Across the ice, Canada's forwards were stretching in a line, sticks angled against the boards.
Shane was calm. Much calmer than he expected, but he knew what to expect when facing Russia. Rozanov. He didn't beat himself up as his gaze lingered on Rozanov, who was moving through warmups. He told himself he was scouting. And it wasn't just him. He could feel Rozanov's gaze like a weight pressing across the ice, and every time he raised his head, the other boy's sharp, calculating glance met his, just long enough to unsettle him but never break the silent boundary.
It felt better than he wanted it to.
It was as if he were in the middle of a bath made of a million ripe persimmons. Way more pungent than that fruit had the possibility of being, and impossibly sweet. Shane could taste it with every swallow.
During skating drills, they ended up near center ice more than once, their paths brushing close without ever crossing. There was no greeting, no nod, no acknowledgment beyond intense, beseeching, fleeting glances.
By the time warmups ended, Shane's muscles were ready, and he was hungry for this win. He glanced once more toward Rozanov, who had just finished a tight turn at center ice, and for a fraction of a second, their eyes locked again. Shane blinked, drew in a shaky breath, and forced himself to look away.
They had to win.
He had to win.
-------------------------
The game had played out exactly as expected.
The moment the puck dropped, Rozanov was immediately aggressive. Every deke, every shift, every quick pass felt like a test, an unspoken challenge aimed squarely at Shane. He was hot on his tail, relentless. Shane knew a language barrier barred him from endless chirping, but not from being slammed into the boards and a few one-worded, boisterous statements. And each time it happened, when Rozanov's body collided with his, even through the thick padding of their hockey equipment, Shane felt it. The force of it, the heat of it, the awareness of him. It was like being electrocuted. Every single time. His breath caught, and sweet persimmon stuck to the back of his throat. He was choking him with his pheromones. The rink reeked, and Shane felt lightheaded, imbibed, like he'd swallowed something heady and intoxicating, but the shocking oxymoron was the astute mental clarity he had. His adrenaline spiked, clean and electric.
He felt good. No. Better than good. The best he'd ever felt. That feeling was addictive.
He was faster, sharper, quicker on his feet than he could ever remember being. Every movement came instinctively, his body responding before he could think. It was one of, if not his best, hockey performances of his life.
Midway through the first period, Rozanov came barreling down the wing, puck glued to his stick. Shane was ready. He positioned himself perfectly, reading the forward's rhythm, and intercepted with a smooth poke check. The puck bounced to a teammate, and Canada moved up ice. He could feel Rozanov's gaze burning into him as a triumphant smile enveloped his face. He made sure to meet the fuming teenager's gaze. It felt great. Though his brain started feeling mushy, the longer he held his gaze.
Shane logged over twenty-three minutes of ice time. He contributed a goal off a perfect one-touch pass and set up another with a quick feed from the corner. He blocked shots, took hits, and stayed in Rozanov's orbit whenever possible.
It was amazing to have such a worthy opponent. Shane had no words for the feelings coursing through him. Though he desperately wanted, no, needed that win, he wished the game would never end. It had been such a long time since he had so much fun on the ice and felt such hunger.
The final buzzer echoed, and, chest heaving, sweat and adrenaline mingling, Shane was enveloped by his teammates. Canada had pulled it off. Victory. Gold-medal opportunity.
Smiling at each other, beyond elated at their win, the young Team Canada players celebrated until they had to skate toward the neutral zone, where the teams lined up for the post-game handshake.
The chatter of players, coaches, and ice staff was loud, but Shane's world narrowed to the line in front of him.
They moved in slow motion.
The boy he'd spent every shift of the game silently measuring was right there. Tawny curls slightly damp with sweat, shoulders set, intense amber-brown eyes scanning the Canadian lineup. His eyes didn't simply brush over him. They focused on him. The adrenaline and sound of his hammering heart and the flash of the cameras all around Shane made him feel lightheaded.
This was it. This was the first real acknowledgement between them. No drills, no warmups, no shoulder check—just this.
He skated forward, reaching out. He made sure to hold Rozanov's unyielding gaze.
Assert dominance. You've won.
He felt the tremble in his fingers and hoped his face wasn't betraying him. Rozanov's hand met his, firm, warm, and… clammy. Shane's fingers curled around it, and he felt that subtle, electric jolt coil low in his stomach, and heat rushed up his arm. Then Rozanov squeezed and fucking smiled. His insides tingled. Shane was immediately overwhelmed.
Against his conscious decision, he quickly yanked his hand free. Rozanov had great reflexes. He held on tightly to the tip of his fingers. It burned.
Shit.
Shane was mortified. The cameras kept flashing.
"Congratulations," Rozanov said, voice low and heavily accented. His voice!
Heat washed over Shane and pooled low in his spine.
"Good game," Shane managed robotically, heart still racing, voice tighter than he intended.
Rozanov released his hand, and in unison they moved down the line to shake hands with the next player.
Persimmons cloyed all his pores.
-------------------------
Shane stared straight ahead, helmet off, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the far side of the ice where the Russian team skated toward the medal stand. They were up first. The silver medals glinted under the arena lights.
Shane's chest tightened for a strange, unfamiliar reason. It wasn't just the overwhelming feeling of his team's gold medal win. It was something else.
The calm he felt on the ice was now gone.
Shane's greedy eyes traced every motion of Rozanov's, memorizing the tilt of his head, the quick flicker of his eyes, the way he shook hands with officials.
He was deeply dissatisfied with Rozanov's straight face. He didn't miss his wide, almost radiant, confident grin. He didn't. He just felt… off. Why? He had won. He had led his team to their victory. He had made his parents proud. His country is proud. He had made himself proud. He could already see his bright future in hockey.
He was deliriously happy. To the point of tears.Truly. But still… Shane felt a pang of sadness. It made him confused.
No. He wasn't confused, per se.
He was sad that this was over. The tournament was over. And this was it. For them. Him seeing Rozanov and playing against him. At least for half a year. Until the International Prospect Cup. Tomorrow they would go home, to different countries, different routines, and this strange, electric connection would be gone, or at least buried somewhere under everyday life. And it shouldn't matter.
It didn't.
Team Canada had won.
Ilya Rozanov stood a few yards away, just off the curb of the hotel parking lot, his back flank to the wall. Snow from earlier had melted into that gray, slushy mess that clung to the edges of the pavement, and the cold bit through Shane's jacket in sharp, needling gusts.
Shane slowed as he got closer, taking him in the way he had a hundred times through a screen over the past year, but it was different in person. Worse. Or better. He couldn't decide.
This was the result of his current obsession, which had resulted in him becoming a bit of a stalker. A career stalker. Nothing serious, and it wasn't weird, so he told himself.
He was just keeping an eye on the competition. And an eye he kept. Shane was almost on his way to learn Russian to make it easier to find deets on his, now declared, archival. The title sent a thrill through him for what it implied about him and his importance in the future of hockey and draft night. He had played against Rozanov. He was a dynamic player, and he made Shane work for his win. He felt like he was five and on the ice for his first few games. He missed that hunger. Playing against him was phenomenal. It was different to play against a player who was at the same level as him after what felt like a lifetime of easily being able to meet and triumph over all the hockey players he met on the ice. He missed worthy opponents.
He didn't mind him being his rival. It fueled him to push harder, go harder, and reach higher than he had ever felt compelled before.
This explained the strange need that filled him after the Hlinka tournament, six months ago, to talk to Rozanov. Not like they did that one time, on the ice. No. Off the ice. So birthed the ludicrous notion that he would be inserting dominance. He didn't know why he felt the need to do it. He just knew it needed to be done.
Players did this all the time, even if the other player was, per the media circuit, their mortal enemy. And he did hate Rozanov. Now that was something the press got correct. He was out to undermine the Russian player.
So started his rehearsal. In locker rooms. In the shower. Lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling while his brain refused to shut off, talking to Meghan, eating dinner. He practiced. Put bass in his voice. Made sure he looked and sounded indifferent.
The time between the Hlinka tournament and the World Junior Championships felt longer than a mere six months. But he used those months to do his homework and plan. He planned the next time he would be in the same place as Rozanov.
Now that it was happening, he felt a bit stupid.
Rozanov didn't look up, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. He leaned back slightly, cigarette balanced between his fingers. Persimmons. Softer. Fainter than last year. It clung to the cold air and held a hint of almost apricot-like sweetness.
Shane's mouth dropped open, and he started inhaling like a drowning man. He squeezed his fists and took the remaining steps that took him to Rozanov. No takebacks.
"Hey," Shane called, forcing his voice into something steady as he closed the distance. "Rozanov, right?"
He let out a puff of smoke. He didn't look at him. Jerk. There was a long beat of silence. "Yes," he said simply. His voice.
Oh shit.
Shane exhaled.
Every version of it played out differently, cool, casual, indifferent, but never like this. Never with his pulse climbing into his throat.
One. Two. Three. Here goes nothing.
"Shane Hollander." He stuck his hand out, the tips of his fingers tingling, and held his gaze on him. Rozanov still wasn't looking at him.
He hated himself for doing this and for thinking it was a power play.
He finally looked at him. His pheromones grew stronger. He gave him that look; that slow, assessing look. It was intense and sharp; the end of his spine burned.
Then, slowly, as if his hand was a venomous snake, he dropped his gaze to it, and he stared at it for what felt like an eternity. Shane felt a tremble starting from his toes, traveling up his leg and twisting his stomach into painful knots. Mortification was an understatement.
What the hell was he doing? He thought, his cheeks getting tight from the heat of self-hatred. He wanted to run away. They should have remained as rivals who only glared at each other on the ice and slammed each other into the boards. What had possessed him? He should've never done this. This wasn't Shane Hollander. This ridiculous, impulsive choice. Had he been abducted by aliens?
His embarrassment was growing by leaps and bounds.
Before he could find an escape, Rozanov straightened up to his full height. He had gotten taller and bigger. Well, so had Shane. The intimidating tactic didn't work. They were basically the same height and size now.
Finally, he took Shane's hand. His grip was firm, almost dismissively so. Shane's arm was instantly on fire, and he wanted to go rip his arm free.
Rozanov deliberately squeezed his hand, and all he said in his deep, accented voice was, "I know."
Of course he did. Shane knew that. And he wanted to bite back a snarky remark, too. But he was tongue-tied. Shane never did well in these citations. He was nonconfrontational. Tonight, lying in bed, he would have the perfect response.
Rozanov was more cocky than ever.
And Shane really didn't know what to say. The moment for snarkiness was gone. The beat of silence felt mighty long, and it was about to teeter into awkward if Shane didn't grab hold of it. Therefore, he forced his tongue to move, and he talked.
"So," Shane said, pulling back first. Holding his gaze, Rozanov let him go, but it wasn't quick; his fingers ran down Shane's palm and fingers in what felt like a caress. Shane immediately dropped his gaze; it suddenly felt too intimate as he shuddered and violently shuffled back, shoving his hands in his pockets.
What the hell? What the hell!
He was playing games with him.
Shane was now angry. Very angry. Both himself and Rozanov.
Now he knew he couldn't leave, even though that's all he wanted to do.
No. Not after that. What he was certain would take center stage in his dreams tonight.
Swallowing, he sucked in his bottom lip and anxiously looked around the lot. He needed to say something. Anything!
Glancing at his cigarette, Shane said, "You smoke."
The brooding teenager shrugged.
"Ah, well, smoking is bad for you?" He hated it the moment he said it. He sounded like such a dad. Like his dad.
Rozanov blinked at him, face blank, and he was silent for far too long. Shane wondered if his earlier responses were the extent of his English. But then, the corners of his plush mouth twitched. His eyes, now very expressive, twinkled. "Okay," he replied, lifting the cigarette slightly.
No, his English had gotten so much better.
"Yeah." Shane shuffled some more. He was just burning now. He looked around the parking lot some more. Not much to see but cars and team buses. He saw the Russian bus.
He needed to go before he went up in flames. He would live to fight another day. On the ice.
Rozanov's pheromones were stronger now. Though not quite like he last remembered, they seemed to grow more potent every second in his presence. Shane wondered if he knew or if it was intentional.
Frankly, it was growing a little bit harder to think, and his insides were starting to tingle. It wasn't unpleasant, but he didn't like it.
"Okay then. Umm. Good luck."
Rozanov huffed, something low, almost a laugh, but rougher. A guttural sound that sat somewhere between amusement and disinterest.
"Good luck?" He batted his lashes at Shane and shrugged one shoulder like it didn't matter either way.
His pheromones smelled even nicer now. Smoother. Alluring. Shane didn't move.
"Yeah." Shane tried to think of something to add. "In the tournament," he said, his tongue felt heavy. He felt stupid, itching to tuck his tail in and run away.
Another cocky grin. "Does not matter." He shrugged. "We'll win."
Jerk.
That did it.
Shane let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "Not a chance in hell."
Rozanov smiled then. Not big. Not warm. But real enough to change his whole face. Holy shit.
His smile.
As Shane's brain short-circuited, Rozanov shrugged again. And that was it.
Shane sharply turned away from him and his demeanor changing smile and tried to walk, not run or jog.
His world felt tilted. He felt… off.
Just like last time.
He might be a year older, but he still felt like the shaken sixteen-year-old boy at the Hlinka.
-----------------------------
Team Russia won the last championship game. They got gold.
Canada lost, coming in second.
Shane was furious.
About everything.
How could they lose? How come he lost? He had been in top physical condition. Better than all the other games he had played in during the tournament.
Rozanov's pheromones were no longer as subdued as they had been the last and only time they talked, and it didn't cloud his mind. In fact, Shane was finding that the fruity fragrance of persimmon cleared his lungs, rejuvenating him. Firing him up. Russia was good. Which he already knew. Rozanov was good. Better than the last time they played against each other. He relished the challenge.
Then they had lost, and he was suffocating. His insides were burning. His head was itching. His brain felt mushy. And he felt out of control.
He wasn't one to fight, but seeing the triumphant gleam in Rozanov's eyes made Shane want to twist his hand clean off when Rozanov held his gaze and said, "Good game." And he had to swallow a few times to find his voice and say, "Congratulations." That one-word statement made Rozanov glow, and he smiled at him, all wide and confident. Radiant.
That made it worse. Of course. He felt as if Rozanov were making fun of him, taking pleasure in his defeat.
He truly hated him.
He refused to lose to him again.
Shane wanted to fling the silver medal around his neck and jump at Rozanov during the medal ceremony.
He fought back his anger and tears. He didn't cry. Especially not in public.
But now more so than ever, he couldn't wait for the future. He had to be drafted 1st overall, and he would beat Rozanov the next time they met.
He needed that distinction.
-----------------------------
Meghan sat cross-legged on his bed.
She'd been at his house and his bedroom a million times before. Dinner had ended not too long ago. She was looking at his trophies. He followed her gaze. His chest contracted when his eyes landed on the silver. It held so much resentment, frustration, and confusion. He was waiting for his payback.
"I'm so jealous."
"Huh?"
She looked at him and smiled. "You don't have to think about the future." She sighed and flopped back on his bed, resting her hands on her stomach.
"Mmm?"
"My parents are on my ass."
"But you're going to university."
"Yes. I want to. But…" She sat up and waved for him to come to her. He did. "What if I want to travel?"
"I'm going right to work?"
"I know." She laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him to the bed. "But, is it work if you're doing what you love?"
Shane let out a small breath, carefully sitting beside her. "I guess you're right."
"I'm always right." She kissed his cheek and nuzzled her face on his shoulder.
Dread filled him.
He liked Meghan. He really did.
Meghan pulled back and stared at him. Her expression shifted slightly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." It came out flat. He didn't look at her when he said it.
She didn't push. Instead, she reached for his hand, threading their fingers together, and pushed him back on his bed, lifting their connected hands between them like something delicate, something worth examining. Her touch was warm, familiar. Safe.
"Are you nervous?" she asked softly, their connected hands up in the air. "About the draft?"
Shane finally glanced at her.
She smiled at him, easy and certain. "You're going first overall. You know that, right?"
He huffed out a quiet laugh, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah… maybe."
But he didn't believe it. Not fully. And he hated that. This was something he had been working for since he knew of its existence. Hockey was his world. And now, his confidence was dented, and he didn't know how to share his fears with anyone. It felt wrong. He felt wrong.
The thought slipped in uninvited, sharp and immediate.
Rozanov had had a hell of a year since the World Junior Championships. It was as if he had been on a warpath. Like he wanted to stay on his mind, erasing the roughly 7,500 km between them, fueling the competition between them that the hockey world had cooked up and was ready to serve on draft night.
His parents told him he had nothing to worry about. He, Shane Hollander, had also been on a warpath. He had been in peak condition. He was having a marvelous last year as a junior player. Word Junior was his this year. Nothing had changed. He had only gotten better.
He no longer worried about his unique traits. There was no room, and it all meant nothing. He met an alpha, and every time they played together, it only seemed to make him better. Which was a worry he would shelve for a different time.
He wasn't a good player because of or despite the fact that he was an omega, but because of his grit, dedication, hard work, and natural talent. Draft night would prove that, and his upcoming career would cement that.
But Rozanov was no different from him. And that's what troubled him. They stood shoulder to shoulder in every conversation that mattered: both captains, both teenage phenoms, both putting up nearly identical numbers. Awards split between them, bouncing back and forth, stats too close to call.
Most importantly, he, nor his number one fans, his parents, couldn't confidently say first overall was his.
Meghan squeezed his hand. "Hey."
He blinked, pulling himself back.
"I'm so sad I won't be there on draft night," she said, her voice softening. She leaned in, turning her head to press a kiss to his shoulder.
The contact made him tense again, just for a second. Subtle. Almost nothing. But it was there. Always.
"It's okay." He smiled.
He liked Meghan. That was all that mattered. She was kind, steady, and easy to be around. They've known each other for what felt like all their lives. He felt safe and comfortable around her. That was all that mattered.
She returned his smile. "It's a few months away, maybe I can convince my parents to…"
"No."
That was too sharp. He squeezed her fingers and tried a soft, loving smile. "It's okay. You know my parents will be there."
"Right."
She bought it. She looked relaxed. Happy even.
"And with that, it's over."
His heart sank. "Huh?"
"We're both, like, adults now."
"Mmm?"
"I mean, I am. In a few months, you'll be eighteen, too."
He laughed. "My parents would beg to differ."
"My parents, too. But what can they do once we're officially out in the world?"
Shane loved his parents and relied on their guidance and support so much that, instead of feeling comforted by Meghan's words, he felt fear. He needed them to tell him what to do and how to be. He needed their interference and his regimented schedule.
Meghan didn't pick up on his troubling thoughts. She was now grinning. She shifted, releasing his hand only to move closer. In one smooth motion, she swung a leg over his lap, settling herself against him. His stomach burned with anxiety.
"When you come back," she said, her hands sliding up to cup his chest, "I'll make sure I give you a great gift."
Her tone was teasing. Promising.
Shane's smile stayed in place, practiced and easy. He didn't feel the spark he knew he was supposed to. He hadn't felt it their first time together and every single time after. It felt like a chore.
However, maybe that was what it meant to be an omega. Maybe he just needed to find a girlfriend who was an omega or alpha. Maybe it was a pheromone thing. A secondary sex thing. Nothing to worry about. Right?
What Shane did know was that, right now, he really didn't have the time or the mental capacity for the dissection of these confusing feelings.
He leaned in anyway, closing the distance, kissing her back because it was expected, because it was right, because it was what he was supposed to want.
And he told himself that was enough. For now.Shane couldn't sleep.
His head was spinning. He'd tried—lights off, phone face down, eyes squeezed shut as he could force it—but his brain wouldn't stop replaying it.
Second.
Second! The number after number one. Second. Right before third. Not first. The word sat heavy in his chest, dull and suffocating.
Number two overall.
He hadn't done it. He hadn't met his goal. His dreams lay crushed around him.
Anyone else would've been ecstatic. His parents had been. His friends definitely were. Meghan had sent about fifteen texts in all caps before midnight. And he was happy. He was! He really was… His team was the Montreal Voyageurs. They were the most legendary franchise in the league and were close to his hometown. Where his parents were. His mother was a huge fan. He was happy, damn it. And he had made sure he didn't look like a sore loser during his press run with the beaming Rozanov and his fucking persistent stench.
However, regardless of how hard he tried to lie to himself, the miserable truth was, he wasn't happy. He was devastated. He wasn't just anyone. He was fucking Shane Hollander. He had been projected to be drafted first. He was a teenage phenom. He hadn't gone first. He had been drafted second. Right before fucking Rozanov. Rozanov, who was drafted by Montreal's archrival, the Boston Bears.
Since he learned about the draft, the number one pick overall had been his dream. The stardom he had started to build in his mind as he formulated his career as a pro hockey player all felt… null now. Nothing made sense. It hurt. His chest felt like it was caving in. He felt like he was dying.
He felt pathetic, like a fucking kid. But he was only eighteen. He had the right to be furious and petulant. He'd worked his entire life for this moment. And he hadn't made it.
He was angry. So angry. It hurt to be in second place.
To make it worse, Rozanov got his number one and was drafted by Montreal's archrival, the Boston Bears. Shane didn't need to watch the coverage of draft night to know what was being said about them and how their "rivalry" was being spun.
Except for them, they really were rivals.
Shane had had a charmed life of almost always coming in first place, assuring him of what would happen on draft night, until fucking Rozanov and his cheeky grins and sly smirks.
He'd come close.
Too close.
And he deserved it. He worked so fucking hard for it.
He hated that guy. Everything about him bothered him. His number one draft pick. His pheromones. His status as an… alpha. The way he reacted to his pheromones. The way he tilted his world and made nothing make sense… He hated Ilya Rozanov.
If he had been a lesser man and didn't have a deathly fear of tearing up, he would have been bawling his eyes out. But tears were for cowards. Shane was a lot of things, but he wasn't a coward. Yet.
Never.
Shane shoved the covers off and sat up, dragging a hand down his face. The room felt too tight, too warm. His thoughts were loud, restless, clawing at him.
Too late to call. It was too late to text anyone. So he moved.
-----------------------------------
The hotel gym was empty when he got there, lights low and humming softly overhead. It smelled faintly like rubber and disinfectant, clean in a way that helped him breathe a little easier.
He didn't think. He simply stepped onto a treadmill and started running. Fast. Faster than he should've, probably, especially this late, especially on no sleep, but he needed to burn it out. Needed to outrun the noise in his head.
Five minutes in, his lungs started to ache. Ten, his legs burned. Fifteen. His head turned white. Twenty. His brain was mush, and he finally felt his body giving in to the rhythm, to the sound of his soft pants, the heat growing beneath his skin, the sweat bubbling on his forehead and nape. He felt good. It felt good. He had stopped thinking.
And then it hit him. Sweet. Warm. Thick. Persimmons.
Ah. Shit.
Shane's stride stuttered for half a second before he caught himself, jaw tightening as the scent settled heavy in the air. It didn't fade. Didn't drift. It stayed. Clung. And for a brief moment, it expanded, as if wishing to fill every tiny crevice of the hotel gym. Shane felt suffocated. It stayed at that rate, and his heart rate spiked—not from the run. His resolve as strong as steel, he refused to pause, to stop, or to look anywhere but straight ahead. He pushed the speed higher.
He refused to swivel his head and look for him. He didn't have to react just because he was an omega, and he was probably an alpha. Physiology. Biology. This reaction was normal. It meant nothing.
He moved around the gym.
Shane's heart leapt, pounding so hard that it rattled loudly in his skull. He was angry. That was all.
The scent got stronger. Smoother. Sweeter.
He was heading his way.
Shane tried to inhale as discreetly as possible.
He was close.
His heart thumped in heavy beats as footsteps sounded right beside him. Shane didn't look. He willed himself to keep staring straight ahead. Ilya Rozanov stepped onto the treadmill next to his—of course, it was him, only he carried that rich, pungent fragrance. Rozanov didn't acknowledge him. The inside of Shane's head was static.
How dare he!
Why him? Of all people. Of all the young hockey players staying at this hotel tonight, why Ilya Rozanov?
The hurt came back all at once, almost knocking Shane over when his knees quite literally briefly weakened. He wasn't a better player than him. Not in any category. Not by any metric. So… why him?
And then he looked at him. It wasn't a conscious choice. Rozanov was already looking at him, and he easily met his gaze—smirk already in place, one eyebrow arching in that same infuriating, effortless challenge. His cheeks were rosy, showing he, too, was impacted by their exhausting cardio race. But that didn't stop him from effortlessly lifting his chin in a mocking greeting.
Flame swirled in Shane's stomach. It hurt as it twisted into painful knots.
Oh. It was like that.
Shane almost lost his balance as he looked away and faced forward again. He increased the pace. Rozanov matched it. Shane pushed harder. So did he.
It was on.
Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The air between them sharpened, thick with competition. Minutes stretched, and their heavy pants and Rozanov's thick pheromones filled the room. Shane felt heady, the inside of his head static.
Their breathing grew heavier, rougher, syncing and clashing all at once. Shane's vision started to blur at the edges, his body tipping past exertion into something lighter, almost floaty. Buzzed. He didn't stop until he physically couldn't anymore.
He hit the button harder than necessary and staggered off, chest heaving as he bent forward, hands braced on his thighs. His vision swam. From his peripheral vision, he saw Rozanov doing the same thing. He was heaving.
Rozanov sat down first. A win. Shane followed soon after, feeling safe enough. They sat on the floor across from each other. Shane rested his arms on his bent knees, legs widened. Rozanov's legs stretched out between them, carelessly invading Shane's space. His greedy gaze dipped before he realized what he was doing. His eyes caught on the spread of Rozanov's legs, on the thick quadriceps shifting beneath his sweat-damp joggers. A warm sensation deep inside him began to spread through his body like sweet, oozing persimmon syrup.
Not good!
His head snapped up abruptly, looking directly at Rozanov. He felt heat rise through his ears and color his cheeks. That was even worse. Rozanov had sweated through his shirt, and Shane could see everything he didn't want to. He felt unable to look away, and his body was reacting appreciatively.
Not good.
He was nonplussed, and his brain wasn't working at the speed and with the clarity it typically did.
Using the last remaining shred of his will, Shane dropped his gaze to the space between his feet, where he knew he would be safe, and wiped sweat off his forehead before it dripped into his eyes.
For a second, silence stretched between them. They just breathed. Shane was grateful. Then their breathing started calming down.
Rozanov silently guzzled down his water. Shane didn't directly look at him, just from the corner of his eyes.
"Happy?"
Shane frowned, still trying to catch his breath. He lifted his head, and their eyes locked. Rozanov's gaze was hot on his. "Huh?"
He hated how stupid he sounded. It was just hard to focus on anything and everything when Rozanov kept pumping out his pheromones, and he was sitting close enough for Shane to feel the warmth of him. His logic was blurred at the edges, and his quick-witted responses were nowhere to be found.
Fuck.
Rozanov took a pull from his water bottle, then held it out toward him. Shane glared at it, confused and frazzled. He hadn't expected such an offering. He shook his head. "I'm good."
Rozanov didn't accept that. He shifted closer and grabbed Shane's hand outright. The contact hit like a detonation, instantaneous and electric. Shane jolted. Heat snapped through Shane's palm at once, violent and electric, racing up his arm in a bright, unbearable line before dropping low, hard, straight to his center. Shane couldn't focus on much else.
"No poison," he said. "Drink."
Shane lifted his gaze from the bottle and got his tongue working to articulate, "I don't trust you?"
With an open grin, Rozanov pressed the bottle into his open palm, looking at him with twinkling eyes. He was biting back laughter. "I have nothing to kill you for."
Ouch.
"Fuck you."
He shrugged, his smile still easy and light. "Drink. Dehydration is bad."
This whole situation was ridiculous, and against his better judgment, Shane found himself chortling. He tried to suppress it. That made it worse.
Rozanov gave him a questioning look, then the corner of his mouth twitched up. Shane started snorting. He couldn't help it. Rozanov, his eyes locked on Shane's crimson cheeks, let out a soft chuckle-like snort, too. And suddenly, Shane felt incredibly light and peaceful. It was like a tranquil, incredibly sweet and floral, almost like a natural air freshener, wave of persimmons washed over him.
Strange.
Rozanov shook the water bottle in front of him again.
"Thanks," he muttered, deciding to accept his offering.
Rozanov leaned back slightly, watching him drink. He was studying him. Shane didn't know where to look or how to swallow. His face felt hot again, and his ears were ringing.
Was he checking him out? Was this… mutual? Wait. Mutual? He wasn't into Rozanov. He hadn't been checking him out. He had looked at him. Where else was he to look?
"Bad day?"
"Wh—" No. Rozanov was just being an ass. "Fuck you, dude." He almost hurled the water bottle at him. Instead, he squeezed it and took another huge gulp.
Rozanov grinned in that customarily smug way of his and raised his eyebrows. And Shane had a random, straying, betraying thought: he was attractive. No, Shane knew he was good-looking, yes, he had eyes. But his beauty had never stood out. Not to Shane. Shane Hollander, who didn't even notice his own girlfriend. He didn't have time for such trivial matters, and… not Ilya Rozanov. It was different now.
As he stared at Rozanov, his lips unnaturally crimson and wet from exertion and water, the fabric of his soaked shirt clinging obscenely to the hard lines of him, damp and heavy where it molded to his chest and stomach, following every rise and fall of his breathing. Sweat sheened against the exposed skin of his throat, curls damp against his forehead and nape; he looked… attractive. He, Shane Hollander, found him attractive. Right now. A few hours after the draft. Even though that was mortifying, it was nowhere near the deep shame he felt, painfully aware of every inhale he took and how much of Rozanov he was breathing in with it. Trapped inside his own body.
It was probably the whole omega-alpha thing. Right?
His deep, smooth voice pulled Shane from torpedoing: "Everything you wished for?"
Shane exhaled, his heart leaping, cautiously handing the bottle back lest he do something foolish. "What?"
Rozanov looked at the hand holding the bottle.
Shane swallowed, his fingers cramping as a shiver started tingling the tips of his fingers at the fear of him touching him as he reached for the bottle. But he didn't. He reached and grabbed it and looked up at him. There was a hot light in his eyes. "Your team." A brief pause. He arched his brow and lifted his lip again. "The Montreal. Happy?"
Shane's cheeks burned, and he hoped Rozanov wasn't as perceptive off the ice. He shrugged, too, forcing his body to relax to make sure all his movements were as seamless as his rival's. Dropping his gaze for a fraction of a second before he forced it back up. "Yeah. Yeah. I mean." He held Rozanov's gaze. "I should have been drafted after you, but…" he gave a carefree shrug.
Rozanov laughed. He mirrored him. The sound shot an electric tingle straight up his spine, stealing the air from his lungs, and he felt a dangerous throb in his belly.
Strange.
"You?"
Never dropping his gaze, Rozanov took another drink, his Adam's apple bobbing as the water went down his esophagus, then his lips spread into a slow, satisfied smile. Shane watched as he had done to him a moment ago. Rozanov seemed to like it, which defeated the purpose and had him feeling hot and bothered. And a bit stupid. Again. So he looked at the ground. His shoes. The equipments. Anything but Rozanov.
"Ah." All that was missing was a pompous wink. "Feels nice."
Shane shuddered and blinked at Rozanov.
They silently stared back at each other. It wasn't what he said. It was how he said it. And his stupid, stinking pheromones. Rozanov's pheromones were starting to hold a note of sweetness like warm honey. It was messing with his head.
"You…" Rozanov broke the silence, and he stuttered. Shane was a bit stunned. Rozanov tilted his head, eyes steady on Shane, trying to find the correct English equivalent for what he wanted to say. Then he seemed to settle on a simple: "Happy?"
Shane scoffed automatically and rolled his eyes, but a laugh slipped out anyway, sudden and unplanned. It startled him almost as much as it did Rozanov, whose expression shifted. Shane relaxed his legs, and he stretched them out between them, making sure to avoid touching Rozanov.
"You're a jerk."
He was still angry, it was just that, at that moment, his anger was nowhere to be found. He felt amazing. Rozanov smelled comforting.
"Me? No," Rozanov said emphatically while giving him a cheeky grin.
His breath did that thing again. Clearing his throat, Shane said, "You're here?"
Rozanov didn't respond; instead, he straightened, shrugged, and started scooting, getting closer and closer. Too close. Shane started freaking out at the sudden shift, but he tried to stay calm, or at least look unfazed. He refused to move back. That would be a display of cowardice. He was no coward. The space between them shrank, the lingering scent of persimmons wrapping tighter, heavier. Shane went still, the water bottle still in his hand as Rozanov pressed it lightly back against his palm, like an anchor. Shane didn't move. He couldn't. Wouldn't.
"We'll be seeing a lot of each other."
"Huh?" His brain short-circuited again. He couldn't predict this guy's next move, and he didn't like that. Not at all.
"Montreal and Bos—"
"I know."
"They play… often. Yes?"
Shane made a face.
Rozanov lifted his eyelids a bit wider now and searched his face for a moment without talking. There was a low heat in his gaze, dark crescents formed on his cheeks from his lowered lashes.
"Yes?" And he knew that.
"Worthy rivals."
"I'm going to enjoy destroying your ass."
Rozanov laughed. His mouth was closed, and the sound streamed out of his nose. His nostrils flared. His eyelids dropped. Even his lashes were pretty.
Wait… Nope. Get it together, Shane.
Rozanov went silent, which was a bit jarring. Then he inhaled laboriously, his chest rising before deflating, and his upper body gently tipped toward Shane. It felt like his pheromones were stroking the inside of Shane's cranium, and his eyelids felt heavy, his heartbeat a steady staccato. Shane forgot how to move.
"Good." Rozanov hummed low and deep in his throat, the sound dark and velvety, vibrating through the space between them.
"Good?"
He opened his eyes all the way, the corners of his lips completely curled up. And then his eyes ran over Shane's face slowly. That strange, fuzzy feeling flooded through Shane instantly, sharp and consuming, starting from the tip of his skull, spilling down the length of his body in a dizzying wave that left every nerve lit raw and aching, before settling in his toes. And everything stilled, because Shane finally recognized that light in Rozanov's eyes.
The alarm bells went off just as his cocky archrival said, "Second best is not too bad, no?"
Shane was too discombobulated to shoot a fiery comeback. He needed to go. He didn't have the bandwidth for this. Whatever this was. He had a plan. A carefully curated, laid out plan. Rozanov wasn't part of that plan. Regardless of the fact that his pheromones… he smelled delectable. So delicious. So irresistible, and Shane was suddenly ravenous.
He couldn't be attracted to him. Anyone but him.
"Canada," Rozanov said, voice lower now, his accent thicker, words slower like he was choosing them carefully. His eyes had lost their earlier twinkle. He tapped Shane's ankle with the side of his sneakers. "Are… manifested, omega status known?"
The question landed heavily. Not where he saw their strange moment of camaraderie going.
Shane blinked at him, clarity crashing over him, his pulse kicking up all over again, but now for a completely different reason. "Huh?"
Rozanov inched closer still, his gaze steady on his. "It's okay."
"What?"
Rozanov's gaze didn't waver, his tone suddenly gentle. Too gentle. "Your scent is strong."
Shane's mind stumbled in uncomprehending circles, so struck with fear that he couldn't complete a thought. He swallowed, throat dry despite the water, and forced himself to steady. He did something he knew Rozanov wasn't expecting: he gripped the bottle, lifted it, and took another sip. Then met Rozanov's eyes head-on.
"What are you talking about?" Shane's voice was soft.
Rozanov shrugged, but Shane swore his gaze was now… softer and caring. Cautious even. "You're an omega. Yes?"
Shane scoffed. His ears felt hot. "You…" He started stuttering. He couldn't help it. "In Russia—I guess America now—are manifested players welcomed?" His words were steady. It felt good.
For a split second, something flickered across Ilya's face—surprise, maybe. Then it was gone, replaced with, out of all things, a lustrous smile. He leaned in even closer. Shane caved and angled away. "Never had to," he said. A pause. "You first."
Shane's heart felt like it was trying to break out of his chest. "Me first what?"
He gently sucked his teeth, the sound reverberating around the empty hotel gym, his eyes taking on a glint. Teasing. Competitive? "Omega."
"What?" Shane was flabbergasted, and he knew he should be angry, or something.
Rozanov's gaze dropped, brief, intentional, before snapping back up, and he stretched the corner of his mouth. He was expressive. "I've met omegas before."
Rozanov reached for his water bottle, letting the tips of his fingers rest on top of Shane's. He froze. He sucked in a breath, instincts screaming at him to move. So he did.
He twisted, pushing himself to his feet too fast, the room tilting for a second as he tried to get away. Fingers closed around his ankle. Shane froze. The contact sent a sharp, electric tingle straight up his spine, stealing the air from his lungs, and all the blood in his body seemed to gather there.
"I am right, yes?" Rozanov said, voice quieter now, but certain.
That was it. His world was suddenly wildly careening, and he found his strength. Shane yanked free, barely even processing how, and, like the little boy he felt like, bolted. Out of the gym. Out of the open. Out where anyone could have popped in and seen them. Practically sitting between each other's open legs, faces a few inches away, having an intimate conversation about his manifestation. They both knew the truth.
They had always known. Rozanov had always known.
What did it all mean for them?
For him?
He had a plan.