Chapter Text
Shane is used to being different. He is a half-white, half-asian individual in a predominantly white sport. He sticks out. His autistic habits also set him apart, although that difference is often kept to himself, only to be shared with those he truly trusts. They are just additional things that other players find odd about him, like how he is obsessively neat, his routines are firm and his social skills are abysmal. The biggest difference of his? Being an omega. A male omega. A male omega that plays hockey for a team in the NHL. It makes him other. As far as he knows, he is the only omega currently playing for the league. And this is mostly because he is just that good. About two-thirds of other players are alpha, and the last third are betas.
It gets brought up way more than he ever thought possible. He just wants to play hockey. Hockey is his entire life, it consumes his days and nights. It has nothing to do with his designation. But to others, just playing hockey isn’t enough. Reporters constantly ask him questions about his designation.
“Shane, what challenges do you face being a male omega on a team largely made up of alphas?”
“Why are you, an omega, the best choice for becoming captain?”
“Do you feel you have a disadvantage on the ice when playing against so many competitive alphas from rival teams?”
No comment. No comment. No comment.
“How do you manage to juggle your responsibilities to your team and other outside activities, say, such as your heat leave?”
No fucking comment.
Other players find it too easy to slip in sexist jokes or vulgar chirping during games.
“Does your alpha know you're out here?” with additional soft cooing like he’s a lost, confused baby.
“Have you been hitting the gym, or too busy getting fucked?”
“Since you already suck Hollander, why don’t you suck my knot?”
“You think if the puck was a knot you’d want to touch it?” A teammate had gotten pissed Shane had missed a pass, and retaliated in the middle of a game. He was such an asshole, but the asshole was thankfully traded to another team.
Shane never let it get to him. He chirped back, pulled his own weight. Never let the comments get to him, no matter how much he hated it. It wasn’t like he asked for this, he didn’t wish one day to become an omega, it just happened, just like all those alphas woke up one day in the throes of a rut. Shane presented as an omega, adjusted, and continued to throw his entire body, mind and soul, into hockey. Forget designations, instincts, scents, all of it. He doesn’t need a knot, doesn’t need an alpha, god forbid, he for sure doesn’t need a mate. Those are just distractions. All that matters is hockey.
What he didn’t know was that this was all about to change, after one particular game.
—
The game is currently 0 - 2, the Boston Raiders leading the game. Shane has felt off all day, and it is showing in his playing. The crowd's cheering makes his head throb, like the sound of all the voices jumbling together is louder than normal. And when his head throbs with his heartbeat, it makes him slightly dizzy, which is never a good thing on slippery ice. It must be noticeable, his coach ribs him for playing like a rookie, and his teammates try to compensate for his lack of concentration, but it does not do much when Shane is the main talent on the team.
“Shane, buddy, you good?” Hayden Pike, a beta, his closest friend on the team, and in general, skates towards him and locks eyes with him. Which does no good, as Shane finds eye contact impossible on the best of days.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let's just get this game over with.” He brushes Hayden off, and skates towards the center ready for the next face-off.
Boston’s center is already there, Rozanov, a stereotypical alpha down to his core. He stood tall, a few inches above Shane, wide shoulders, and a scent so thick it always clogged his nose. With a perpetual smirk, Rozonov squatted, ready for the puck drop, and looked Shane in the eye.
Unlike with Hayden, Shane felt compelled to keep the contact.
“Ready to lose more, Hollander? You play bad today. Like baby.”
As much as Rozonov’s asshole tendencies were the talk of the league, Shane never had any problems with him when it came to his omega status. They crossed paths since being drafted as rookies, with a stupid scripted rivalry, but Shane never felt any animosity towards the guy. Just plain, old-fashioned shit talking.
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” He got in position and waited in anticipation for the puck.
Sounds of the arena faded out, and the puck had his soul focus. Miraculously, Shane ended up with the puck, Rozonov moving too slowly to keep up with him. He handled the puck, skating towards the goal, his skates propelling him forward, faster and faster. He should’ve seen it coming. The ice was too wide open, a perfect straight shot for the goal, no one to block him or slow his movement. As he was gearing up to take the shot, to get the first goal for the Metro’s tonight, to lessen the blow that this loss will make.
And before he could aim, a defenseman from the Boston Raiders slammed into his blind spot, angled behind him, slightly to the left. Not expecting it, with no time to brace himself, to react at all, he flies forward. His stick went skidding off, making contact with the wall of the rink, and his helmet made contact with the ice. One solid thunk, face first, the force of it sends tremors through his eyes, teeth, jaw. He is sure he loses consciousness for a moment, black spots dancing in his periphery.
Distantly, like it is happening worlds away, in another universe, he hears the defenseman bellowing like a moron.
“Fucking bitch omega! Think you can skate with real players, the alphas? Think your heat scent will fuck with our heads, make us lose?” his teammates and a ref are holding him back, his spit flying. “You’re just a bitch. You are made to take a knot, to make babies like a bitch. You don’t belong on the ice!”
Well, fuck.
Thinking back on it, being in heat makes sense. The general feeling of illness, a headache, everything overstimulating him. Although he wears scent patches to contain his scent, it must have worn off or wasn’t strong enough to hold back the scent of his heat.
He is usually over prepared for his heat, usually setting it up for it to hit during breaks, when he has the time to fall apart. It truly makes no sense that it is hitting now, explaining why he was so caught off guard. His next heat was scheduled in two weeks time, a ways off still.
With the last of his energy, he flips over, against the wishes of the medic already kneeling over him. He just wants to sleep. Forget this miserable game, and the humiliation of this current situation. The medic is already fitting him with a neck brace, and maneuvering him to get him on the back board.
Before he loses consciousness for good, as the black spots in his vision grow, the throb of his head becoming unbearable, he sees something unimaginable.
Ilya Rozanov in the face of his own teammate, teeth bared and fist repeatedly knocking into the defenseman's chest.
“You think hitting omega makes you big strong alpha? Omega stronger than any alpha ever! Especially Hollander! He is better player than you. Best player in league, asshole! Убирайся отсюда нахуй, ты, сексистский ублюдок!”
Now, players were pulling Rozanov off of his own teammate, eyes wide and confused. Wondering what was setting off the most feared alpha in the league. His russian was still spitting out of him as he was successfully pulled off, separating the two men, when Shane lost the battle to stay awake.
Never in a million years did he think that this moment would change his life forever.