Chapter Text
Early January before Sochi Olympics (2014)
Ilya: Looking forward to losing tomorrow ?
Shane: In your dreams Rozanov
Ilya: No no in my dreams am fucking you
Shane: Fuck off
Ilya: Shall we make bet?
Ilya: Whoever scores most goal gets to cum first
Shane: "typing"
Shane:
“And it looks like they’re going to give the crowd what they want,” The announcer exclaims. “Ilya Rozanov vs Shane Hollander.” The crowd roars in approval.
“Tut-tut no goals yet Hollander, is looking good for me.” The alpha smirks.
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” Shane focuses on the puck, the referee counting down. Rozanov wins the face-off, sweeping through Montreal’s defenses, scoring his second goal of the night. He looks back and smirks as his scent of proud alpha escapes through his scent patch.
Shane lets out a quiet sigh, already resigning himself to a long night with a smug alpha.His omega purrs in approval and excitement, already looking forward to smelling Rozanov’s cinnamon whiskey scent unhindered.
Shane gasps as Rozanov thrusts up again, feeling the press of their bodies together as slick pools beneath them.
“Так хорошо, идеально, прямо как та Омега.” Rozanov murmurs into Shane’s neck, breathing in his scent of pine and ice.
He mouths at Shane’s scent gland, nipping gently and then biting roughly. Shane’s omega purrs rolling over as he tries to suppress his instincts and focus.
"No marks asshole." Shane reproaches.
Rozanov smirks up at him, now licking a trail down his neck to his chest, biting and then vehemently sucking a nipple. Shane gasps and his hips thrust up, his hands scrambling along the alpha’s back to gain purchase. Their scents blend together into the most perfect scent Shane has ever known - like a crisp winter’s day by the fire, a mug of hot cider in hand.
Suddenly, Rozanov speeds up and Shane starts to feel pressure, small grunts escaping the alpha as he fights to push his growing knot into Shane's ass. Shane keens and muffles his sounds into Rozanov’s curls. The knot pulses deep inside him as they are locked into place, thick ropes of cum deep inside him. Shane comes with a cry, his body going limp as Rozanov collapses above him. His omega is content for the first time in months, not understanding why they can’t have this all the time.
“Ugh Hollander, you have killed me.” Rozanov groans into Shane’s chest. Shane trills in response, too focused on the waves of pleasure still flooding his body.
“Hollander, are you purring?” Rozanov asks in disbelief.
“What? No asshole, I don’t purr. You know that.” Shane retorts while trying in vain to get his purring under control. The suppressants he is on stop all of his omega instincts from surfacing, as well as not allowing him to go into heat during the season. Rozanov knows this, as Shane had told him after he sniffed out that Shane was a secret omega at the CCM commercial.
“Hmm, I think you are purring. Of course, I am best alpha.” Rozanov teases. He settles back on top of Shane, covering him in all of his weight.
“I am not purring.” Shane insists.
“Of course not Hollander, if you insist.” Rozanov answers with a soft rumble of his own.
“Am not” Shane mumbles, already drifting off to sleep.
3 weeks later Montreal Metros vs Ottawa Centaurs
Shane takes a deep breath, willing the nausea to go away. He’s been feeling off the past week, slow to get up and tired easily. His omega, normally quiet, is restless, insisting he stay home. He buries the instinct deep and tries to settle in for the flight to Ottawa.
He ends up playing like shit - too cautious, too afraid to get hit. Shane figures something must be off, maybe a breakthrough heat, and resolves to double up on his suppressants and change up his meal plan.
Hayden comments on it later in their hotel room. “Dude are you okay? You’ve been off for the past few days bud.”
Shane insists he is fine, just an off day despite the persistent feeling that something is wrong. He definitely does not make a nest on the bed no matter how much he wants too. The hotel has too many strange smells, the sheets are scratching, and all he wants is to be back home in his own bed. His omega agrees vehemently, wishing strongly they weren’t at the beginning of a 5 day road trip.
He keeps playing like shit for the rest of the trip, too cautious, too in his head, and the nagging sense that something is off, something missing, keeps grinding at his instincts. The nausea lingers, too, creeping into his mornings now, though he still hasn’t actually thrown up.
By the time he’s back home, he barely makes it through the door before collapsing onto his bed. A soft, frustrated whine slips out of him at the absence of any real scent there, the emptiness of it. After a moment, he pushes himself up and heads for the closet, rummaging around for something comfortable. His fingers catch on a sweatshirt shoved to the back of the shelf.
He pulls it on without thinking, then freezes.
The scent hits him at once - familiar, grounding.
Rozanov’s.
Shane inhales deeply, shoulders loosening as something inside him settles. His omega practically purrs, warm and insistent, urging him to nest and surround himself in his alpha’s scent.
The next day
Shane wakes with a start, stomach churning hard and fast. He bolts for the bathroom, barely making it before he’s on his knees, retching up what feels like everything he’s eaten in the past month.
When it finally passes, he sags back against the wall, breathing hard, skin clammy. The nausea ebbs, leaving him wrung out and unsteady, his heart still racing.
He stares at the opposite wall, unfocused.
A stray thought slips in—quiet, insistent.
What if…?