Chapter Text
Shane’s life changed irreversibly just a few days after he turned eighteen, the moment his biology decided his fate for him. In an instant, the promising hockey player vanished, replaced by an omega who was no longer allowed to play professional sports. He remembered only the burning shame, the official entering his name into the registry next to a serial number, and the way his parents renounced him the second it became clear he wouldn't be a successful alpha.
The world he knew, a world of sports, training, and competition, slammed shut in his face with a deafening bang before he could even truly taste it, right before his professional league debut. After his secondary gender presented, he became a "resource," someone who no longer had the right to even hold a hockey stick. He ended up in a redistribution center, where he had already spent three years because there weren't many people looking for an omega like him. Every alpha he was presented to saw him as a challenge. He was tall, with a strong athlete’s body and the soul of a sportsman that refused to fully submit. This provoked insecure betas and alphas alike. Shane’s first potential alpha rejected him because he hated the fact that Shane was taller than him. alphas didn't want an omega they had to look up at, or one who could physically match them.
Shane’s athletic past was practically a stigma. The information in his files stating he was a former hockey player led everyone to believe he would never become a fully submissive omega. No one wanted to risk their life with someone who once knew how to level an opponent on the ice.
Initially, Shane treated the lack of interest from alphas as his own small victory. But over time, that satisfaction began to rot, turning into a curse.
Months turned into years, and the walls of the redistribution center began to close in on him. He watched as other omegas - the "small, submissive, ideal" ones - disappeared from the center within days. He remained, and slowly began to understand that being unwanted didn't mean freedom; it meant being nobody. He became a glitch in the system, dust on a shelf with goods whose expiration date was relentlessly approaching.
He realized that the prospect of living in this center without the scent of grass, the sky, or the sound of skates cutting the ice terrified him more than any alpha. He began to fear he would die in this place, and his name would simply be struck from the registry, leaving no trace behind.
The worst part of it all was his own body, which had begun to betray him. Shane wanted to hate all alphas, but biology didn't care about his dignity. His inner omega was programmed to seek protection and comfort in the presence of an alpha or beta. In the center, he couldn't count on that. The guards here treated him with clinical indifference at best; more often, however, he met with blatant contempt and hostility. He was never hit directly, but he was not spared numerous threats or acts of masked aggression, such as violent shoving or unnecessarily hard gripping of his wrists or neck.
All of this resulted in him becoming a mere shadow of his former self. He began to be deathly afraid of alphas, especially since those working at the center told him with sadistic satisfaction that they were "exceptionally kind" compared to what awaited him once he was officially assigned to his alpha.
So when a guard tossed a potential assignment card onto his bed, Shane felt the blood drain from his face, leaving behind an icy chill. He knew the name printed in bold all too well: Ilya Rozanov.
Shane had seen him many times on the television screen in the center's common room. The Russian alpha was known for his exceptionally aggressive play. He had seen the fury with which he got into brawls on the ice and the ruthlessness with which he took down anyone who irritated him. If Ilya did such things to hockey players in front of thousands of fans, what would he do to a dependent omega behind the closed doors of his apartment?
"Well, Hollander, enjoy your life while you can," the guard sneered, leaning against the doorframe of his room, which could more accurately be called a cell. "Rozanov isn't looking for someone to cuddle. This guy needs a punching bag so he stops taking it out on the ice. Once he gets his Russian hands on you, he'll tear you to shreds in five minutes. There won't be enough of you left to pick up," he cackled, leaving Shane alone as he felt his life had just come to an end.
Ilya sat sprawled in a leather armchair in the league's front office, on the 40th floor of a glass skyscraper. Although he tried to appear unmoved and relaxed, his body was like a coiled spring. On Vance’s oak desk lay a tablet with a paused recording of yesterday’s game, in which the Russian, with fury in his eyes, was pummeling an opponent, ignoring whistles and even the physical intervention of the referees.
"Fuck, Rozanov, the jokes are over. This isn't a request. Either you agree, or I'll have to suspend you for the rest of the season, and the fact that you're the best player on the team won't matter at all. The league is tired of paying damages, and the disciplinary committee wants your head. This program is your only chance to stay on the team."
Ilya snorted, looking with clear distaste at the folder containing the documents for the "Anchor" therapeutic program and flipping through them without much interest.
"So this is your plan?" Ilya looked up, his voice dripping with contempt. "You want to buy me a dog so I stop biting?"
"We want to give you an omega whose very presence will lower your cortisol levels. Studies show that alphas with your level of aggression stabilize by up to 60% when they have a constant source of omega pheromones at home. This omega I'm proposing is biologically matched to you. He’s meant to quiet you down. You are to live with him, sleep, eat, and spend every free moment together until you calm down enough not to be a danger to yourself and others on the ice. Just look at him, I'm sure you'll like him. I know you only hook up with betas and other alphas so far, and this boy doesn't look like a stereotypical omega at all. He’s tall and strong, I’m sure you’ll like him."
Vance slid a photo of an omega toward Ilya. Ilya stared at the photograph. The boy in the picture, Shane, was a man with distinctly masculine features that contrasted with the delicate freckles adorning his beautiful face. However, what caught the attention most were his brown eyes. The boy's gaze was so sad and hopeless that Ilya couldn't look at him for more than a few seconds without a searing pain in his heart. Ilya flipped the photo over so he wouldn't have to look at him anymore. He didn't explain to the manager that he didn't sleep with omegas because he had something against that sub-gender. He didn't do it because he didn't want even his fingertip to be dipped in the shit that was the treatment of omegas in their world.
"He is not a room freshener with pheromones, Vance!" Ilya barked, pushing himself violently away from the desk. "You expect me to lock him in my apartment because the league can't handle my fights on the ice? This is a living human being who will most likely hate me for being sentenced to someone like me!"
"Call it what you want, Ilya," the manager replied coldly. "But I expect you to be a professional. He has nowhere else to go anyway. He’s turned twenty-one, so he no longer qualifies for any protection. He’s large and tall, so he doesn't fit the desired beauty standards of an ideal omega. If you don't take him, he goes back into the state pool. And you know they don't mess around with those ones. You're pulling him out of a potential hell, just so he can sit in your luxury apartment and smell like peaches. He's never had a partner. If things go well, you'll be the only alpha who ever touches him. And you know damn well he could have ended up much worse. Come on, Rozanov, I see the way you look at this boy. Your alpha already wants him."
The Russian clenched his jaw so hard he felt a pain radiating to his temples. Vance was talking absolute shit. The fact was, the irrational attraction Ilya already felt toward the younger man didn't stem from a desire to fuck him. Ilya’s alpha simply wanted to soothe those large, frightened eyes, because he couldn't stand the sight of suffering on this boy's face.
Ilya didn't grace Vance with an answer. Instead, he grabbed the pen and with a furious motion signed the transfer act. At the bottom of the page, next to Shane’s first and last name, was a dry statement: "Property transferred." Looking at those two words, he felt his stomach twist into a knot.
He threw the pen onto the desk with a dull thud and stood up hastily. He wanted to leave this office as quickly as possible; it suddenly felt stifling and claustrophobic.
"He's in the transfer room on the third floor," Vance called after him, returning to his computer as if he had just finished ordering a snack delivery to the office. "The documents are already in the system; I settled it earlier because I knew you'd agree. Shane Hollander is yours."
Ilya left the room without a word.