Chapter Text
“Shane, babe, please, if you squirm one more time, I’m really gonna burn your ear off.”
“Yes—sorry,” Shane sputtered.
He shifted weight. The hotel’s plush velvet chair had molded perfectly to his bum, but it still felt wrong. He’d tried every position: back ramrod straight, ankles crossed, legs spread like his alpha teammates. Nothing worked. He pulled his feet up onto the seat, arms wrapped around his knees. He forced himself still, hands clinging onto the hotel’s fluffy bathrobe.
“Babe, you’re not gonna be comfortable sitting like that,” Demi sighed, a hair dryer and a round brush still in her hands. She wasn’t mad; he’d worked with her enough to know the difference between her professional irritation and sisterly exasperation. “You’re gonna get a cramp.”
“Sorry,” he dropped his legs and clasped his hands on his lap. A neon pink under-eye patch slid down his face. He caught it and shoved it back in place. Another soft ‘sorry’ slipped out of him.
Demi clicked the hair dryer back on, the hot air focused blast against his scalp.
More volume.
Those were François’ instructions earlier.
François was pacing back and forth on the balcony. A phone pressed against his ear. His hands gestured wildly.
He was tall, lean with long legs, fiery ginger hair that matched his personality, and cheekbones as sharp as his words. Shane had heard he used to be a model, before he began working as a talent agent for musicians.
Before Montreal Metros hired him to be Shane’s agent.
“Oh my god, Shane, your hair!” His mother’s face bloomed in the mirror. “What did you do, Demi?”
“Just a bit of heat and a few gallons of products,” Demi smiled, adding finishing touches.
Shane stared at his reflection.
His black hair was swept back from his forehead, standing impossibly tall, a uniformed style without a single stray piece. A style that belonged to a Hollywood star or a prince.
It wasn’t Shane.
Manhattan's skyline glittered beneath them as the sun began to set behind a skyscraper, painting the sky in strokes of pink and lavender.
Shane took in a deep breath. Recalling the soothing voice of his yoga instructor. In and out. Then another deep breath in. She’d always said.
His stylist, Margot, was steaming his suit in deep concentration, hissing clouds of vapour onto a white linen suit with shimmering blue lapel. It arrived from Paris last night— custom Dior. Last time, they sent him Louis Vuitton.
Demi peeled off the dried under-eye patches, revealing the freckles that had darkened overnight because he’d forgotten to wear sunscreen again.
“Can you cover my freckles more tonight?” Shane asked quietly.
All three women in the room gasped.
“What, no!” Demi said, manicured fingers massaging clear gel onto his face. “Freckles are so in right now!”
“Shane, honey, your freckles are lovely,” his mother chimed in, caressing his cheek. “Everyone loves them.”
Yeah, but he doesn’t.
“I mean, just like, a little bit?” Shane pleaded. He felt like a child with these freckles. They made him soft. Pretty. Everything that Shane didn’t want to be.
He just wanted…to be Shane Hollander, the Hockey Player—the one with speed and hockey IQ. Not Shane Hollander, the Pretty Omega Rookie of Montreal Metros. It’d been better to be known as the token Asian-Canadian kid on ice—
“—thank you so much for your time, Patrick. We look forward to the start of this beautiful partnership.”
François stepped back into the room, sliding the glass door shut with a soft click. He hung up, a gleeful smile spread across his face.
“Guess who just secured a seven-figure deal with Rolex,” François announced, his voice practically vibrating.
Yuna’s hand flew to her mouth. Shane blinked, his freckles were still bothering him. “Who?”
“Shane Hollander, of course!” François beamed, his long legs stride across the room. He perched on the edge of the desk, right next to Demi’s carefully arranged lineup of grooming products and tools. “They said they’d love nothing more than a bright-eyed, talented, BIPOC, queer, and beautiful young man like you to represent the new era of Rolex.”
Every word ticked off a box on the checklist.
“Oh, that’s…nice,” Shane nodded.
His closet back in Montreal was overflowing with gifted designer clothes and limited edition sneakers that had never seen the light of day. Boxes of PR gifts were still piled up by his door. He’d been too afraid to unwrap his expensive, undeserved gifts.
Now, Rolex too?
Demi sprayed cool mist across his face. Setting spray, like hairspray but for your face, she told him last time. Shane coughed as its strong rose scent hit his nose.
“Thank you,” he managed between coughs. Demi had lightened his freckles like he asked. They weren’t completely gone, but it was better.
Yuna’s hands came to rest on his shoulders with a firm squeeze. “You look so handsome, honey.”
“Thanks, mom.” Shane gave a smile, his eyes gazing at the floor as he reached up to squeeze her hand. Another breath. “I’ll go change now.”
Shane got up from his seat. Demi was already packing up her kit behind him. He dropped off his robe and Margot helped him put on his suit.
Exhale.
The suit sat perfectly on his body like a second skin. The blazer tapered at his waist and the pants rounded at his ass — making him feel exposed like he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
A collection of praising words were thrown at him — beautiful, divine, stunning, gorgeous, perfect. Phone cameras were pointed at him and a smile pressed on his lips like a reflex.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Slow inhale.
Slow exhale—
“Shane?”
He jolted.
Yuna’s hands were warm inside his, steadily holding him to the ground. Demi’s half-packed kit was still on the desk in favour of a smoke break. Margot was outside, struggling to light up her cigarette. François glanced at him through the glass sliding door, his thumbs gliding across his phone.
It was just his mom in the room with him.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Yuna asked, looking up at him. She went to reach for his face, but settled on his neck, not wanting to mess up Demi’s work.
“Nothing,” Shane shook his head.
Yuna gave him the look, the one he’d known all too well. He could never hide anything from her.
He needed another breath before strings of words rambled out of him. “…I’m—I don’t know what I’m gonna do— like, out there alone without you, Dad, or François—”
“Shane, breathe. Just, breathe.”
He sucked in another breath. His yoga instructor’s voice repeated in his head again: In and out. Then another deep breath in.
“You’re going to have an amazing time tonight, Shane,” his mother’s voice cut through his breathing. “You deserved to be at that party as much as everyone else attending— you were invited to the party for god’s sake, Shane.”
A corner of Shane’s lips twitched as he leaned into her touch. “…I haven’t even done anything yet—”
“Oh stop you,” Yuna cut in. “You have already done so much. You have been so brave—”
“I didn’t have a choice—”
“I know— but, you didn’t run away, Shane. You decided to flip the narrative and gave everyone a big ‘fuck you’ by being drafted by Montreal Metros.”
Shane kicked the carpet beneath him. “I haven’t even played in an MHL game—”
“You will in two months’ time,” Yuna said firmly. “And you’re going to show them exactly why you deserved to be on the ice—just as much as any of those alphas.”
Shane squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to believe in every one of her words, but the words felt wrong in his chest. Yuna’s hands ran along his arms.
“I would hug you, honey, but Margot might kill me if I put a dent on your suit.”
Shane laughed.
“Seriously thought, custom Dior,” Yuna said, eyeing him with envy. “Not even I’ve worn Dior before.”
“I have a whole closet filled with them if you wanted to take your pick,” Shane said, a smile tugging at his lips. “And unopened PR boxes.”
Yuna shook her head. “No, those are for you.”
The glass door slid open as François returned, phone still in hand. “Car will be here in fifteen minutes.”
Demi and Margo drifted back behind him, the scent of tobacco clinging to them as they quietly resumed packing up the rest of their kits.
“Oh shit—I nearly forgot,” François muttered, tucking his phone away for the first time that day. He rummaged through the tote bag he’d brought with him, producing a crinkled white paper bag. He crossed to the mini-fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “Here, darling, extra strength suppressant.”
He dropped a pill onto Shane’s palm—red and white, doubled the size of Shane’s usual prescribed suppressant.
“Oh, I already took some a few hours ago.”
“Take this one,” François insisted, pressing the chilled water bottle into Shane’s other hand. “You’re going to need it. Especially with all those alphas and the pheromones at that party.”
Shane nodded. He popped it into his mouth and chased it down with half a bottle of water. It felt like he just swallowed down a stone, his throat struggling to keep it down.
He cleared his throat.
“Now, I’d advise you to stay away from the alphas tonight,” François said, taking the water bottle away from Shane’s hand. “If you must talk to one, go introduce yourself to Scott Hunter. And take a photo for the PR team. It’s good for your image.”
“Oh come on, that’s no fun for Shane! Scott Hunter is already married,” Margot said while lint-rolling his suit. “There are going to be so many hot alphas there!”
“Fine,” François rolled his eyes. “You can flirt with them—just don’t go home with any of them.”
Shane’s cheeks flushed as he glanced at his mom. “I—I wasn’t planning on doing that.”
“Good,” François grinned. “Make them work for it,” he added with a wink.
Shane’s face burned even hotter.
* * *
Shane kept wiping the condensation off his glass.
The ice had long since melted, leaving him with a watered-down ginger ale. He’d lost track of how long he’d been staring at his polished shoes, studying the intricate patterns of the carpet— swirls of gold and burgundy that made little sense to him.
Nothing in this room felt real: not the live DJ with green hair, the citrus room freshener, the art-deco-inspired pieces, or the polite handshakes and bright white smiles.
Every so often, the scent of sandalwood would drifted in and out. It reminded him of the hand-soap he had at home.
Mom had sent him a photo of a greasy pizza that was the size of her face an hour ago.
His parents and François were only able to drop him off as far as the end of the red carpet. His vision was still white from all the flashes. François had promised to take his parents to a famous pizzeria. A place that was trending on TikTok. He wasn’t sure. His mom was better at social media than he was. Shane didn’t want to bother them.
He sipped his drink, his face scrunched instantly. It wasn’t just watered down, it was flat too. Flat and sad. He should go get another one. It was an open bar.
However, his back was glued to the quiet wall he’d found beside the grand stairwell. If he left it now, he’d be like an awkward baby penguin trying to navigate a room filled with the world’s most influential, beautiful and confident alphas and omegas. Their suits and dresses dazzled under the warm chandelier lights. Effortless, graceful movements.
Shane took another sip of his sad drink until his glass was empty.
He’d caught people looking at him.
Curious, flickering eyes at his face. Some openly stared. He wasn’t sure if they recognized him from the marketing campaigns or social media posts, if they recognized him as the kid who’d collapsed on national television—or if they could simply smell fresh meat.
The new, pretty omega.
“—Fuck these damn horny Alphas! Fuck this party!”
A burst of rapid-fire French cursed next to him, followed by a groan and a thud against the wall.
Shane lifted his eyes. Standing beside him was an omega who’d looked like he’d walked off a fashion runway. He was tall and lean in a tailored silver suit, with endless legs that seemed to go on forever. His blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders, silky and inviting for a touch.
His scent was sweet like burnt sugar.
Shane recognized him as Louis-Jean Dupont— the famous omega tennis player from France. Dupont continued to mutter to himself, something about thank god for the open bar.
“Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks that,” Shane said quietly in French.
He didn’t think the other omega had heard him until Dupont’s head snapped up from his wine glass. “You speak French?”
“A bit, but Québécois-French,” Shane said, gesturing at ‘a bit.’ But, Dupont’s green marble eyes lit up.
“Oh finally! Someone I can actually talk to at this party!” Dupont’s eyes swept over Shane for a moment, and switched back to English. “Ah! You’re Shane Hollander.”
Shane blinked.
“…You know who I am?”
“Yes, of course, you are everywhere,” Dupont said, gesturing at him, and spoke in a mixture of French and English. “Euh, the Metros, all those campaigns with you…it is a bit much, no?”
A wave of heat washed over Shane.
“I—I guess it is a bit much,” Shane whispered, staring down at his empty glass.
“I’m Louis-Jean Dupont,” the other omega offered with a smile and a handshake. “I, euh, play tennis.”
“Yeah, I know,” Shane shook his hand. “My parents and I watched you at the Barcelona Open. Congratulations on your win, by the way. You were phenomenal."
Dupont’s smile widened. “Thank you. I was not sure if I’d make it to the final. I just wanted to wipe that smirk off that alpha’s face,” he gestured with his glass, before taking a sip. His eyes scanned up and down Shane once more. “You are much better looking in person. No wonder these alphas cannot keep their eyes off you."
Shane felt the blush returned. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He fiddled with the straw, spinning it until he could come up with something.
“I mean, you do too,” Shane blurted out. “I honestly thought you were a fashion model when I first saw you.”
Dupont’s eyes rounded and a faint red dusted across his high cheekbones. “I could never,” he confessed, leaning in closer to Shane.“I hate playing dress-up and wearing makeup.”
“Oh, me too,” Shane chuckled softly, triggering a chuckle from Dupont.
Dupont knocked back his wine and placed his glass on a tray of empties of the passing by waiter. Prompting Shane to do the same with his own glass.
“I’d like to get some fresh air. Away from all these stinky alphas,” Dupont linked their arms together, gently pulling Shane towards upstairs. “Come, I know a good spot.”
Shane caught a whiff of sandalwood— the same scent that had been drifting in and out of the room all night.
This time, it lingered.
Beneath it was something warmer. But not spiced and sweet like cinnamon. Not sharp like ginger, either. It reminded him of a burning firewood scent, steady and persistent. The kind of warmth that settled into your chest on a cool summer night at a campfire.
A scent that made him curious.
His body seemed to know the source. He looked up. To his right, toward the corridor overlooking the ballroom.
Shane’s breath caught.
His gaze locked with a pair of piercing blue eyes.
A current jolted up his spine, raising the fine hairs along his arms. He knew those eyes. He had known them for years, long before he’d even understood what being gay meant.
He’d memorized every sharp angle of that face through hours of watching interviews and game highlights. Every beauty mark. The way those lips curved into that infuriating, crooked smile.
He was bigger than Shane had remembered from his memories. Broader. Stood tall like a GQ model. His sharp black suit looked like it had been tailored around muscle. A golden crucifix glinted against his chest where his black shirt hung casually unbuttoned. His light-brown curls effortlessly styled, as if he’d pushed them back like an afterthought.
One strong hand rested loosely around a glass of something clear.
Vodka.
Shane knew that, too.
Those blue eyes didn’t leave him as he was tugged out onto the balcony.
Ilya Rozanov watched him disappear from sight.