Chapter Text
Shane Hollander knows the exact second something goes wrong.
It isn’t dramatic. There’s no sharp pain, no pop, no sudden impact that explains itself in a neat replay angle later. It’s subtler than that—worse, somehow. A quiet misfire, like a wire slipping loose somewhere deep inside his chest.
He’s coming off the bench, blades cutting clean lines into the ice, lungs already working at a familiar, efficient burn. The arena is loud in the way it always is on a night like this—playoffs, high stakes, everything vibrating with sound and expectation. Shane thrives in this noise. He always has. It sharpens him, pulls him into the present, drowns out everything unnecessary.
He takes the puck on instinct.
One touch. Two.
The world tilts.
For half a heartbeat, he thinks the lights have dimmed. His vision fuzzes at the edges, white bleeding into dark. His balance stutters—not enough that anyone else would notice yet, but enough that his body sends up a warning flare.
Wrong.
Shane grits his teeth and pushes through it. He always does. His legs respond out of habit, muscle memory honed over decades. His body has never failed him on the ice. Not once. He’s built a career on that reliability—on being the omega who doesn’t need special treatment, the omega who doesn’t let biology dictate his performance.
Another stride.
The air feels too thick in his lungs, like he’s breathing through cotton. Heat crawls up his spine, unearned and invasive, pooling under his gear. Sweat beads along his hairline despite the cold that usually keeps him steady.
Focus, he tells himself. You’re fine.
He pivots, scans for an opening—and the rink lurches violently to the left.
Shane doesn’t even have time to swear.
His knees buckle without warning, strength draining out of them like someone’s pulled a plug. The puck skitters away, forgotten. His skates catch awkwardly, blades scraping uselessly as his center of gravity collapses inward.
The ice rushes up to meet him.
There’s a distant roar—crowd noise surging into something sharper, alarmed—but it sounds warped, like he’s hearing it through water. His shoulder hits first, then his side. The impact jars his teeth together hard enough that he tastes blood.
And then he’s down.
Flat on his back. Staring up at the lights.
They’re blindingly bright now, halos smearing into one another as his vision swims. His heart is pounding too fast, too hard, each beat thudding against his ribs with an urgency that doesn’t match the stillness of his body.
He can’t move.
Not because he’s injured—he knows the difference—but because something inside him has locked up, short-circuiting the usual signals between brain and muscle.
Get up.
Nothing happens.
A shape looms over him, blocking out the lights. A voice cuts through the noise, distorted but urgent. Someone is calling his name.
“Shane—Shane, can you hear me?”
He can. He just can’t make himself respond.
Panic blooms cold and sharp in his chest, cutting through the haze. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He doesn’t go down like this. He doesn’t collapse. He’s not fragile. He’s not—
A gloved hand presses gently against his shoulder, grounding and real. The touch makes his stomach twist violently, heat flaring again, sudden and humiliating.
No, he thinks, irrationally. Not here. Not now.
The medical team is on the ice now. He registers the red jackets, the efficient movements, the practiced calm that feels obscene in the middle of his unraveling. Someone is already unfastening his helmet, fingers careful as they tilt his head.
“Easy,” a voice murmurs, close to his ear. “We’ve got you.”
Shane hates that more than anything.
The stretcher appears in his peripheral vision, stark and final. He tries again to move, to sit up, to prove—to himself, if no one else—that he’s still in control.
His arms tremble uselessly.
The crowd has gone quiet. Not silent, exactly—there’s still noise, whispers, the low hum of thousands of people breathing in unison—but the roar is gone. The energy has shifted into something heavy and watchful.
Every eye in the arena is on him.
Shame curls hot and vicious in his gut, tangling with the nausea rising in his throat. This is worse than pain. Worse than injury. This is exposure.
He feels hands lifting him, settling him onto the stretcher. The ceiling moves above him as he’s carried off the ice, the familiar structure of the arena blurring into streaks of light and shadow.
As they wheel him down the tunnel, the smell hits him full force.
Alpha.
It’s faint, buried under disinfectant and cold metal and the sharp tang of adrenaline—but it’s there. The presence of too many bodies packed too close, too many unshielded scents bleeding together in the enclosed space.
His stomach lurches again.
Shane turns his head sharply to the side and dry heaves, bile burning his throat. Someone swears softly. A hand presses a cool cloth to his forehead.
“Easy,” the medic says again, voice lower now. Concerned.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut.
This can’t be happening. Not like this. Not after everything he’s done to prevent it.
…
The hospital room is too quiet.
It’s the kind of quiet that buzzes, that makes the absence of noise feel deliberate. The machines hum softly around him, steady and impersonal, tracking vitals that refuse to match the calm they project.
Shane stares up at the ceiling tiles, counting them without really seeing them. His gear is gone, replaced with a thin hospital gown that leaves his skin feeling exposed and wrong. The chill seeps into him, settling deep in his bones.
His head aches dully. Not enough to be alarming, just enough to be annoying—another reminder that his body has opinions lately, and none of them are welcome.
The door opens.
He doesn’t turn his head. He knows who it is before the footsteps even reach his bedside.
“Hey,” the team doctor says gently. Too gently.
Shane exhales through his nose. “If you’re about to tell me I’m benched, don’t bother.”
There’s a pause. A chair scrapes softly against the floor as the doctor sits.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Shane finally looks at him. The doctor’s expression is carefully neutral, the kind professionals perfect over years of delivering bad news without flinching. Shane hates it on sight.
“Then what is it?” he asks.
The doctor folds his hands together. “We ran your bloodwork. Again. Compared it to your last few tests.”
Shane’s jaw tightens. He already knows where this is going. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, a sickening sense of inevitability.
“And?”
“And your hormone levels are unstable,” the doctor says. “More than we expected.”
Shane lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s not new.”
“No,” the doctor agrees. “What’s new is how unstable they are.”
The words hang between them, heavy and loaded.
Shane’s fingers curl into the thin blanket. “So what,” he says flatly. “You’re going to tell me I overtrained? That I need more rest? Fine. I’ll adjust.”
“This isn’t about your training schedule,” the doctor says. “It’s about your suppressants.”
There it is.
Shane looks away, throat tightening. “They’ve never been a problem before.”
“They have,” the doctor corrects gently. “You’ve just been very good at managing the side effects.”
Suppressing them, Shane thinks bitterly. Just like everything else.
“How long?” he asks quietly.
The doctor sighs. “Long enough that your body is pushing back.”
Shane’s heart rate ticks up, the machine beside him responding instantly. He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly.
“What does that mean,” he says, “in practical terms?”
“It means the fainting spell on the ice wasn’t a fluke,” the doctor replies. “It was your system shorting out under stress. Your body is trying to reset.”
Shane’s hands start to shake.
“No,” he says. “That’s not—”
“You need to stop taking them,” the doctor continues, voice steady. “At least temporarily.”
The room feels suddenly too small.
Shane sits up sharply, ignoring the wave of dizziness that follows. “Absolutely not.”
“Shane—”
“You don’t understand,” he snaps. “I can’t—do you have any idea what that would mean?”
“I do,” the doctor says softly.
That’s what breaks him.
Shane laughs, sharp and ugly. “No. You don’t. You get to go home at the end of the day. You don’t have cameras pointed at you every time you breathe wrong. You don’t have people waiting for you to prove them right about what you are.”
The doctor doesn’t interrupt. He lets Shane burn himself out, lets the anger drain until all that’s left is the raw ache underneath.
Finally, he says, “When was the last time you went through a full heat?”
Shane’s mouth goes dry.
“…Years,” he admits.
“Without suppressants?”
Shane doesn’t answer.
The doctor nods slowly, as if confirming something he already suspected. “That’s what I thought.”
He hesitates, then asks quietly, “Do you have a partner? A boyfriend?”
The word hits Shane like a slap.
“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too sharp.
The doctor studies him for a long moment. Then he says, carefully, “Going through a heat after that long—especially alone—can be dangerous.”
Shane’s chest tightens.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“I’m saying,” the doctor replies, “that we need to talk about support options.”
Shane swallows hard, dread coiling low and heavy in his gut.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls of the hospital, the world is already spinning theories, headlines, speculation.
And Shane Hollander—world-famous, untouchable, perfectly controlled omega—is staring down the one thing he’s spent his entire life running from.
His own body.
Shane stares at the doctor like he’s just spoken another language.
“Support,” he repeats, flat. “I don’t need support.”
The doctor doesn’t rise to it. He’s good at this—at letting patients say the thing they need to say before they’re ready to hear the answer. “Everyone does,” he says instead. “Especially in your situation.”
“My situation,” Shane echoes, a bitter edge creeping in. “You mean being an omega who can’t even keep himself upright on the ice anymore.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what everyone else will mean,” Shane snaps.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cold tile like he’s grounding himself before a hit. The movement makes his head spin, but he refuses to lie back down. Lying down feels like giving in.
The doctor watches him carefully. “Shane. This isn’t about weakness. This is about biology.”
“Same difference,” Shane mutters.
The doctor sighs. “Your body hasn’t had a natural cycle in years. Suppressants don’t just delay heat—they put strain on your endocrine system. You’ve been running it on override.”
“So I stop,” Shane says. “I white-knuckle it for a week or two. I’ve done worse.”
The doctor’s expression tightens. “That’s not how it works.”
Shane looks up sharply. “Excuse me?”
“A delayed heat doesn’t just pick up where it left off,” the doctor explains. “It compounds. Your system has been storing all of that suppressed hormonal activity. When it hits, it hits harder.”
Shane’s stomach drops.
“How much harder,” he asks quietly.
The doctor doesn’t answer immediately. He chooses his words with care, which tells Shane everything.
“Physically,” the doctor says, “you can expect severe discomfort. Fever spikes. Sensory overload. Disorientation. Emotional volatility.”
Shane lets out a short laugh. “Sounds like a blast.”
“And psychologically,” the doctor continues, ignoring him, “it can be destabilizing. Especially if you’re alone.”
Shane clenches his fists. “I won’t be.”
The doctor raises an eyebrow.
Shane hesitates.
“I mean,” he corrects, “I’ll manage. I always do.”
There it is again. That look. Not pity—something closer to concern.
“Shane,” the doctor says, lowering his voice, “this isn’t something you win by enduring it silently.”
Shane looks away. The wall opposite the bed is bare, an ugly off-white that feels aggressively neutral. He focuses on a small crack near the corner, like it might offer answers if he stares hard enough.
“What are you suggesting,” he asks finally.
The doctor shifts in his chair. “There are licensed programs designed specifically for situations like yours.”
Shane feels something cold slide down his spine.
“No,” he says immediately.
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“I don’t need to hear it.”
“Shane.”
He snaps his gaze back. “I’m not doing that.”
The doctor holds his ground. “Doing what?”
“You know exactly what,” Shane says. His voice is tight now, stretched thin over something dangerously close to panic. “I’m not hiring some alpha to—”
“To help you through a medically significant event,” the doctor interrupts, firmer now. “That’s all.”
Shane scoffs. “That’s not how people see it.”
“That’s how it is.”
“Not in my world.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
The doctor leans back slightly, reassessing. “You said you don’t have a partner.”
“Yes,” he says.
The doctor nods once. “Then we need to talk about alternatives.”
Shane’s chest tightens. “You’re not listening.”
“I am,” the doctor says calmly. “I’m just not agreeing with you.”
He reaches into the folder at his side and pulls out a tablet, setting it down on the bedside table between them. The screen lights up, displaying a clean, professional interface.
Shane doesn’t look at it.
“There are alpha support services,” the doctor says. “Licensed. Background-checked. Medical training included. Their role is to act as a stabilizing presence during heat cycles.”
“No,” Shane repeats.
“They’re not escorts,” the doctor adds. “And they’re not there to take control from you. Their job is to support your autonomy.”
Shane laughs again, sharp and humorless. “That’s a contradiction if I’ve ever heard one.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Shane finally glances at the tablet. Just a flicker of his eyes, barely a second—but it’s enough.
Profiles scroll past in neat rows. Names. Photos. Credentials. All of it looks sterile, sanitized, unreal.
“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. “I’d rather—”
He stops himself.
The doctor’s gaze sharpens. “You’d rather what?”
Shane swallows hard. The words sit like broken glass in his throat.
“Never mind.”
The doctor studies him for a long moment. Then he says, very gently, “I’m going to be blunt with you.”
Shane doesn’t respond.
“Continuing suppressants right now puts you at serious risk,” the doctor continues. “Cardiac events. Neurological complications. You could collapse again. Somewhere less controlled than an ice rink.”
Shane’s hands tremble despite his best efforts.
“And going through a compounded heat alone,” the doctor adds, “is also dangerous.”
Shane closes his eyes.
“So what,” he mutters. “I’m just trapped, then.”
“No,” the doctor says. “You have options.”
They don’t feel like options. They feel like choices between different kinds of humiliation.
The doctor stands, smoothing his coat. “I’m going to discharge you with strict instructions. No suppressants. Rest. Monitoring.”
“And if I don’t follow them?”
The doctor meets his eyes. “Then I’ll be seeing you again. Under worse circumstances.”
The door opens. Pauses.
“One more thing,” the doctor says over his shoulder. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”
The door closes softly behind him.
Shane is left alone with the hum of machines and the tablet glowing quietly at his bedside.
He stares at it for a long time without touching it.
Eventually, he reaches over and turns the screen face-down.
…
The media storm hits before he even makes it home.
His phone buzzes incessantly—missed calls, texts, notifications stacking on top of each other until the screen is nothing but noise. He doesn’t answer any of it.
His apartment is dark and silent when he steps inside, the familiar space offering no comfort. He drops his keys on the counter, toeing off his shoes without bothering to line them up the way he usually does.
His body feels wrong.
Too warm. Too sensitive. Like his skin is tuned half a notch too high.
He strips off his clothes and stands under a cold shower until his teeth chatter, until the heat recedes enough that he can think again.
It doesn’t last.
That night, he lies awake staring at the ceiling, every nerve ending buzzing. His thoughts spiral, looping back to the same awful truth no matter how hard he tries to avoid it.
He can’t suppress this away.
Sometime around three in the morning, he gives up on sleep.
He pads out to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water he forgets to drink, and opens his laptop.
The search term sits there, blinking.
Alpha heat support services.
His fingers hover over the trackpad.
He hates himself a little as he clicks.
The site loads quickly, polished and professional. No lurid imagery. No promises of dominance or submission. Just clean design and carefully chosen language.
Your autonomy matters.
Consent-first care.
Professional, discreet, supportive.
Shane snorts softly. “Sure.”
He scrolls anyway.
Most of the profiles make his skin crawl. Too intense. Too smiling. Too eager.
Then—
He stops.
It’s not the photo that does it, though the man in it is undeniably attractive in a grounded, unshowy way. Dark hair. Calm eyes. No aggressive posturing.
It’s the bio.
Direct. Plainspoken. Thoughtful.
Experience with long-term suppression recovery.
Focus on emotional regulation and physical safety.
I do not assume what my client needs. We decide together.
Shane’s chest tightens unexpectedly.
The name at the top of the profile reads:
Ilya Rozanov.
Russian. Bisexual. Guardian-certified. No flowery language. No bravado.
At the bottom, a simple line:
You are not broken. You are adapting.
Shane slams the laptop shut like it’s burned him.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing hard.
“This is insane,” he mutters to the empty room.
Outside, the city hums on, indifferent.
Inside, Shane Hollander—who has built his entire life on discipline and denial—sits alone in the dark, realizing that for the first time in years, he might not be able to do this by himself.
And that terrifies him more than any fall ever could.
…