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Boston was usually one of Shane’s favorite stops on the road. He would never admit it out loud, not like Rozanov loudly proclaiming he would score fifty goals in the season, but no one put up a better fight in the rink than Rozanov. Before Shane met him, he had always been the best on the ice–not because he had to be, just because he simply was–despite how angry that had made all the alphas surrounding him. An omega had never broken through the alpha-dominated hockey sphere before. To be challenged in equal skill, even more so by an alpha who looked at Shane for Shane and not his designation, was electrifying.
He loved liked glancing up before puck drop, watching Rozanov’s smug smirk tug at his rosy lips. Every time that Rozanov chirped only made him push even harder during the play, knowing they would fuck out the tension in their dark hotel rooms that night. Maybe it was cliché, but Shane even enjoyed every time Rozanov slammed him into the boards, the alpha’s pine scent leaking out beneath his patch in an intoxicating way. He would never admit it, but Shane was secretly thrilled every time a collision left a bruise, if only because it was the only way he could carry the alpha’s mark.
But all of that was before. Before Montreal had found out that their captain was not a beta as they had believed, but an omega. Before they had found out Shane liked men–exclusively men.
They may never have liked Shane and his quirks much, but they had respected him and listened to what he had to say as captain. The Metros had let him guide them to not one but three Stanley Cups; yet every ounce of respect they once had had drained violently. Now the locker room was stifling, harsh looks constantly thrown his way, and if the omega was right, scents that once whispered pack now weaponized against him. Sometimes the stench of alpha–angry, disgusted, demeaning–was so strong it made his head swim.
Shane had hoped if he had just kept his head down and pushed harder, proven to them again that he was still the same man, they would stop shooting such vitriol his way. Now he would be lucky if none of them noticed the way his gaze would inevitably linger on Rozanov. He didn’t know how they would react if they didn’t win tonight. Something had been building in the air of the locker room for weeks now, threatening to snap. He didn’t want to find out what.
***
The puck snapped into the back of the net, and the horn blared for Boston. Shane grit his teeth and told himself they would fight harder in the second period. It would all be okay.
***
The blaring horn signalling the end of the game, 5-2 to Boston, meant that it was decidedly not fine. Shane grit his teeth harder into his mouth guard, watching the Raiders collide into excited hugs on the ice with rowdy cheers.
Hayden glided toward him, the alpha clapping Shane on the shoulder. If anyone else had understood how important winning this game was for their team, it was him. “Don’t worry, man,” he started, soothingly. “It’ll be okay.”
“They’re going to try to fucking kill me, Hay, and you know it.”
“Considering you had the only two points on the board tonight, I don’t think they have a leg to stand on,” but the look of concern didn’t leave Hayden’s eyes.
Shane’s eyes skittered nervously around the rink, watching his teammates grumble and push themselves off the ice. Comeau shot him an especially livid look as he stepped off the ice, and stormed back to their locker room. Drapeau was still by the bench, his grip on his water bottle so tight his hands were white. Shane accidentally made eye contact with Rozanov in his scan of the ice, the latter raising only an eyebrow in question at Shane’s obvious uneasiness.
He minutely shook his head and willed the alpha to shut up.
***
Shane had sped through his routine–change, shower, dress–in hopes of avoiding any of the testosterone high alphas in the locker room. The air held the steam of the showers and the intense smell of pissed-off alpha, so strong it could give him a headache. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, still on the anxiety that something was so clearly wrong and he had no idea what. He needed a minute to breathe. Fresh air and anything to escape the cloud of pheromones hanging over everyone’s head.
Shane slipped his way outside of the locker room, walking briskly down the winding hallways of the Boston arena that he hardly recognized. If it was anything like the Bell Centre, then he must have been somewhere in the middle of the Raiders and the visiting team’s locker rooms. Far away from where a player should stumble on him and find his still shaky form.
That hope was quickly dashed when the loud, echoing footsteps followed the same path Shane had just walked. Comeau and Drapeau rounded the corner quickly. Shane wasn’t sure if he should be relieved nobody else had stumbled across his near panic attack, or even more upset that it was these specific two alphas who had made him feel so worthless.
“Oh, it’s you guys–” Shane was abruptly cut off by the quick punch Comeau had thrown, connecting with his cheekbone and snapping his head to the side with the force of it.
“What the fuck-” Shane gasped. He felt a bit of blood start to drip from his nose instantly.
“You fucking slut,” Comeau seethed. “Which player convinced you to throw tonight? Did they promise to bend you over and give you a knot, omega-”
People always assumed that just because Shane didn’t fight–either because he was an omega or a polite Canadian, he wasn’t sure–that it meant he couldn’t. That wasn’t true. Yuna Hollander had put her son into martial arts at the ripe age of four, so he knew that when his fist connected with Comeau’s jaw, that it was gonna fucking hurt.
“You fucking assholes. Last time I checked I was the only one who fucking scored tonight.” Shane didn’t back away from the alphas puffing their chest, pushing right back up into their space.
Comeau’s hand darted out, and in a move unforgivable in every universe, managed to grab Shane harshly from the back of his neck, scruffing the omega with brute force. The fight immediately drained out of the omega as Shane’s knees buckled and gave out from under him, his arms going limp at his side and his vision blacking out for a moment. Using the opportunity of the omega’s forced submission, Comeau dragged Shane back still by the scruff, before bashing the omega’s body into the stone wall in front of them.
The room was spinning and his ears were ringing, and Shane had no clue which way was up or down. He could only feel the bruising hold on the back of his neck, even as his face was slammed again into the wall before him. The alpha behind him was spitting barbed words, but his muddled brain was only able to catch every sixth word. Bad. Slut. Whore. Pathetic. Weak. Shitty omega. The words bounced around in his skull, ripping open every insecurity he had spent years pushing down.
Shane was aware of his pain in a way outside of his body. He could hear the whimpers and choked noises, but his brain couldn’t connect that those sounds fell from his lips. Drapeau used Shane’s defenselessness as an opportunity to get quick jabs into the side of his ribs. The hallway was quickly flooding with the scent of decayed jasmine and overly burnt sugar, overripe with misery and pain and help.
Comeau’s sour, hot breath hit the side of Shane’s cheek as he weaseled his way into the sacred space between Shane’s neck and shoulder, bullying his whole body against the wall with his own.
No.
Shane didn’t know what Comeau planned to do, and he refused to find out. He felt the sharp, burning scrape of Comeau’s canines against his neck. The teeth weren’t quite over the mating gland, but close enough that Shane was hit with another wave of intense nausea as they pierced the skin and drew droplets of blood. A shrill, piercing keen ripped unconsciously out of his throat, bouncing down the walls, begging anyone to hear his cry for help.
Comeau ripped his face away from Shane’s neck with a curse.
“Fuck,” Drapeau hissed. “There is no way nobody heard that.”
Somehow, Comeau’s grip on his neck tightened further, the pressure tilting Shane’s world again as black and white dots buzzed in front of his eyes.
“What the absolute fuck,” somebody down the hallway roared. An alpha, the back of Shane’s rattled mind informed him on instinct.
There was a sharp crunch of a fist making contact with bone, and then the weight holding Shane up by the scruff was gone, and he was sent crashing to the floor with no control of his limbs. His head would have hit the floor, and he likely wouldn’t have been able to discern the difference from the splitting pain already ringing in his head, had he not landed in a pair of large arms.
A growl reverberated from behind Shane, the rumble jostling Shane’s body with its movement, and the culprit’s arms tightened around him protectively. Shane struggled to open his eyes at the scuffle of retreating footsteps.
“-llander. Hollander, damn it.” It was Cliff Marleau cradling his limp, still non-responding body. His scent of sandalwood and birch was a small comfort to the small part of Shane’s brain that recognized it (even if he only recognized it from the rink and the small traces he could sometimes catch on Ilya’s clothing). Shane blinked, watching Marleau’s mouth move while only the sound of buzzing reached his ears.
“Hollander,” Marleau said again, and this time Shane slowly dragged his eyes to meet the alpha’s above him. “We need to move you to a safe space to get some help. Is it okay if we lift you?”
Shane’s breath was still uneven, his limbs loose. He didn’t want any more hands on him, but he knew he couldn’t move alone. Much less convey the clusterfuck of his thoughts to the two alpha players when he hasn’t yet regained his voice.
“I need you to blink twice if you’re okay with this, Hollander,” Marleau’s voice was serious. It was a small comfort to know he had at least some of a say, no matter how performative it seemed in these circumstances.
Was he okay with this?
He didn’t need any more unwanted touch, his skin already crawling from the violation of his own teammates. But these were Ilya’s teammates. More than that, two of Ilya’s best friends. Beyond medical help, all Shane wanted was to be wrapped in Ilya’s comforting minty pine scent. He longed to hear the alpha’s voice, the heavy roll of his R’s, and know he was safe.
Marleau could get him that.
Slowly, as if fighting against glue, he blinked twice.
Marleau steeled his features. “Jesus, okay. Conners help me grab his other arm.”
Painstakingly slow, the two carefully shifted so that each had one of Shane’s shoulders around their necks, Shane releasing a pained whine as the movement jostled his injuries. Everything feels like it's soaked in molasses, his eyes drifting shut as he loses the energy to keep them open, as the trio winds through the arena like a maze.
Shane drifted in and out of consciousness as they lugged his body through the maze that was the arena’s hallways. He wasn’t quite sure how many turns they had made by the time they made it to the wide doors of what was clearly the Raider’s locker room. Marleau, using his hand not full of Shane, wrenched the door open and pulled the three of them inside.
The loud noises of celebration seemed to come to a stuttering halt. Shane’s eyes were hazy as they bounced skittishly around the room of black and yellow, taking in all of the players that had seemed to come to a panicked stand still.
“Jesus Marly, did ya fucking maul Hollander?”
Marleau ignored whoever that was, facing Shane. “I’m gonna lay you down now, okay?”
Shane blinked before looking at the ground, where everyone's feet were. “Nooo,” he slurred. “‘s dirty…”
Connors huffed, but Marleau snapped at one of the rookies to lay a towel down.
The two alphas laid him down gently, so gently it was as if he were made of glass, which he would sniff at if he was more aware.
The frozen locker room seemed to have recovered from their shock, and the room full of alphas dissolved into shock.
“Who would hurt an Omega?”
“Who the fuck would hurt Hollzy?”
“Would one of you fucks get the fucking medic-”
“Where is Roz?”
Shane also wanted to know the answer to that last one, especially as the locker room filled with the scent of aggravated and protective alpha, strong scents of sandalwood, smoke, and cedar swirling. So many scents were driving his omega insane. He just wanted one. To curl up in his nest, bury his nose in a hoodie smelling of pine, and pretend none of this had ever happened. Pretend his neck didn’t hurt like a bitch and Comeau hadn’t tried to bite him.
Marleau had returned to his side with a wet towel, which he used to gently dab Shane’s forehead. His dark brown eyes gazed worriedly at Shane, and Shane suddenly felt the urge to comfort the man.
The buzzing of the Raiders flitting around like ants came to a sudden stop when the locker room doors burst open. Shane blinks, and tries his best to focus his eyes on the alpha that just walked in. Ilya’s blue eyes were wild, jumping around the room clearly in search of Shane, with Conners frantic right next to him, having obviously gone to fetch him.
Shane summoned all of his strength, reaching a shaking arm out towards the blond man. “Ilyaaaaaaa.”
“Blyat,” Ilya hissed, taking two long strides to reach Shane’s side, grasping his outreached hand in his own and squeezing.
“Hollander, who did this?” Shane loved how Ilya said his name, how his deep voice rolled over the r. A dopey grin must be stretching across his lips right now, if Ilya’s increasingly concerned face was to be believed.
“Hollander, please.” Shane also liked it when he begged. He was starting to think he liked everything about the man in front of him. Ilya’s hand squeezed gently around his own once again, before he turned his gaze to Marleau. “Where is the medic?”
At the dark tone of Ilya’s voice, one of the rooks scampered again to go find a medic, and Shane took the moment of distraction as an opportunity, pulling Ilya’s hand in his towards his face so he could smell the deep pine from Ilya’s wrist.
Ilya startled at the movement, his eyes snapping back downwards to meet Shane’s. He quickly, and gently, maneuvered his wrist out of Shane’s grasp, moving to trace the blood running down Shane’s neck to play off the intimate moment.
Marleau’s amber eyes flickered between the two of them, before quietly gesturing for Ilya to take his place to support Shane. Gently, so gently, he allowed Ilya to slip behind Shane so that he could be the one holding the man upright. Ilya loosely wrapped his hands around Shane’s waist.
Standing up and clearing his throat, Marleau nodded at the medic frantically entering the room before turning to face the rest of his team. “Okay, assholes! Let’s give Hollzy some privacy, alright?”
At first, nobody moved, the Raiders seemingly offended that Marleau thought any of them would abandon Hollander in his state. Marleau raised a single brow.
“He doesn’t need to look at your ugly mugs while he’s evaluated!” Marleau boomed again. “Out!”
That at least, seemed to knock some sense into the alphas standing around. They grabbed their things quickly, wanting to get out of the way as quickly as possible. Gradually, the locker room emptied.
“Get well soon, Hollzy,” someone murmured when they passed him. “Let us know who to knock into the boards next time, eh?”
Ilya squeezed Shane’s hand within his own as emotion welled up in Shane’s throat. He blinked twice, and despite feeling off kilter, managed a nod to the concerned men leaving the room.
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya murmured near his ear when everyone but Marleau and the medic had gone. The medic didn’t seem to give a shit what Ilya said, working quickly to take Shane’s blood pressure from his open arm. “What do you need?”
Shane blinked at him blearily, racking his syrupy brain for an answer that felt right. “Need’ta nest…”
Ilya nodded, a blond curl falling further into his face with the movement. “Da. Will bring you to your hotel, Solnyshko.”
Shane whined, the noise rising pitifully from the back of his throat without his permission. “Noo…home.” He made sure to meet Ilya’s icy blue stare. “Take me to your home.”
He needed to be surrounded by Ilya’s scent, in Ilya’s bed surrounded by a nest of the alpha’s clothes. Needed to be far, far away from the hotel where the people who– where they were.
Ilya met his gaze, brushing a strand of dark hard softly out of Shane’s eyes. “Of course, malysh. Anything.”