rested on his shoulders, every talented young omega who’d ever hoped to enter professional sports depending entirely on his ability to perform exceptionally. There were the precautions, too—scent patches and hormone injections and chaperones in the NHL locker rooms—all of which sounded like a giant pain in the ass. Ilya never understood how Shane could stand it. All he could do, in return, was treat Shane like any other hockey player.
Maybe it was this, his refusal to treat Shane delicately during the Juniors, slamming him into the boards and cross-checking him, that inspired the NHL to pursue their rivalry so aggressively. Ilya’s team won that tournament, only to be trounced by Shane’s in the next year. By then, anyone who still doubted Shane’s future place among the mostly alpha professional league kept it to themselves. Whenever Ilya knew they would be attending the same event, his stomach would churn with excitement, especially after an encounter in the hotel gym where they'd both started putting out pheromones without even realizing it. That was the first time Ilya had smelled him without a scent patch.
Then, there was the ad campaign in the summer before their rookie year. In retrospect, Ilya’s pursuit of Shane that night was really fucking stupid. He was so blinded by his silly crush and the memory of Shane stinking up that hotel gym that he did not realize the precarious position he put them both in by approaching Shane in the locker room shower. One look at Shane’s terror at being alone and naked with an unknown alpha immediately filled Ilya with a deep sense of shame. He backed away quickly, lurking instead by the lockers fully dressed so he could explain himself better.
That conversation was branded into his memory.
“You make me curious,” Ilya admitted with a careless shrug, his eyes raking over Shane’s form. “I want to take you apart.”
“I can’t do any of that stuff,” Shane didn’t even look at him as he quickly pulled on his clothes. “It’s not safe.”
“It can be, with right person.” Ilya watched him carefully. He knew enough about English to parse out the words. ‘Can not’ was not the same as ‘will not’ or ‘do not want to.’ Ilya sensed something there, a need hidden by fear and shame. He could smell Shane’s want, now. “You know how baby is made, yes? We do everything but that.”
“Fucking hell, Rozanov,” Shane craned his head around, looking half panicked already. “Not here.”
“Where else will we talk? Hotel meeting room? On the roof?” Here was as good a place as any. The film team had rented this ice rink for the whole day, and this locker room was reserved for Ilya and Shane. Unless Shane’s mother liked to walk in on her son showering, he doubted that…
“My room, 1410.” Shane said. “Maybe we can talk there,” he pulled his shoes on and threw his bag over his shoulder.
“Maybe…” Ilya searched his face, “...after 9:00?”
Shane nodded, once, and left.
(December 25th, 2016)
Pregnant. Fucking pregnant. That is all Ilya comprehends from Shane’s rambling story before static fills his ears. His vision blurs red. Who did this? Who put their hands on his omega? Was his fucking famous, perfect, beautiful girlfriend actually an alpha? Did she bite him, knot him, on their first fucking date, over the dinner table at that fancy restaurant?
“It’s yours,” Shane says quickly, as if he can hear the change in Ilya’s breathing, as if they even know each other that well. “It has to be.”
“Oh.” For a single, shameful moment, satisfaction thrums through Ilya’s body. Mine, he thinks, briefly, before bile rises in his throat. This is bad. This is so bad. It’s a nuclear bomb attached to them both, the timer ticking down to annihilation. His mind races through the last time they fucked, of that disaster of a day that made Ilya’s kitchen smell like old tuna for a week. He’d fucked all three of Shane’s holes, the bottom two with condoms. When he’d pulled them off, there weren't any holes, right? When he’d cleaned Shane with a towel, there’d been no cum, right? He hadn’t knotted him. Shane only allowed Ilya to knot his mouth.
Blinking, Ilya realized that Shane was still waiting for him to say something. He closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out, and then focuses on the task at hand.
“Okay,” Ilya says, simply. It was the first English word he ever learned. Oh-Kay. He used to repeat it, over and over, when he was small and energetic, until his Father smacked him and told him to shut up. “I will come over, and we will figure this out. I will take you to clinic or courthouse; wherever is needed.” Ilya debates booking a flight for about half a second before throwing that idea out in favor of driving.
“I’m all the way in Ottawa, at my parents’.” Shane sighs, as if he already knows he cannot stop Ilya. “It’s Christmas.” Despite the fatigue in his voice, Ilya can tell that Shane is relieved by his reaction. Good.
“Ottawa, Montreal, the drive is no different. Text me address?” Ilya’s fingers fumble as he opens up his drawer of car keys, sorting through the fobs until he finds his most boring car—the black G-Wagon with tinted windows. Are tinted windows legal in Canada? Fuck it, he does not care. Better than showing up in Shane’s sleepy little suburb in a bright yellow Ferrari and having pictures all over new gossip network ESPN the next day.
Ilya keeps the phone tucked against his ear as he tosses clothes into a bag and triple-checks his passport. His phone vibrates, indicating a message. Ilya powers on his desktop, typing the address in his browser and selecting the option to print the directions. Once, when he was lost, one of these bitch-whore GPS robots told him to turn left immediately—directly into a giant fucking lake. He does not trust this thing at all.
“When are you heading out? My parents just left, they’re visiting some cousins for a few days…” Shane’s voice sounds faraway—the phone has slipped from between Ilya’s shoulder and ear, fallen somewhere in the hood of his sweatshirt. Ilya fishes it out.
“Yes, yes, in just a minute,” he throws the duffel bag over his shoulder, flips off the light, and switches from his house slides to winter boots with one hand. “Sorry, I must hang up now. I will see you—”
“Wait—” Shane interrupts. “Can you…can we keep the call going? We don’t have to talk, I just…” Shane trails off, but Ilya tries to read between the lines. Ilya has always been good with people, able to read them and predict their moods. But with Hollander…it’s almost like they’re from different planets. Whenever he tries to recall that disastrous conversation they had over fucking tuna melts, he realizes they might as well have been speaking French and Russian to each other. Ilya still cannot make heads or tails about what the fuck happened between them that day, and Shane practically ran out the door before he had a chance to try. “Or not, I can hang up, I guess,” Shane says, and Ilya realizes he’s been quiet for a bit too long.
“This is fine,” Ilya leans down to press the elevator call button with his elbow. He will probably need to buy a car charger for his phone when he stops for gas. “I will put in cup holder, hands-free, very safe. You need to talk, talk. I will be there.”
“Thank—”
“Do not thank me.” Ilya interrupts him. It’s not quite a snap, but it was not said nicely either. “Just…do not. Not yet.” He wipes his nose with his thumb, sniffing.
After a long elevator ride and short walk to his garage, Ilya pulls onto the road. His phone sits in the center console, screen lit up, the call time ticking over an hour. This is a very nice car, quiet and efficient, enough so that he can easily hear the whistle of Shane’s breathing through the phone.
At some point, just outside of Boston, the call drops. Shane does not call back. Ilya pictures him sleeping in a small, iron-framed bed, the phone on the pillow beside his head, newspaper clippings of hockey players pinned to the fancy carpet covering one wall. For some reason, it looks just like Ilya’s small bedroom in the brezhnevka apartment block they’d lived in temporarily after a fire at their estate. It’s funny how much he’s always wanted to see Shane’s bedroom, to see his home, to touch the tangible parts of his life instead of occasionally haunting his hotel rooms like a ghost, like he's already dead.
It’s too late for what-ifs, now. There is only the present, and what can be salvaged from this disaster.
(Summer 2010)
After one step inside Hollander’s hotel room, Ilya realized it was much nicer than his own and scowled. However, the irritation did not last long, his mind suddenly consumed by the sight of Hollander looking vulnerable in a rumpled t-shirt. Fuck, he was already hard.
“So, if we do this…” Shane crossed his arms over his chest. It was hard to tell in the low lights of the hotel room, but Ilya was sure he was blushing. “No biting. Or knots. And you can’t—you can’t fuck me, there.”
“Where is ‘there’? Be specific.” Ilya slipped his jacket off his shoulders, smirking as Shane’s eyes raked over his arms and chest.
“You know where,” Shane said, frowning as Ilya just raised an eyebrow at him. He gestured downwards, flustered. “You know, where babies are made.”
“Your cunt.” Ilya loved that word, the way the consonants rolled off his tongue. One of the best English words. Okay. Cunt. Very good words.
“Holy shit,” Shane groaned, smacking a hand to his flushing face. "Yes. Ugh."
“Good,” Ilya closed the space between them, until he was close enough to feel Shane’s body heat, until he could smell his skin. “No bite, no knot, no fucking in hole for babies.” Ilya extended a hand, running it over Shane’s chest, feeling his warmth through the fabric. “Anything else?”
“I’ll let you know if, uh, it comes up.” Shane whispered, leaning towards Ilya, his eyes already half lidded.
“Eager,” Ilya’s fingertip grazed Shane’s chin, tilting it up. He almost said something moronic about how he’d wanted to kiss him the first time they met. Instead of wasting time talking, he leaned forward and tasted those stupid pink lips.
In the present, Ilya still does not know why Shane just trusted Ilya to keep his word once they started tearing each other’s clothes off. Many in his place would have pushed things too far, taken advantage, ruined everything for both of them. Ilya will never tell Hollander this, but being trusted in such a way changed something inside of him. How many times had Father called him a brute, a knothead, had smacked him over the head when his eyes lingered too long on some girl? Alexei, treating him like a beast that couldn’t control himself, like a ticking time bomb? Hadn’t there been a look of fear on Mother’s face, for just a moment, when the doctor announced his presentation?
But here was Shane Hollander, the man who had everything to lose, fisting his fingers in Ilya’s shirt and yanking him close.
(December 25th, 2016)
The asshole weather spends all night shitting down a mix of rain and snow, so it ends up taking Ilya eight hours to drive to Ottawa. Truthfully, he barely remembers it. One moment, Boston was a blur of lights in his rear-view window, and the next, he was pulling up to the border between Vermont and Quebec.
Border crossings had always been slightly terrifying for him after an incident where, after a blowout win in Detroit, some of the guys decided they wanted to bar hop across the river into Windsor. Ilya ended up trapped at the border for three hours until his agent made some calls to the NHL and smoothed everything over. Even after he was released and issued a proper Canadian visa, the border still loomed in his memory as an existential threat.
The Canadian border agent takes forever to scrutinize his papers. Panic seizes Ilya’s body, his mind racing towards scenarios of deportation and suddenly finding himself trapped in Russia. Ilya’s worst fucking nightmare was getting sent back home permanently, where he would be forced to play dogshit hockey with asshole players not good enough for the NHL, constantly hounded by his Father’s corrupt associates and his brother’s loansharks until he ended up suspiciously falling out of the top floor of a hotel.
“Mr. Rozanov, you’re all set,” the border agent hands over his papers with a smile. “Sorry, buddy, but can you sign something for me?”
“Yes, I can do this,” Ilya smiles back. The key to smiling like a Canadian is to stretch your face muscles to the point of pain. Ilya taught himself how to do this in the mirror after fan selfies featuring his perfectly normal face had the press accusing him of being rude and standoffish. As much as he did not give a fuck about the media, he hated the idea that he was letting down his fans.
Ilya signs a hat, a jersey, and a blank piece of paper. Merry fucking Christmas. Then, he gets back onto the highway, headed for Montreal.
For some reason that Ilya has never wasted time learning, the highways in Canada don’t have giant annoying billboards every couple hundred meters. Ilya thinks about this as he drives through Montreal. If this were like Boston or Detroit, there would be ads as tall as buildings with Hollander’s giant fucking face staring him down as he drove off the road and exploded his car against a tree. He checks the directions. After the next exit, he has 120km to go. Dawn flirts with the horizon. By the time he gets there, the sun will be up.
(Summer 2010)
Ilya did not believe in things like fate, but sometimes it felt like Hollander had been placed specifically in his path as some sort of punishment.
Back then, at the hotel, just minutes alone with Shane were enough to make him lose his fucking mind. The way Shane sucked down Ilya’s thumb, the way he dropped to his knees so quickly, so surprisingly eager his first time sucking a cock, the stink of his aroused pheromones—it was too much for nineteen-year-old Ilya. Suddenly, he was on the brink of orgasm, the base of his cock growing strangely heavy. Ilya realized what was happening at the last possible second, pushing Shane away before his knot could swell inside his mouth. That would have been fucking terrible for two reasons. First, Ilya had promised not to knot him. Second, Shane might have panicked and bitten Ilya’s dick off.
The electric euphoria of the orgasm washed over him, Shane’s dark eyes wide and fixed on the swollen base of Ilya’s cock and the ropes of cum splattering into his open palm. Ilya thinks that if he’d offered his hand to Shane, he would have licked it clean.
Still trembling from the aftershocks, Ilya drew Shane close for more sloppy, careless kisses. Ilya forced himself to break the kiss so he could coax Shane’s clothes off piece by piece, Shane pausing to fold each article like they were at the fucking laundromat. Ilya smelled Shane’s arousal before he could see what was between his legs. The anticipation was slowly driving him insane—he had never fucked a male omega before and did not know what to expect.
When the boxer briefs finally came off and Ilya realized that Shane truly had both, he was speechless for so long that Shane started stammering and reaching for his neatly folded clothing. Trying to choose between eating pussy and sucking cock when they were both on offer completely short-circuited his brain. If Shane had not just sucked him off five minutes ago, his dick would have literally exploded. Belatedly, he noticed that Shane was in the middle of fleeing, his hard cock jiggling in the air as he tried to hop back into his underwear.
“Where are you—I like it, you fucking idiot. Come here.” Ilya caught Shane around the waist and kissed his shoulder, pushing him against the bed. “Lay down. I will take care of you...” And Shane had scooted backwards onto the bed, laid down, his hand on his stomach, his parting thighs trembling. “Beautiful,” Ilya slid his hands up Shane’s defined thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath his fingers, the soft hairs beneath his palms. A smooth, circumcised cock, flushed and hard with blood. A soft, cute ballsack, already wet from how much Shane was leaking. And, finally…Ilya lifted Shane’s balls out of the way like a bride’s veil, gazing at the soft folds of his cunt.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispered, his brain going fuzzy. The next few minutes were somewhat of a blur, Ilya feeling like a starved dog released from a kennel forced to choose between two bloody steaks. He probably spent a good twenty minutes on his elbows, switching between slobbering on Shane’s cock, sucking his balls into his mouth, and lapping up the sweet taste of his cunt. He’d feel Shane tensing towards climax, again and again, only for Shane to huff in frustration and lose all of his momentum. Whenever Ilya sat up to sneak a look at Shane his eyes were closed, a little frown of consternation on his forehead, like that time he’d missed a shot because the puck hit a torn-up patch of ice.
“Hollander, you must relax,” Ilya said from between Shane’s legs, the lower half of his face sticky and wet, finally deciding it was time to say something. “Stop thinking so much. This is sex, not hockey.”
“I don’t know how to stop thinking,” Shane whispered from above, his eyes still hazy from choking on Ilya’s cock. “Whenever I’m close, I just imagine someone walking in, or finding out, or…” Shane groaned in frustration, covering his eyes. “Fuck."
Ilya watched him, sentences forming behind his tongue and crumbling to ash without the English words to build them. He wondered if Shane’s contract had clauses about matings and heats and pregnancy, if one wrong step would destroy his career and legacy. He wondered if Shane looked at freshly presented omegas in the junior leagues and thought, if I fuck up, it will ruin their lives too. He wondered if Shane had ever made a decision solely for himself. With a jolt, he realized this must be it. Inviting Ilya to his room was the single choice that was only for himself. And Ilya, even back then, did not want to be a disappointment.
“You are hurting my pride, thinking of other people while I am naked in your bed.” Ilya crawled up the mattress, kissing up Shane’s stomach and chest with slow, sloppy presses of his mouth. He settled down next to him, propping his head up with an elbow, searching Shane’s face, trying to figure out exactly what he needed. Somehow, he just knew that Shane did not want to sit around crying and talking about feelings. So, he stole the pillow from under Shane’s head.
“What the fuck—you are such an asshole,” Shane frowned, sitting up, his eyebrows kissing together in a faint expression of bewilderment. Ilya arranged the pillow against the headboard and then leaned back against it.
“Come,” Ilya said in a commanding tone, patting his thigh. If he wanted Shane to cum, he would simply have to obliterate every other thought in his complicated little labyrinth brain.
“Like, in your lap…? I already said I don’t want you to fuck—“ Shane’s words cut off as Ilya put a finger against his lips.
“Hollander. Sit on my thigh.” Ilya watched with greedy anticipation as Shane slowly straddled his thigh, his hard cock pressing against Ilya’s side, his hot cunt like a wet stamp against his leg, his arms awkwardly at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Good?" He waits. Shane nods. "Good. Now kiss me.” Ilya put an arm around Shane’s waist and pulled him close, licking into the invitation of his own mouth. Shane melted against him, his heavy body so very different from the women Ilya normally took to bed, from even the coach’s son. He liked it. Ilya pressed more of his tongue past Shane’s lips, and groaned as Shane sucked on it. His own cock was distractedly hard again, pressed between Shane’s knee and Ilya’s other thigh.
Ilya broke the kiss, seizing Shane’s chin to force him to look into his eyes. He bent his knee, raising his thigh until most of Shane’s weight rested on it. Maintaining eye contact, Ilya spit into his palm and took Shane’s cock into his spare hand. “Fuck my fist.” He said, releasing Shane’s chin so he could put a hand on his waist to steady him. Muscles shifted beneath his hand as Shane moved, rolling his hips in experimental thrusts that Ilya knew would come natural to him after the types of ice stretches he’d watched him do. Shane's face went slack, his eyes glazing over. As Shane fucked his cock in and out of Ilya’s broad fist, his cunt rubbed against Ilya’s thigh with little wet noises that made Shane blush and hide his head against Ilya’s neck.
“Faster.” Ilya leaned his head to the side to whisper into Shane’s ear. Shane braced his arms on the headboard, biceps flexing as he thrust forward with almost wild abandon. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, his eyes squeezing shut. Exhilaration flared through Ilya at the way Shane seemed to lose himself to frenzy, whispering “Fuck” over and over again like a litany of prayers, his leaking cock keeping Ilya’s fist wet and slick. Shane’s scent was everywhere, sinking into Ilya’s lungs, his skin, his very being. An unbearable instinct suddenly came over him to lift Shane up and slam him back down on his cock, to sink his teeth into the flushed swell of Shan's mating gland, just inches from his mouth. The instinct to keep him forever. Ilya tightened his jaw and turned his head away.
“I’m—Fuck—Rozanov—“ Shane groaned against him, his body tensing, thighs shaking, cum dripping from his cunt and shooting into Ilya’s fist at the same time as the orgasm buzzed through his body. Shane collapsed against him, breathing hard.
“Are you still thinking, Hollander?” Ilya teased, earning a grumpy kitten glare in return. Fuck, he was beautiful. Back then, Ilya had not understood why this observation was always followed by a pang in his chest, why it always made him want to leave.
“Do you need…” Shane gestured to Ilya’s hard cock trapped between their thighs. Ilya considered it, glancing sideways at a clock on the wall. He should be getting back. There was no reason to extend this longer than necessary.
“No,” Ilya said simply, gently pushing Shane back with the palm of his hand. Shane fell back against the sheets, arms thrown over his head, his expression relaxed in the afterglow of it all. Ilya could probably light a fire with how hard he was going to rub his wood to the memory of this, back in his hotel room.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the sheets,” Shane mumbled, wrinkling his nose at the wet fabric.
“So fussy…” Ilya slid off the bed, considering his options. Normally, he would clean them both up, maybe take a shower, and then go, but…
Shane watched him, something fathomless in his eyes drawing Ilya forward, a careless smile teasing at his lips.
“I must go.” Ilya said. “See you on the ice.” It felt wrong, pulling his clothes back on when his skin was still tacky with slick, when Shane’s scent clung to every fiber of his being. But, he had to go. He was afraid of what he would do, what he would say, what he would ruin if he stayed. Shane was right—he was under intense scrutiny. Everyone was watching. Back home, two males of any combination being together came under censure. Here, if their relationship were revealed, everyone would assume that Ilya was controlling Shane or that Shane had seduced Ilya, tainting their accomplishments, making Shane too much of a risk to keep on the ice.
Ilya respected Shane too much to do that to him. No matter how much he ached to his bones to stay with him, to claim him and never let him go.
Within two days he was back in Russia and had more things to worry about than Shane Hollander.
(December 25th, 2016)
The Hollanders’ home is in a cute little suburb, half of the houses looking lived-in and comfortably sized, and the other half newly built overdesigned monstrosities. McMansions, that was what Svetlana called them, a sad symptom of the American brain disease that made a person lose all sense of style. Sadly, it seems to have spread to Canada as well. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief when the home matching the address was one of the older, nicer homes. At least Shane’s parents had taste, though he doesn’t know how none of that rubbed off on their son.
Ilya parks the car out front. The long drive through the night muddies his head in a strange way, making shadows stretch and thoughts pop away distractingly. He sits there for about two whole minutes before remembering, oh yeah, he should call Shane to let him in.
Before he has a chance, his phone buzzes.
Jane: Door is unlocked.
Jane: I’m up the stairs, second bedroom on the right.
Jane: Take your shoes off.
Rolling his eyes, Ilya hops out of his car, the sound of his boots hitting the pavement jarringly loud in the silent suburb. There is no snow on the ground, but the pavement and grass are pale with frost. Everyone must be too busy sleeping off their fancy Christmas parties to spy on their neighbors. Ilya strides quickly to the front door, and hops up the porch steps, one hand grasping the doorknob while the other is already tugging one of his boots off. Then, he’s searching for the stairs with a single-minded intensity he usually reserves for the ice, taking in absolutely nothing about the furniture or decorations. When he finds the stairs, he takes the steps two at a time in mismatched socks that he does not remember even pulling on.
First door, second door—Ilya pauses, heart in his throat. Fuck, Shane’s scent is everywhere, baked into every fiber of carpet, every board and beam. Ilya forces himself to swallow down the magnitude of his want before resting a palm on the oak door and easing it open.
The room looks straight out of one of those American teenager movies with hockey posters covering the walls and a shelf overflowing with trophies. It’s very clean, no socks littering the floor or balled up tissues in the trash can. A twin-sized bed sits against the far wall, a shape balled up in the center. From here, he looks almost small, and Ilya thinks that this can't be Shane Hollander, second-greatest hockey player of all time. But then Shane shifts on the bed, exposing a tuft of soft dark hair, and Ilya has to choke back the sudden urge to cry.
“Hollander,” Ilya whispers, crossing the room and sitting on the bed. Slowly, carefully, he sets a hand on the back of Shane’s neck, rubbing his hand in slow, soothing circles. From this close, he can smell the change in Shane’s pheromones, a sweetness added to his normal musk. Right now, it’s subtle enough that most would not notice. But, give it another few weeks, and anyone who smells Hollander on a daily basis will realize that something has changed.
Shameful, debased alpha instincts boil beneath his skin at the knowledge that this omega carries his young. All he wants to do is drag Shane home with him and care for his every need until their child is born. To kill any alpha that sniffs around their door and knot and bite his omega until he swells with another baby. To Shane, such a fate would be worse than death. Besides, there is no one else who could beat Ilya at hockey. It would be so boring. Shane shifts beneath him and Ilya glances down, snared in the intensity of his gaze.
Dark eyes trail over Ilya’s face as if he is a piece Shane is trying to place in a puzzle. Ilya feels the same way, wanting nothing more than to dig around Shane’s brain so there can be no more misunderstandings between them. Shane Hollander is an enigma to most, polite and humble in an industry filled with egos, the perfect player, the perfect captain, structured and fastidious in the way Ilya’s father once was. The way Ilya could never be, no matter how hard he tried.
But, sometimes, his eyes show a window directly into his heart. And now, he has that half-sad, half-resigned look, that expectation of disappointment that always shines in his gaze when their encounters are wrapping up, when it is time to leave. When Shane looks at him like that, Ilya’s chest aches with the borrowed grief of the inevitable end. Before he can help himself, his hand shifts from Shane’s neck to his jaw, tracing the light stubble, his heart filled with words he could never hope to translate. He tries, anyway.
“Sweetheart—”
“We should get going,” Shane pushes his hand away, lurching into a sitting position. The pin-straight strands of his hair stand on end, making him look like a startled bird. Dark circles ring his bloodshot eyes and he sniffs, once, before leveling his cool dark eyes upon Ilya. “You really drove all the way here…” Ilya is not sure how to answer—the sentence sounds like a question, but Shane’s voice didn't pitch up at the end like it always does when he grills Ilya for answers.
“I needed to take my new car for test drive. G-Wagon, very expensive.” Ilya’s hand drifts to Shane’s lower back, pressing lightly, tracing the divots. “I think I will return it. Bad gas, um,” Ilya’s brain searches for a word he definitely knew yesterday.
“Mileage,” Shane sighs, blinking tiredly.
“It should be ‘kilometrage.’” Ilya wrinkles his nose. “Americans do not know how to count.” Something like a smile haunts Shane’s lips for a moment before his phone chimes. Ilya notices that Shane’s team has not provided their players with the very latest phone models like Boston has. He does not bring this up.
Shane unlocks his phone, opening the message. Ilya feels himself stiffen involuntarily at the name on the screen—Rose Landry. But, perhaps this is good. No peach, no eggplant, no heart or little smirking face. Just Rose Landry, like he copied her name from the IMDB page. The message itself is a list of addresses and names of doctors. Ilya’s heart leaps into his throat. Clinic, not courthouse. This is fine. This is good, actually, the best choice.
“You told Rose Landry,” Ilya says in what he thinks is a neutral tone. Instead, all his consonants come out as if they were hacked off his tongue with an axe.
“She is—was—my girlfriend,” Shane mutters. “We’re just friends now.” He glares at the sour expression on Ilya’s face. “She’s the first one who noticed the smell,” Shane’s jaw clenches. “She’s been…amazing, really. Very helpful.”
Ilya scowls, literally biting his tongue so as not to speak. Amazing. Very helpful. Sure. So sorry that useless Ilya Rozanov did nothing except driving all night from Boston and almost getting shot at the border. He should just leave and let Shane take himself to whatever secret abortion clinic amazing Rose Landry recommends to him. Suddenly, Ilya’s brain catches up to what Shane just said, and all of his anger is abruptly flushed down an emotional toilet.
“Was,” Ilya repeats to himself as Shane keeps typing at his phone, suddenly oddly giddy. “That is good. Where are we going, then?”
“Here,” Shane shows him the address. “It's a boutique medical clinic that works exclusively with actors and other wealthy people. Rose says her co-star, the one with the Oscar, recommended it to her, and I just made an appointment. They’re completely discreet and are certified for just about any type of procedure…” Shane trails off. Ilya snorts. He took his father to a similar doctor in Moscow, unwilling to risk news of his diagnosis leaking to petty government bureaucrats who would take advantage of the sour old man. Ilya types the address into his phone—and it's fucking four hours away.
“Toronto?” Ilya pronounces every consonant annoyingly. Well, it is not the longest road trip he has been on, and it’s not like they can just walk into a normal clinic to take care of this.
“Mississauga, actually,” Shane corrects in that annoyingly flat way of his.
“Same thing, Hollander. Have you looked at a map lately?” Ilya scrolls around on the evil GPS app that tried to kill him. “There was nothing closer?”
“They film a lot of movies in Toronto. Do you have any better ideas?”
“We are not driving back after this is finished.” Ilya ignores Shane’s question. No, he has no better ideas, unless they fly to another country. The idea of Shane going to Russia with him, outside of the context of the Olympics, is unbearable for many reasons. “We will need a hotel, or…”
“Rose said we can use her apartment in the city.” Shane shrugs, the same miserable look on his face he gets when he scores three goals but Montreal still loses the hockey game. “She’s really…she’s a good person. I wish it could have worked between us. But, even before this we weren't,” Shane winces, “compatible.”
“Compatible. I will look this up," Ilya also wishes it could have worked out with another partner, with any of the blurred faces in his memory moaning around his cock. If his heart had been snared by anyone else, then Shane would still be dating the famous kind harmless omega who would never accidentally knock him up and ruin his life. Then, Ilya could win another Stanley Cup and die.
“Okay,” Ilya eventually says, just to have something to say. “Pack your things. Today is Monday, right? You should have a few days before practice starts. We can rest tomorrow, after,” he snaps his jaw shut. “After.”
“Just say it, Ilya. The abortion. After the abortion.” Shane glares at him, primed for a fight, as if he expected Ilya to go all macho alpha on him and demand he not murder his poor defenseless pups. Ilya tries not to laugh at the thought. The cells dividing in Shane’s womb are no more his ‘pup’ than the hundred loads Shane has swallowed over their handful of years hooking up. The word pup is hilarious to him, actually—they do not use animal terms in Russia. It makes him think of baby seals clubbed to death to make fancy winter coats for Father’s mistresses. Pup. Pup. Pup.
“After abortion, we can rest,” Ilya says, gently, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He is so, so tired. Too tired to think, too tired to process anything but what needs to be done next. By now, he is a pro at holding his shit together around Shane. All of the pathetic wah-wah crying sad feelings can happen later, when he is alone. “Now, we must pack some clothes. I can help, yes? Maybe pick something not so boring for you to wear.”
“It’s—fine, my bag is already packed.” Shane scoots to the edge of the bed. He leans over to his dresser, pulling open a drawer to reveal the most neatly rolled socks Ilya has ever seen in his life. They almost look geometric, like a honeycomb. “I don’t need help getting dressed.” Shane mutters. Suddenly, Ilya cannot stand to be here anymore, in the heart of Shane’s life, surrounded by his scent and all the history he is not allowed to know with the person he is not allowed to have. A sense of doom washes over him, like he’s standing in front of his father and realizing that no matter how hard he tries it will never be good enough for anyone.
“I will warm up the car.” Ilya says, eventually, after watching Shane pull a long white sock onto his foot. The proper thing to do would be to offer to make him coffee or a snack in his parent’s big Canadian kitchen with too many appliances, but Shane would probably only eat half of it and leave it on the table for Ilya to clean up like that fucking tuna melt. Ilya will not waste his time with this. He must focus his entire exhausted brain on operating the dangerous heavy machinery currently parked on the street.
When the freezing air hits his face Ilya suddenly wants a cigarette so bad he debates huffing car exhaust fumes just to feel something. Instead, he lurks like a cop on a stake-out until Shane steps out of the front door. He seems to be finishing a call, hanging up and tucking his phone away before locking the door behind him. Soon enough he joins Ilya, shouldering a heavy bag into the backseat before sliding into the front. Ilya is briefly glad he remembered to click on the automatic seat warmers. Shane does not look at him. It’s almost worse than being alone.
They depart in silence, Ilya’s hackles rising as Shane’s distressed scent saturates the air. He turns on the aircon, wondering if the air filter works on pheromones. Shane turns away to stare out the passenger window, exposing the clipped hair on his nape. Ilya wants to touch it, to feel the tactile difference between the sharp stubble and the soft skin on his neck.
Instead, he grips the steering wheel with both hands and focuses on the road ahead of them. They have a long way to drive.