Bound to You

by Hollanovs_Child81

Summary:

Shane Hollander has built his NHL career on control—of his body, his instincts, and his secrets. As an omega in a league that demands perfection, mistakes are not an option.
So when he wakes up sick with a nausea he doesn’t recognize, panic is the last thing he allows himself to feel.

Until the test says otherwise.

Notes:

Hi, hi, hi! This is my first time writing a fanfic like this, so please bear with me! More is to come eventually, might or might not release the second chapter — I had surgery not too long ago && am doing my best to recover. In the meantime, enjoy! :))

Chapter 1

Shane Hollander wakes up nauseous.

Not the polite, passing kind that comes from controlling his microbial diet intake or too much coffee on an empty stomach.

This is heavier. 𝑾𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈.

It sits low in his abdomen like a stone and climbs slowly, deliberately, until he has to roll onto his side and press his face into the pillow to keep from gagging. He lies there for a moment, breathing through it, staring at the faint gray light bleeding through the gap in his curtains. Montreal is quiet this early. No traffic yet, no shouting fans, no sirens. Just the hum of the heater and the slow, traitorous rhythm of his own body.

‘𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝,’ he thinks. ‘𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠’.

Shane is disciplined. He has to be. An omega in the NHL doesn’t get to indulge panic or dramatics; he gets to manage symptoms, track cycles, take suppressants, and keep moving. He’s been doing it for years. He knows his body.

Which is why the nausea scares him.

He swings his legs out of bed and stands too fast. The room tilts. His vision narrows at the edges, dark and grainy, and for one terrifying second he thinks he might actually pass out like a cliché.

“𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐞,” he mutters aloud.

His voice sounds strange in the quiet penthouse—too loud, too intimate. There’s no one here but him. There hasn’t been anyone here in weeks. The thought lands harder than it should.

Shane makes it to the bathroom and grips the edge of the sink, breathing slowly through his nose. His reflection looks the same as always: dark hair mussed from sleep, skin a shade too pale, eyes ringed faintly with exhaustion. Tattered freckles. An omega’s body always shows its wear a little more obviously, no matter how hard you train it into submission.

Nothing about him looks 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕.

The word flashes through his mind unbidden, electric and absurd.

𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “𝐍𝐨,” he says, firmly, to his own reflection. “𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭.”

He presses a hand to his lower stomach, just above the waistband of his sleep pants. There’s nothing there—no swell, no warmth, no movement. Of course there isn’t. He’s an athlete in peak condition. He’s on suppressants. He tracks his heats religiously. He hasn’t missed a dose in years.

He hasn’t—

Shane closes his eyes.

Shit.

He thinks of Ilya Rozanov’s hands.

The memory comes uninvited and vivid: broad palms, calloused from sticks and weights, warm and unashamed. The way Ilya touches him like he’s certain of being wanted. The way his musky, pinewood alpha scent deepens when he’s close, rich and dangerous and impossible to ignore, even now, even weeks later, even across borders.

Shane opens his eyes sharply.

“𝐍𝐨,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter. Less convincing. “𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬.”

He turns away from the mirror and drops onto the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees. His stomach rolls again, and he swallows hard. This isn’t heat-nausea. That’s sharper, need-driven, unmistakable. This is dull and persistent, like his body is rearranging itself without bothering to ask permission.

His phone buzzes on the counter.

Shane flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. He stares at the screen for a long second before picking it up.

𝙇𝙞𝙡𝙮:

‘𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫?’

Shane exhales slowly through his nose.

Ilya Rozanov is in Moscow, visiting his ill, elderly father— and his bastard of a brother. Svetlana too. They had a game against each other not too long from now; so they were currently distances apart.

Probably for the best given the possible circumstances.

He is Shane’s rival, his secret, his worst decision and his best one, wrapped up in six-foot-three of unapologetic alpha, Russian arrogance and a grin that makes Shane want to punch the shit out of him for.

He is also—very specifically—not supposed to be able to do this. Make Shane’s stomach flutter as if he consumed a colony of butterflies every time he were called a pet name—his enriched, thick pinewood, musky scent satisfying his omega, sweet pheromones. A sense of… well— safety. Comfort.

𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆.

Shane types back with fingers that feel clumsy.

𝙅𝙖𝙣𝙚:

‘𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡. 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞.’

Three dots appear almost immediately.

𝙇𝙞𝙡𝙮:

‘𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤?’

Shane stares at the words.

He imagines Ilya’s voice saying them—low, amused, threaded with concern he pretends he doesn’t feel. The image tightens something in Shane’s chest.

𝙅𝙖𝙣𝙚:

‘𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞.’

It’s a lie. Not a big one. Just enough to keep the truth from spilling everywhere.

Another wave of nausea hits, stronger this time, and Shane barely manages to drop the phone back onto the counter before leaning forward, dry-heaving into the sink. His eyes water. His hands shake. When it passes, he stays bent over, breathing hard, forehead resting against the cool porcelain.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈.

But his body is an honest thing. Brutally honest. It doesn’t care about logic or contracts or how badly the media would tear them apart if they ever found out. His reputation thrown into the gutter, being forcibly outed to his teammates. It doesn’t care that alphas and omegas in the NHL are expected to be careful, responsible, sterile if possible.

It only cares about biology.

Shane straightens slowly and opens the cabinet under the sink. His hands hesitate for just a second before reaching for the small white box tucked behind the extra toothpaste and bandages.

He stares at it.

Pregnancy tests are supposed to be for emergencies. For mistakes. For broken routines and missed pills and reckless choices.

Shane doesn’t make reckless choices.

Except, apparently, Ilya Rozanov. 𝑭𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰𝒍𝒚𝒂 𝑹𝒐𝒛𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒗.

The memory of their last night together presses in on him without mercy. Boston. Ilya’s place. The door barely shut before Ilya has him pinned, scent flaring, voice gone rough with need. Shane had protested, weakly, about timing, about suppressants, about consequences.

Ilya had kissed him anyway. Slow. Certain.

’𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮,’ he’d said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Shane’s throat tightens.

He sets the test on the counter with deliberate care, like it might explode if he’s rough with it. His hands are steady now. Too steady. The kind of calm that settles in right before everything falls apart.

He follows the instructions. Washes his hands.

𝑾𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔.

The penthouse feels too small. The silence presses in on his ears until he can hear his own heartbeat, loud and insistent. When the timer on his phone goes off, Shane doesn’t move.

He stares at the counter. At the little plastic stick that holds the rest of his life in its cheap casing.

Finally, he forces himself to pick it up. Breath trembling uncontrollably, hands cold, clammy.

𝑻𝒘𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒘𝒐 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔.

Clear. Unmistakable. There is no room for interpretation, no blurry maybes. Shane’s breath leaves him in a rush.

“𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐭,” he whispers, but the word dissolves as soon as it’s spoken.

He sinks down onto the bathroom floor, back against the cabinet, knees drawn to his chest. His hands curl around his stomach protectively before he realizes he’s doing it.

𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑰𝒍𝒚𝒂 𝑹𝒐𝒛𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒗’𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚.

The thought is terrifying. World-ending. Absurd. It is also—disturbingly—real.

Shane closes his eyes, and for the first time since he was drafted into the league, he has no idea what comes next and in Moscow, Ilya Rozanov’s phone buzzes unanswered on a kitchen counter.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆.