Chapter Text
Ilya moved like a whip, fast and precise, slapping his hand over Marleau’s mouth before he could spew any more secrets–or not so secret, really, with the way he’s been acting on social media and in press conferences–to the entirety of the locker room. No one turns to look at them, so Ilya hopes no one heard Marleau’s comment, but he is sure it is something that everyone is probably aware of anyway.
“Don’t start shit, not after suspension. We are already down one player,” Ilya feels that protective urge rise in him again, his teeth showing, willing Marleau to shut his trap if he was going to spout sexist propaganda.
With a swipe of his arm, Marleau knocks his hand off of his mouth, and spats “Bro, chill. I don’t care that he is an omega, or whatever other dumb shit these fake-macho alphas foam at the mouth about. What I do care about is the fact that he is our rival; your rival. He is one of the best players and will be a huge roadblock on our way to the cup.”
Then, Marleau gets a mischievous look about him, his lips curl upwards, “Not to mention he is about the most boring person I have ever come across. The guy is twitchy and obsessive. I thought you’d settle down with some super model on a yacht.”
“Well, nothing is certain. I have not talked to him, not said my wanting to, um, court?” Ilya’s face screwed up tight, like he knew he just said some sappy shit that Marleau was going to laugh in his face at. And he was right.
Marleau laughed loud enough to draw attention to them sitting side by side on the bench of the locker room, many of their teammates turned to give them a look, but turned back around after catching the look on their captain's face. Utter irritation.
“Roz, come on. This isn’t some Victorian age romance. Courting?” He shook his head, like he was trying to will the idea away. “You are whipped, and all you have done is exchanged, like, four words on twitter, and singing his praises in front of the press.” He cackled again, and shoved Ilya slightly as he got up and headed in the direction of his own locker, throwing a mocking salute to Ilya before turning away.
God, Marleau was not wrong. Ilya barely knows Hollander, just brief interactions throughout their careers, the hospital visit, and the twitter exchanges. Other than that, Hollander is an enigma to him. And honestly? That fills him with a rush of something heady and hot, that he will be able to–hopefully–learn more about this magnificent omega. Learn how his mind works, how his body works.
He can’t wait.
—
Four weeks after his initial injury Shane is finally cleared to get back on the ice and it couldn’t come any sooner. He was practically shaking out of his skin with his routines and schedules being messed up. His parents were lovely, and supportive, but he could tell even his mom was growing impatient with him and his pacing around the house, and obsessively checking hockey news.
Hockey isn’t the only thing he has been obsessive over, unfortunately for his mental health, as he has been down rabbit hole, after rabbit hole about his interview with Rose Landry and what people have been saying about him online, and something he doesn’t want to admit, but how people are reacting to Rozanov defending him, and his tweets to Shane.
His father caught him rewatching Rozanov’s post game press conference again, and Shane thought about just dropping dead rather than deal with his parent’s support of Ilya Rozanov and their willingness to somehow get Shane a boyfriend out of this situation. Especially, with how down Shane has been whenever he catches sight of some vile, close-minded post about himself from some low-life that despises the fact Shane is allowed to play professional hockey.
Which is how Shane found himself the day before his first game back, at a photoshoot for Adidas, but what his wonderful, lovely, meddling mother–and agent–forgot to tell him? It was a joint shoot with none other than Ilya Rozanov. Now he knows Rozanov has some sort of endorsement with Adidas, as it seems to be the only brand the alpha wears, but he has never done any formal photoshoots for them as far as Shane remembers.
When he first caught sight of Rozanov standing with the crew as they maneuvered him in front of the camera, Shane immediately turned tail, grabbed his mothers arm and dragged them to the nearest hallway out of the way from the ice rink they were shooting at.
Yuna thankfully didn’t put up a fuss with him pulling her around, but once he felt they were out of sight and alone, he turned to see her with a satisfied smirk. She was proud of herself for pulling this off and blind siding him. He swore his mom acted more like the child in this relationship that he did.
“So you want to finally fill me in with what is going on?” Shane was already pacing back and forth, not only because of the anxiety of seeing the alpha that has been on the forefront of his mind, but also the anxiety he feels whenever he has to perform for a commercial. It feels too awkward to act in front of a camera and dozens of people, but he knows it's good for his reputation and for furthering his assets, as pretentious as that sounds to him.
“Adidas reached out, about doing a duel photoshoot with the top two hockey players in the league, and the most talked about after recent events,” she wiggled her brows, and Shane flushed red. “So, of course I agreed, and I did not tell you about the details because I know you. You would have spiraled for a week and stressed yourself out to the point of being sick. This way, you only have a few minutes to stress out.”
Rather than admitting his mom was right, he groaned into his hands like he was a moody teenager again, then took one last deep breath, and started walking back out to the shoot. He could hear his mom’s pleased humming behind him, her footsteps following his.
Shane finds himself in front of the photoshoot director, after he changed into the clothing provided, all Adidas of course, down to the trainers. The shoot itself is in a hockey rink, but not actually on the ice. They will be using it more as a backdrop, and utilizing other parts of the arena, like the bleachers, benches, and even the zamboni is present off to the side.
The entire time he was getting ready, being pampered by the hair and makeup teams, there was a faint scent of smoke in the air, a spicy, warm smell that followed him wherever he turned. It had to be from Rozanov–it was the same scent in the hospital room–but they haven’t even interacted yet, with both of them being accosted by crew members. It truly makes no sense, there has to be dozens of alphas milling around, so why does Rozanov’s scent stand out so much? Why is it clinging to him like a second skin?
The director, a nice older beta, tells him that they will be doing something a little different today. “We want to add in some symbolism to this shoot, after everything that has happened around you and Ilya. You are opposite, but equal, and we want to emphasize that as much as possible,” and this is where Shane realizes that he is dressed in mostly white and beige, and Rozanov, who sided up next to him to hear the director better, is in all black. Opposites indeed. “And we want the poses to be simple, but similar, with you standing side by side, or Shane standing above you, Ilya, to show that omegas can come out on top. Or whatever other metaphor you want to use.”
Shane’s first gut reaction is to refuse. Wearing all white, like some blushing virgin bride, is the last thing he wants to symbolize, but he gets where the director is coming from. Opposites, omega and alpha, but equal, standing side by side. However, him standing above an alpha feels so intense, sensual, and he thinks this is where he fully draws the line.
“I think just standing side by side, equals, is best. I don’t want to push too far into omega equality that it comes across as omega superiority,” Shane says as professionally as he can, as he is not as well spoken as his mother. But he sees out of the corner of his eye, Yuna gives him a thumbs up, signalling she approves of his forward thinking.
Before the director can comment, a deep voice from beside him says, “Whatever Hollander wants, we do. Is his decision.” His head of blond curls tilts towards Shane, fully deferring to him. Shane feels like his life has gone off the rails, because there is a big, strong alpha standing so close to him he can feel his body heat, and this same alpha is acquiescing to his idea.
“Um, thanks,” he stutters out, turning to look the alpha in the eye, only to find his blue eyes already trained on Shane, intense and fond at the same time.
“Is no problem.” Easy, direct, with a hint of a smile pulling at Rozanov’s lips. And when the director agrees to his stipulation, and starts to move them towards the first shooting area, the alpha sweeps his arm out, signaling Shane to move ahead of him, to let him take the lead. And with slight embarrassment, he does.
The next four hours of being directed in front of many people and just as many cameras, was one of the longest of his life. Not because of the attention, or the anxiety he usually feels, but because he has been touching and being touched by a sweet, caring alpha, and breathing in his delicious scent with every breath. He never thought Rozanov would be one for continuous consent or checking in, but before every new pose, one where they might have to brush arms or sit hip to hip, Rozanov will turn to him and ask, “Is okay?”
By god, this alpha is going to turn Shane into a mushy pile of omega by the end of this. The touching, as not intimate as it is, is the most he has been touched by an alpha in ages, and then the sweet, considerate checking in fills him with warmth. Because there is no way Rozanov knows of his more neurotic habits, like his affliction with casual touching, when even a handshake feels like it could bring him to his knees in overstimulation.
When they wrap up, the director telling them what a good job they did, and gushing over how well this shoot is going to do on Adidas’s social media, Shane is once again struck dumb by the Russian alpha. Rozanov stops him just before they depart to different ends of the room to change, and grab their things, and asks for his phone.
Shane, still partially high on alpha pheromones, complies with no hesitation. He reaches into his jacket, the one his mom handed to him immediately once the shoot was done, since the arena was quite cold, pulled out his phone and placed it right into the alphas large hand.
With a roll of his eyes, not irritation but fond exasperation, Rozanov hands it right back with a “Unlock, please.”
Shane, most likely flushing up to his ears, fumbles to quickly unlock it, and then hands it right back, not giving a damn that he basically just gave his biggest rival complete access to his entire life.
“да, спасибо.” The Russian falls off his tongue so easily, so intimately. The alpha starts tapping away, very concentrated, with his tongue poking out slightly, running across his lips, and it’s so mind numbingly distracting. Shane has never had these kinds of thoughts before about anyone, much less an alpha. Maybe he needs a lobotomy, my god.
“Here,” Rozanov hands his phone back to him, the screen still on, showing a text exchange of just one message. “My number, Hollander. I sent text to me, I have your number too.”
Shane stares blankly down at his phone, mind reeling about this new development. Is this what he thinks it is? An exchange of phone numbers, like people do when getting to know one another, when they start dating? Maybe he is just being friendly, sportsmanlike.
But then the alpha reaches out towards him again, hesitating for a second, not wanting to make Shane uncomfortable, and when Shane gives a slight nod, the alpha moves even closer, grabs him by the nape, and presses their cheeks together for a quick swipe of scent exchange. Something usually only reserved for close friends, partners or family.
When Rozanov pulls back, his usual cocky smirk is in place, like he knows exactly what he is doing to the omega in front of him, and says “Bye, Shane,” and walks off with a wave of his fingers.
Rooted to the spot by both the scenting and the use of his first name, Shane looks down at his phone again, and sees what Rozanov put as his contact name.
Ilya.
Well, okay. Seems that this is really happening.
Shane Hollander is, maybe, possibly, being courted by a large, Russian alpha, one that just so happens to be his rival on the ice. One that usually seems so stoic and anti-relationship if his party-boy persona is anything to go by. And he wants Shane?
He feels a nudge against his arm, his mother has walked up to him, and reached out to hold his arm, taking him out of his reverie. Rather than her usual smirk or comment about Rozanov, or Ilya, his mind supplies; now she sports a soft look, smiling at him so proudly.
“You deserve to be happy. To let an alpha take care of you. To take control for once,” and she holds his forehead to hers, just for a second, before stating, “and, as I have said, I do want grandchildren before I die, please.”
He doesn’t bother replying to her, and instead stomps away to change back into his clothes, and get the fuck out of this photoshoot, before some stagehand decides to snap a picture of Shane Hollander blushing, and posting it online for the world to see how much of a goner he is.