Chapter Text
It's not that Shane didn't expect it.
If it's about hockey, Shane already knows everything. Since he started getting scouted in middle school, Shane has more or less had a general outline of what his life was going to be: minor hockey to junior hockey to—hopefully—the MHL. He's anticipated every entry-draft and every championship, had planned for it, or followed the plans Mom built for him. Shane anticipated this too. This was the thing that he tried not to think about, or have to talk with his mom and dad, since he was thirteen. It's been settled into stone since his medical chart first had O written on it.
Thinking about it made Shane's face heat and his stomach wrap itself into knots, and hearing his mom and dad try to talk about it was even worse. The thought has always made Shane feel like a kid, even if he's nineteen now, and a MHL draftee, second overall or not. He feels like a kid even while putting on his Rebooks, like his mom wants him to use them, and the Montreal hoodie he'd been given in draft day, getting ready for this meeting a week after it.
All the big suits from the day of the draft are in the conference room when Shane and his mom get there, along with a few more strangers. It takes Shane shaking their hands, trying to pretend his stomach isn't all up in knots again, for him to realize they're all probably the team lawyers.
"Shane, we just want to tell you again how happy we are for you to be joining our franchise," the GM says, smiling cleanly at both him his mom. Everyone sitting around the table's got a smile like that. "We're very excited. We've followed your career very closely in the junior league. Naturally, we were all hoping you'd win the Prospect Cup for Canada, but we were impressed with your performance in the tournament either way, and we know you're going to be doing great things along with us."
Shane nods, because it feels like it'd be rude not to. He can't make himself meet anyone's eyes.
There's a full desk watching him, like he's surrounded by sharks. Mom's sitting by his side, and holding his hand out of view, but it's just the two of them against a full room. "Of course—" the GM continues, and Mom's hand squeezes, "there's the matter of the future prospect contribution."
Contribution is a weird way to put it. It sounds like a gift, not something you're made to do; maybe that's the point. The GM's talking like this is just another conversation in his week, and it probably is. It's Shane's life the one that's going to be changed.
"Now, as his agent, I'm sure you've read everything in the contracts we've sent, yes, Mrs Hollander?"
Mom straightens up. "Yes. I took the liberty to cross-check it with other omega draftees in the league's history—"
The Metros GM raises a hand to stop her, smile turning more patronizing than welcoming now. "I'm also sure you've read up all the precedents you could, Mrs Hollander. But the terms to Shane's contract, if he's going to take it, and we hope he will, are those we presented to you. We've been very generous in our offers, considering the caliber of Shane's playing."
"It's not the contract's payment that I'm concerned about," Mom says.
The table must have been expecting that too, because the GM's smile doesn't flicker. "Naturally. Now, Shane, I understand it might seem very daunting for you at this moment—" he says it like it's something Shane will grown out of, grow used to, somehow, "but I assure you that this has been part of the induction of every omega in the entire history of the league. There have been several other omegas in this year's draft—including other picks from us—and all of them will make prospect contributions. It's not only you."
That's offered with an air of reassurance, but Shane struggles to find anything comforting in it. He's not going to feel any more prepared no matter how many other omegas are expected to pump out a baby for the league.
It's how it's always been done. The season starts in October and ends in June, every Cup winner has their name written on it, and omega and alphas are expected to contribute to the pool of future hockey prospects.
It used to be worse. When Dad was still a professional player—if only at the collegiate level, because he's a beta—omegas had as many babies as the team wanted them. It was why the MHL started accepting them into the league at all. That was the fear he and mom grew with, when Shane said he wanted to be a hockey player; the league only changed the rules to keep mandatory-contributions to just one, and relegated to draft teams, when he was twelve.
In Shane's contract, the Metros are only asking for one baby: just one contribution for the franchise, a baby for the price of the entire MHL. Although who knows which team would offer Shane a new contract without asking for an additional future prospect, if he ever ends up leaving the Metros. He doesn't want to give one even to Montreal. He doesn't want to have a baby at all. But Shane doesn't have a choice.
"Of course," the GM says, "the usual thing to do is to use your rookie year to have the baby."
Shane keeps looking down at his hands, wrapped together over his knees.
"One of the East Conference captains only had his after he won the Cup for the first time," Mom argues. This is why she stayed up late reading all the days leading up to this, and the weeks before draft day. Why she's stayed up late when Shane turned out to be an omega at all. "Shane's going to be captain of this year's Prospect Cup again. He's going to have momentum into the start of his rookie season—"
"We've considered that as well, Mrs. Hollander. Our team has gone through the costs and benefits of either decision, and we've arrived at the conclusion that it's favorable to us to do it like this. We're still undergoing a rebuild, and this next season will help phase out the rest of our old roster. The team will be on more steady feet for Shane when he joins them for the 2011-2012 season." As a side note, the GM adds: "The captain you've mentioned, of course, was a first-draft pick. As it is with Shane, we'd like to do it our way."
Shane feels his insides go hot and cold with shame, even as his Mom steadies herself to squeeze his hand again. Shane wonders if they'd let him have the baby later if he was the first pick, or if he won last year's Prospect Cup.
There's no other direction to argue this point. Shane feels as defeated as when he watched the last seconds tick down to the buzzer in Saskatchewan, knowing he'd already lost. It's hard not to feel like a thing, sitting in this chair just to listen to whatever has been decided for him. The suits go on to talk about every other thing that's part of their plan—every detail they've already decided for Shane, before he even went inside this room—and he watches it all from far away, ears muffled. There's no point listening to any of it; it's not going to change a thing.
"Who—who's the other player that's going to be picked?" Mom's voice cracks a bit when she asks the question. She's brought Shane's hand onto her own lap, held between both of hers, less worried in not letting anyone see it. "The contract said Shane would have a veto."
The suits look proud about that one even now, as if it just goes to show for fair they're being, like Shane really is special. "Of course. We've kept the selection to players under 25 for Shane's comfort as well. There's few rookies from Shane's year, and young players that are already affiliated to teams in the MHL. We picked a few from the Metros' own roster, if Shane would like someone close to home."
Shane can't imagine how that'd be an improvement at all—having to see that person's face for every day after. "No," he blurts out, and pretends not to see the suits go a little disappointed. It's them that'd like to keep it close to home: the dam's team always gets first pick, but you have to work the contract with the sire's team manager too.
"There are many good options left," the GM goes on, as if reassuring either Shane or his own team. "You had a good draft year, Shane. Of course we'll have to test for compatibility…but there's very promising draftees. You'll recognize two from Los Angeles."
From draft day. Shane looks up. He thinks of passing a water bottle, and losing—again—at a stationary bike race.
"Sullivan?" Mom asks, and she sounds hopeful, but it's not for Sullivan—Phoenix' new defenseman, and third overall draft pick—as much for not the other person left from the first three.
"He already had a prior prospect match waiting for him. But you'll be happy to know we still have a top pick."
It's Rozanov. Shane should already know it's Rozanov. It's not surprise that steals his breath. He doesn't how to name what steals it instead.
**
"This is smoking area this time."
Shane looks from away from the Ottawa vista. He's been telling himself he chose to hang around a smoking area, despite the fucking cold, because of the view, not for anyone in particular. It was a coincidence that Russia and Canada picked the same hotel downtown; it's a coincidence too that Rozanov picked this time to smoke. Shane had nothing to do with it.
Rozanov's quip might have been an attempt at being funny, and Shane is unintentionally freezing him out, just staring at him. He doesn't really know what to say. He didn't go after Rozanov, because he doesn't know what to say. He watches him give Shane a weird look—when it seems he's ignoring him—and take a cigarette out. Rozanov's lighter flickers right away this time.
Shane wonders if Rozanov already knows; if they've already told him. Mom told Shane to wait to make his decision after the Tournament—that it didn't have a point choosing any sooner either—but Shane only took a few extra weeks after meeting Montreal's management to answer them back. Rozanov's agent must've already heard the news, but Rozanov might be kept away from it, if they think this is going to impact how he's supposed to play tomorrow night. Shane thinks it's going to impact his own playing. He didn't win last year. This time, he will.
Rozanov watches Shane for a moment, before offering his lit cigarette—already having taken a drag—out to him. "Cold," he says mildly. Shane's not good at reading when people are teasing him, and it's especially harder with Rozanov's accent. Or Rozanov's everything.
Shane says fuck it, and asks, "Did they tell you anything?" If Rozanov lets it impair his own playing, then that's his problem. All the better for Shane.
Shane doesn't know what he's expecting either way, but he still feels uncomfortable—always does, when it's about this—as Rozanov just dips his chin, his version of a nod.
"We have baby."
Shane hasn't been calling it a baby, even in his head, for about three months already. Rozanov's wording sounds painfully childish. Or just painful.
Shane nods either way, still fighting back a grimace. "They've told you?" Rozanov already said yes, but Shane always does double questions, just to be sure. "I didn't know if they would. I mean—" Shane shrugs.
"You tell me now anyway, yes? Not hard."
Shane stops himself from telling Rozanov to fuck off. They've had all of three conversations together (this is the third) and he shouldn't. Even if they're about to make a prospect contribution together.
"I will not go easy," Rozanov says when Shane keeps quiet. He must mean the game tomorrow; it's the good thing to say, though. Shane almost feels thankful. He fidgets with his glove-less hands inside his winter jacket's pockets, pretending they're not cold and his face isn't warm.
"You keep baby?" Shane's pretty silent in the conversation—if it can be called that—but Rozanov seems to feel free to continue. He's settling down in one of the benches they put to anyone who'd decide to appreciate the view while ruining their lungs. His eyes are only on Shane. Shane's throat is tight, so he's glad that Rozanov doesn't seem to be holding his breath too much for an answer. He still looks curious though. "Boston say not all do. Give away to fos-teh-ree-een." Fostering.
It's not Rozanov's business whatever Shane does—literally. Everything's no-contact for sires. It's not Rozanov's business that Shane hasn't decided either. He doesn't answer anything at all, because he still can't find a word to put out just yet. Rozanov breathes out smoke, watching him.
Here's something to say. "Why'd you say yes?" Shane asks. He can't fathom it. He doesn't actually know if alphas have to do this—mandatorily, like omegas do. They do it happily because it's the norm, but Shane doesn't know if they'd be forced to, like he kind of is. He wouldn't have said yes, even if he was just an alpha, and it was just his genetic material that was expected of him. It's a part of Shane either way, and he wants to control all of it. He'd keep it close if he could. He doesn't know why Rozanov didn't.
He wouldn't be able to say any of that to Rozanov—Shane doesn't know if he understood the little he did. He's looking a little cluelessly at Shane—or like Shane is clueless. Maybe he didn't have a choice after all. Who fucking knows.
Shane doesn't know how they do it in Russia. It's probably easier for alphas there too—everywhere is. Shane already knew he'd have to work twice as much—thrice, considering his mother—but it strikes him with envy seeing Rozanov saying baby and fostering like they're abstract concepts, all that it'll continue to be to him. Shane makes to go away—why did he even wait here, really—but Rozanov waves a hand, the one without the cigarette. "Hollander—wait. Wait."
Shane's last name sounds different out of his mouth. Harsher. Like something strong. Shane waits. Rozanov, watching him, still has a hand out, as if he needs to physically stop him; he's working through the words in his head instead.
"Wait," he repeats again, like a request.
Shane wouldn't know how to explain why he listen to it and stays. He would only be able to say that Rozanov gets up and steps in front of where the wind is coming from, covering Shane from the cold, although any good in the gesture is moot when it also makes all the smoke fly directly into his face. Shane coughs terribly and Rozanov sends him a long look.
He's clearly judging Shane, but he still considers something for a moment."No smoke with baby." He offers the cigarette out again—as if Shane should get all done with before he's expressively forbidden. He doesn't know Shane's already forbidden of a lot, by his own careful hand. Shane doesn't know why, if that's the case, and he already hates the smell of cigarettes, he ends up taking the bud, leading the awful taste to his lips.
Shane coughs horribly again. He doesn't know how Rozanov had his own mouth on this thing. Rozanov's long look turns amused, but all he has to say to Shane is, "No drinking also." He looks around as if searching somewhere to buy a beer.
"I can't already," Shane tells him. He can, legally. He's considered of age in Canada, and they're in Ottawa; it's just his diet that doesn't allow it. But it doesn't allow cigarettes either, and Shane's tasting one. He gives it back to Rozanov when he reaches his hand again, still coughing, but acquiesces to his search for alcohol. Rozanov leaves the smoking area—he takes a big drag before abandoning his cigarette and putting it out under his boot—and Shane follows him, cold hands digging inside his pockets.
"Hotel bar. I buy." Rozanov smiles then, something cat-like. "Vodka."
"Eugh—that's got to taste awful."
"Russian alcohol," Rozanov tells him, like it's an explanation on itself. He opens the door back to the hotel entrance hall, and holds it open so Shane will get inside first. "Half-Russian baby. Need know taste."
Shane would rather Rozanov didn't keep mentioning it, but he would actually like to get something to drink; or at least have it be given to him from Rozanov's hand. They're still in the okay side of their respective teams' curfews, but neither of them are around to watch them, the perfect opportunity. Shane's roommate was watching a Christmas special when he left him; he doesn't have to make a prospect contribution next year.
Their official team passes have their birthday on it. The person behind the hotel's serving bar serves them both a shot glass, vodka poured like Rozanov instructed them to. Rozanov asks for cucumber slices too. "You drink like this," he says, and shows Shane. His face doesn't do as much as twitch as he stuffs it all down in one gulp. Shane's sours as soon as he tries repeating it.
He doesn't do as good a job as Rozanov. "Fuck," he says at the taste. Beer tastes awful to him—vodka might as well be battery acid. Rozanov's laughing around his slices of cucumber, and they also taste pretty bad if blander (anything's bland compared to vodka) when Shane tries one. The bartender is carefully ignoring them. "Why would you even drink that?"
"Celebration," Rozanov says. Shane doesn't know if he's answering him generally, or saying that they're also supposed to do that right now. "We toast," he adds, which is no better. Rozanov says something in Russian, which Shane is hopeless to understand, and asks the person at the bar to pour another in his glass.
"Don't want another one," Shane says, ashamed that it sounds like a whine. Rozanov doesn't seem to mind it—too much. He's laughing, and this time Shane lets himself tell him, "Fuck off. That's—it tastes really bad. Dunno why I let you hand me one. Fuck, I hope it doesn't ruin my day tomorrow."
Rozanov's giving him a big grin. "Drink another. Not vodka—Что-либо. What nice Canadians like for party?"
There's nothing to party about, Shane almost says. But he stays sitting down. This—tomorrow doesn't count, a game where they're their numbers, not really themselves—is the last time he and Rozanov will be together, before their teams schedule their pairing. It's probably never going to be the same again. Shane's life certainly won't.
Shane's tempted to ask for a ginger ale, but they're supposed to be drinking alcohol. "Is this one strong?" he asks the person at the bar, and decides not to feel embarrassed when he picks it after they say no. Rozanov does him the kindness of not laugh; he hides his face in his shot glass again instead.
"Желаю малышу удачи," Rozanov says, and more quietly, "Теперь мы можем притвориться взрослыми." He puts the glass, empty again, down, and fixes Shane with a look that's difficult to read. "Good luck, huh?"
Shane doesn't know if he means tomorrow or—whatever the fuck is supposed to come, after. Shane holds his glass of rum and coke between his two hands, another type of cold to wrap itself around them. The vodka has made his stomach go warm; having Rozanov's eyes on him do that too.
"I should go to my room," Shane says, after a prolonged moment of silence. His drink is almost finished; he fiddles with it, before swallowing the last.
Rozanov watches him, pushing the cup away, getting up from his chair, making to take his wallet out. "I pay," he repeats, waving Shane off. Shane doesn't even know if he has Canadian dollars, but Rozanov's the one who's insisting. He lets Shane go with a, "Good night, Hollander."
**
Shane wins the Tournament this time. In the handshake like, he tells Rozanov, "See you October," although they're surely going to meet a lot sooner. After that, he is only going to see Rozanov at the start of the season—if only through a television. Shane's going to be pregnant then, or—or it's going to be done. And it's going to be because of Rozanov. Shake takes his hand and shakes it; he sees Rozanov smile as he moves away.
**
They pick Montreal for the contribution. The team rents him a hotel room—Shane still doesn't have a place in the city—although he and Rozanov will meet in the same arena where the Metros play their home games. Shane's dizzy with nerves the entire week leading up to it, but when the day arrives, he feels oddly detached. It's easier when he acts about this like it's a hockey game: high pressure, but entirely dependent on him not freaking out. It's going to be for hockey.
Both Mom and Dad come with him to Montreal, even if Shane feels mortified every time he thinks about them just knowing what he's going to be doing with Rozanov later. Shane's an only child, and he and his parents have always been close, but he's never talked with them about girls, or sex—neither things Shane has any real experience with.
They're oddly babying him, indulgent in a way that had stopped a few years ago, but Shane finds himself letting it happen: his mom fixing his hair, his dad keeping a hand on his shoulder, them making him a plate of breakfast in the hotel buffet, more carbs in it than Shane would usually allow himself. He feels like a child, although he'll be doing something so adult, and it's balming to settle against his parents' presence.
Some of the same people from that meeting a few months ago are waiting for Shane when he gets to the arena. Rozanov's already there—he'd probably been given a hotel room too, although Shane doesn't know if he flew here from Boston or Russia—and he's accompanied by the same old man Shane saw by his side during draft day (his father, he imagines) and Rozanov's North American agent. They all exchange some words (Shane and Rozanov don't participate) and then produce documents to be signed.
Shane has been practicing his signature since he was eight, and gained a jersey signed by a Metros captain from a 90s Cup win. He signs his name now on the dotted line, a cheap imitation, and grits his teeth as the Metros medical staff inject the gland in his and Rozanov's necks with something that's supposed to send them in their respective mating cycles in a few moments. Then, Rozanov and him are led inside an isolated room and the door closes behind them.
There's a doctor bed inside and basically just it, as if everything else was cleared out for this. Shane wonders if this is the team's infirmary and he's going to have to get used to seeing it again after all of this, every time he takes a bad tumble on the ice. They didn't even leave them any blankets.
Shane's starting to feel hot and worked up, but he doesn't know what might be the start of his artificial mini-heat and what's just embarrassment. Rozanov takes his jacket and shirt off without any preamble, and Shane immediately looks away—this time from embarrassment for sure. They're going to be doing a lot worse than just standing around naked, and Shane will have to look anyway, but he can't now. His chest is running a staccato, tight and overwhelmed.
"You are scared?" Rozanov asks by his side; he's tugging the zipper of his jeans.
"I'm fucking not."
Rozanov doesn't seem either convinced or impressed. There's a glimmer of sweat already starting at his forehead.
"You can be."
"I'm not," Shane insists. He balls his hands into fists. "I'm—this is—"
"Yes," Rozanov replies simply. Shane's not sure himself what word he was trying to find, but Rozanov seems to agree anyway.
He lets his jeans fall from his hips, a heap on the floor that he steps out of. Rozanov's muscular all over. Shane was very careful to never look too closely at other boys in the locker room—he just needed to be caught once, for a rumor to start—and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now, with miles of bare skin free for him to touch and see. Rozanov steps close to him and Shane's eyes flicker all over the place, incandescently nervous every time he as much as catches sign of the knot of Rozanov's collarbone, chaste as it might be.
He tucks a knuckle beneath Shane's chin fist, tilting it up so Shane looks at him straight on. "Is fine." Rozanov admires his freckles for a moment—or Shane thinks he's admiring them. His eyes are a lot bluer from up close; Shane wonders if that's going to be passed down. "First time?"
Shane wouldn't answer that even if he got his mouth to work out properly. Rozanov takes his silence as confirmation anyway. "Not bad." Shane doesn't know if he means it's not bad if he's a virgin, or not bad to lose your virginity, but he disagrees with either count. Shane's only gone as far as kissing with girls he pretended he liked dating. It feels criminal that Shane already prefers this so much, Rozanov's big hand holding his chin up. "I can kiss?"
It's probably a bad idea, but Shane's already moving his head so he'll do it first. Rozanov's lips are chapped, and open up as soon as Shane touches them; his tongue slips out to slide over Shane's bottom lip. Shane feels his legs tremble.
Rozanov moves along Shane's jaw to his neck. Shane almost pulls back when he comes close to his mating gland, still raw from the injection, and off limits by nature, but Rozanov was just nosing at his collar; he kisses Shane on his Adam's apple, like an apology, and Shane relaxes again—or relaxes as much as he can right now. He still feels stiff and scared.
Rozanov thumbs at Shane's hoodie for permission before he tugs it over his head, shirt along with it. The room's cold, and Shane's nipples have already pebbled over three kisses ago, but Rozanov still thumbs at them, deceptively sweet as he meets Shane's mouth again. Rozanov's eyes are dark and his lips swollen, and he's starting to breath heavily, but Shane doesn't know what might be the drugs and what might be, well, himself.
Shane's not a good kisser. He's not a good anything, not like Rozanov. He feels annoyed for having to be kind of guided along.
"Calm," Rozanov says, and repeats it a few times as he presses his mouth to the corner of Shane's, then the curve of his jawbone, his carotid, the apple of his shoulder. Shane's breathing heavily under his mouth and hands. He bites at the pink skin of Shane's shoulder blade. "Pretty good, yes?"
"Don't be smug," Shane tells him, or tries too—his voice is ruined and shaky. Rozanov bites him again, and Shane feels the press of a grin against his skin. "I—I just don't—"
Rozanov nods his head. His hands are drifting lower when he looks at Shane again. "Not scary. I lead you. Like the draft."
"Oh, fuck off." But Shane will admit that getting to swear at Rozanov takes some of his nerves off. Now he can just barely survive him digging one of his hands inside Shane's pants waistband, and palming at his groin—it'd been Rozanov's plan too. He's still grinning.
Shane breathes out shakily when Rozanov touches the head of his clit through the fabric of his boxers. He can't do this on his feet—Shane makes enough of a motion to the measly bed that Rozanov gets it, and frees Shane so they can walk there. Rozanov drops his boxers on the way, and Shane—face hot again—looks up so he won't look at the suppleness of Rozanov's ass. Looking away means that Shane's not expecting Rozanov to grab him around the waist and simply heave him up the doctor bed, but that steals the breathe out of him in a way that's unmistakeably good. As does Rozanov pulling Shane's pants and underwear off.
Shane's boxers must have been damp at the front, and he's glad that Rozanov throws it away without looking so close. Shane's clit is glistening, pink and fat, and he squirms on top of the crinkly plastic of the infirmary bed, legs held obscenely open by Rozanov. It doesn't help that he kneels right away, right to the eye level of Shane's cunt; his hot breath makes Shane twitch.
"You did this before?" Rozanov asks, eyeing his pussy, although the answer has to be readily apparent. "Is good."
He licks at Shane as if to prove it. Shane never payed much attention to the size of his own clit—male omegas' are usually on the bigger size, just a little smaller than a female alpha's cock—but it seems to fit oddly well between the pads of Rozanov's fingers, as he grabs and pinches it. Shane's breath breaks, and he makes an embarrassing sound as Rozanov swallows him down like he's giving an alpha head. He brushes a thumb at the thick hair of Shane's navel, the dip of his belly, as he sucks him, and Shane feel like he's coming undone at the seams.
"Rozanov, stop." Shane's voice shakes, but Rozanov understands him enough to pull back, thankfully quick. His dark eyes look Shane over. "I—it's too quick. I won't—"
"We can go more than once." That feels like a lot, especially when it's really just one knotting that they need. The chemicals they pumped into Shane and Rozanov will more than make sure that it takes; especially when he and Rozanov will keep latched together for upwards to thirty minutes, the usual for an Alpha's rut, chemically induced or not. Rozanov likes sex though, is good at it, wants to be good at it. Shane feels like a cartoon character, stars circling around his head, completely dizzy before his attention. "You not like?"
He kisses Shane's clit, as if to prove the contrary. Shane doesn't need the reminder. This is better than anything that's he's been able to do just by himself, and it kills him a little bit that it's happening with a guy, an alpha, and not any of the omega girls he tried to date in high school. Shane tried to swim against the current so badly, but he's proving everyone right. He tries closing his legs, but Rozanov's hands are firm. "You not like?" he asks again, frowning now.
Shane doesn't want to answer. He fits his hands on either side of Rozanov's face, and urges him back to his feet instead. Rozanov obliges surprisingly easy for such an asshole, still watching Shane with careful eyes.
He eases up when Shane kisses him, and easily gets on with the program. They make out for a few moments more, until Shane feels slightly better, and can stand as Rozanov drifts his hand down again, finger rubbing against where Shane is wet and damping the bed. Shane gasps, but Rozanov's gentle. He only really works the tip of one finger inside after Shane nods.
"Tight."
"Fuck off." Shane's face reddens. Rozanov tsks.
"You put fingers here? How many?" Rozanov gives him a weird look when Shane doesn't immediately answer. "I'm not teasing. Need to know to open up."
There's a dildo Shane's used in his first heats, but it's not half as big as Rozanov. "Not a lot," Shane answers him, and Rozanov nods.
"Lie down." He pats Shane's thigh. "I work open."
Rozanov does. It's slightly easier when Shane is only looking at the ceiling, Rozanov hidden between his legs, fitting one finger inside and then, eventually, a second, all the while he's back to suckling at Shane's clit. If Shane closes his eyes, he can pretend he's playing with himself, but he's surprised to find he doesn't want to—he wants it to be Rozanov. It's better with him, no matter how embarrassed Shane feels. Rozanov kisses at Shane's groin, noses at his pubic hair, and Shane never felt this connected with someone, connected at all, like this.
Rozanov's starting to work a third finger in, but Shane reaches down and pulls him by the wrist up again, shaking his head as he squirms on the bed. "It's enough, please—" He sounds mortifying whiny and drunk, but he can't stand it anymore. Rozanov holds himself right over Shane, and just that, him blocking out the room's light, ignites his belly. "Just…"
Rozanov nods, fitting his nose against Shane's temple. Shane has been loaded on suppressants since he was thirteen, until he was cut out of them last weekend—in preparation for this—and this is the first time in years he's smelled someone so strongly. Rozanov smells like oak, molasses and cigarettes—the latter isn't natural, of course—and he smells like Shane too, his slick. Shane can taste a bit of himself when Rozanov kisses him again.
"You want to return favor?" He looks down, where his cock is poking wetly at the crease of Shane's hip and thigh. Shane follows Rozanov's eyes, feels his mouth water. He nods, embarrassment be dammed, and follows Rozanov as he gets up and settles higher on the bed, legs open in the small space so Shane can kneel between them.
Shane's clumsy and inexperienced when he sucks Rozanov—he hates not being immediately good at something—but he thinks he makes up in enthusiasm, because Rozanov starts breathing heavily, saying things in Russian. He fits his hand at the back of Shane's head, tugging a bit, and Shane moans around where he's trying to suck Rozanov. Rozanov feels big and heavy just at the tiny bit Shane puts inside his mouth—he can barely believe that thing will fit inside himself.
Rozanov's looking down at him, mouth opens as he breaths through it. The hand not pulling his hair cradles Shane's jaw, thumb pressed beneath his spread bottom lip. He's out of quips now. "Da—like this."
Rozanov's uncut. When Shane eventually pulls back, his saliva has frothed between Rozanov's foreskin. Maybe that's supposed to look ugly, but Shane thinks Rozanov's handsome even here. He plays with the skin a little bit, and Rozanov's balls, which feel so warm on his hand, until Rozanov pulls him back. "Now you do too good," he teases. The vein where his knot will grow is pulsing. Rozanov meets his mouth again before Shane can drool some more.
They settle at the bed as well as they can with the small space. They have to keep so close to fit, if feels far too intimate. Shane knows they're about to have sex, that Rozanov is going to get him pregnant, but it's a different beast to have him looking at Shane with big, drunk eyes, to be breathing right against his mouth, to lay over him and start to feed his cock in small increments, fists holding it at the base to keep it from going too far before Shane's ready.
It's tight, but the bed is cramped too, the room, the eye contact Rozanov is keeping with him, looking at Shane so sweetly, asking him, "Is okay?" Rozanov's been a pest in Shane's head for the past two years that he's known him and that was easier to live with. He doesn't know what to do with the boy on top of him, who's diligent and earnest.
Shane's feeling Rozanov right to his throat, strangled mute, and he can't deal with this—not with any of this. He wants to hide his face, close his eyes, but Rozanov presses their foreheads together before he can, and Shane's too mesmerized to even blink. They should have turned the light, too bright and white, off. It's criminal to be doing this somewhere so bland.
Rozanov's groin finally comes flush with Shane's. He's not a virgin anymore. It only burned the first few inches, and probably will haunt Shane's head for the rest of his life.
"Okay?" Rozanov asks again, cradling Shane's cheek. He doesn't have words. He just nods.
It's good. Maybe Shane would make more peace with it if it was bad—or, better, bland. He could stuff everything away like a nightmare or this could be something so strictly-mechanical that he didn't have anything to write home about. It's worse that is so good, something Shane knows that he'll revisit every time he has a heat for real, and not the induced flareup from the medicine they've taken. He wishes they were doing this in a nest. He wishes Rozanov had scented the room around them. He wishes Rozanov would feed him gently, and keep him hydrated, and Shane would do the same, and they could spend a whole week together—
Shane cums first. He presses his head against Rozanov's neck, sensitive and overwhelmed, feeling at the same time too hot and too cold as he comes around him, only making everything more slick. Shane keeps his face hidden, nerves frayed. Rozanov's knot is fattening against Shane's cunt, threatening to slip out, or breach inside entirely, and it's too quick, it's too much, Shane can't—his sweaty skin is sticking to Rozanov's, but his hands can't find purchase around his back, hugging him, and Shane doesn't know if he wants Rozanov off or even closer, inside his ribcage. "Oh," Shane stutters, and again when Rozanov finally knots with a groan, barging inside of Shane just before he starts coming.
Shane's ears are ringing. He can feel Rozanov pumping inside, the throbbing of his cock and the liquid heat of his spent. He hurts where he's stretched around Rozanov's knot, but the sudden tightness in Shane's chest feels far worse. They'd done it.
Rozanov fits a hand against Shane's jaw as he pants, as if trying to urge him away from his neck, but Shane won't relent; he's only surviving if he keeps like this. Rozanov gives in to Shane, only thumbs at the soft skin of his cheek, and even that is too much for him. He can't enjoy the moment, not like Rozanov. Shane's life is changed already. He can't pretend it isn't.
It must take thirty minutes for Rozanov's knot to go down. The slight stench of rut that had been building up on his skin dissipates; the flare up is gone, just needed one release. Reality crashes down on Shane with frightening speed, and he still can't look at Rozanov as they pull away from each other, when they are physically able to. Shane's thighs are wet and cold.
A knock comes at the door just as Shane is dressing into his old clothes again. There wasn't a lock inside, and the person from the other side opens the door when no noise follows. It's the Metros' GM, looking as pleased as anything.
Shane can't see his parents—or Rozanov's dad, for that matter—standing outside anymore. It's a blessing.
"Was everything alright?" He looks at Shane more, almost pointedly. It doesn't feel protective when it's the team's own interest that the GM is looking out for right now. Shane nods, throat tight, and looks away from, first, the satisfaction in the GM's face, and then the pleasantry that he turns to Rozanov, offering his hand out. "Mr. Rozanov—we really are very happy to work with you. Our organization extends our deepest thanks to yours, rivalry notwithstanding."
Shane doesn't turn to see if Rozanov takes his hand. He pulls the sleeves of hoodie down instead, until they can cover his own.
"Can I see my Mom and Dad?" he asks when his voice seems like it will work. He barely waits for the GM to give him the go ahead before he's making to leave the room.
"Hollander," Rozanov starts before he can. Shane flinches and falters, but he can't stop himself from glancing at him reflexively. Rozanov's face is hard to read, curls matted to his forehead with sweat. He's not holding the GM's hand, or looking at him. "See you next season?"
They've parted from each other every time before with some version of that, objects rotating the same gravitational pull. Shane is going to see him next season—albeit, probably, already in their team jerseys. It's all Shane will see from him.
Shane dips his head, before finally leaving the room. He doesn't know where his parents are, but he'd rather search the entire arena himself. Maybe, then, he'll stich himself back together before he finds them.
**
Shane learns he's pregnant on a Thursday.
The team has him on vitamins and some precautionary medicine for nausea and blood pressure. He goes out to Montreal every four days for an urine test, and is off from any extensive physical effort. The team-appointed OB is letting him skate—just laps, no hockey stick—but Shane knows it's because they're indulging him. They do like having Shane Hollander, is the thing. Shane doesn't know if it's because of his hockey or his uterus.
Mom always goes with him to the urine tests. It's less embarrassing than Dad; he's too heartfelt. It's easier for Shane to pretend it's just his agent with him, waiting for him to pee in a cup and then for the results to come back. It's always the same people that do it, Montreal's medic team, and Mom has taken to talking to one of the women there, a fellow beta, about a show that they both watch. Shane spends most of the exams counting how many tiles are on the ceiling.
The team doctor comes back from his office an hour later—they have a lab on call for this—with a smile on his face. Shane feels his stomach drop. He knows then.
They're going schedule a blood test—just a formality— and full body exam for tomorrow and an internal ultrasound later in the month, for when there's more of something to see. Mom writes everything down in their schedule, just along with a visit they have to make for a cousin's birthday and meetings with Rebook and Gatorade, to discuss how promotional material will work out out when Shane is—when Shane i's—
Shane nods a lot and speaks little, and it's just when he's settling beside the driver seat in Mom's car that he bursts into tears.
"Oh—oh, my baby," Mom says, and she wraps Shane in her arms. She's not his agent right now. She cradles Shane close like when he was still little, and smaller than her. "My baby. It's going to be okay. I'm right here—me and your Dad are right there with you."
There's something inside of Shane; technically, he won't ever be alone for the next nine months. He feels like the loneliest person in the world though, even right beside his mom.