Chapter Text
The meeting room inside the Ottawa Centaurs practice facility always smelled faintly of coffee, printer paper, and stress, though today the scent was layered beneath something sharper and warmer because two alphas and a beta were sitting around the table arguing about public relations while Harris Drover, the lone omega in the room, looked one step away from threatening violence with a dry-erase marker.
“You cannot post the announcement with that photo,” Harris said for the third time, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stared at his laptop. “It makes us look like we kidnapped him.”
Across the table, Zane Boodram leaned back in his chair with all the casualness of a man who weighed approximately the same as a small grizzly bear, his massive arms crossed over his chest while he studied the image on the screen.
“I think he looks nice.” Bood said.
“He looks terrified.” Harris corrected.
“He maybe just has face like that.”
“That is not helping your argument.”
Ilya Rozanov watched the exchange with lazy amusement, one long leg stretched beneath the table while he spun a hockey puck through his fingers, catching it effortlessly every time. The overhead lights reflected faintly in his blue eyes, and despite the fact that the meeting had already dragged on for forty minutes, he still somehow looked perfectly put together, as if irritation only made him prettier.
“You all dramatic,” Ilya said finally, his Russian accent thickening slightly with boredom. “Post photo. Fans go crazy anyway because omega joins team.”
Harris looked up sharply. “Exactly why I’m trying to avoid making him look like a hostage.”
Coach Brandon Wiebe sat at the head of the table with the exhausted expression of a man who had survived professional hockey for two decades and regretted every life choice that had brought him to media meetings. He rubbed one hand across his jaw before glancing toward Harris’s screen.
“Use another picture.” he muttered.
“There are only four approved photos from Montreal,” Harris replied. “And in two of them he’s blinking.”
“Then use blinking one.”
“That’s not how promotional media works, Coach.”
“It should be.”
Bood snorted quietly. Ilya smirked.
The mood in the room remained light, but underneath it there was a current of anticipation humming through the facility, because Shane Hollander joining the Ottawa Centaurs was not normal trade news. It had exploded across hockey media the second the acquisition became official, analysts talking about skill potential and locker room chemistry and whether another omega entering the high-contact league would change the culture of professional hockey.
The NHL only had a handful of omegas total. Male omegas were even rarer.
Successful male omegas who played at Shane Hollander’s level were practically mythical.
And now one of them belonged to Ottawa.
Ilya tossed the puck once more before catching it against his palm.
“So,” he drawled, “you finally tell me why Montreal give him away?”
Coach Wiebe’s expression flattened instantly.
Interesting.
Ilya noticed because he noticed everything. It was part of why he was captain. Everyone assumed he was too loud, too cocky, too unserious to pay attention, but Ilya saw every shift in mood, every scent fluctuation, every hesitation.
Especially from alphas. Especially from authority.
“There were… internal issues.” Wiebe said.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
“Internal.” he repeated slowly.
“Management disagreements.”
“Hm.”
“That’s all you need to know.”
It absolutely was not all Ilya needed to know.
He leaned back in his chair, still watching the coach carefully while the room filled with silence. Harris resumed typing. Bood reached for the bowl of pretzels in the centre of the table. Somewhere outside the room someone shouted down the hallway, followed by the clatter of equipment.
Ilya could smell irritation beginning to sharpen around Coach Wiebe’s cedar-heavy alpha scent.
Avoiding. Definitely avoiding.
“Player does not leave good team for nothing.” Ilya said casually.
“The Metros are a disaster.” Harris muttered without looking up.
Wiebe shot him a warning look.
“What?” Harris said innocently. “Everyone knows that.”
“The Metros made playoffs last year.” Wiebe said.
“And still managed to publicly embarrass three players, alienate their goalie coach, and get fined by the league twice.”
Bood reached for another pretzel.
“Honestly kind of impressive.” he admitted.
Harris pointed at him. “Thank you.”
Coach Wiebe exhaled heavily through his nose.
Ilya remained quiet now, though suspicion curled deeper in his chest.
He had heard things about Montreal over the years, whispers mostly, locker room culture stories that travelled between teams because hockey players gossiped worse than old women despite pretending otherwise. Omegas were tolerated in the league when they were exceptional, but tolerated was not the same thing as welcomed.
And Shane Hollander had been young when he entered the NHL.
Too young maybe. Too quiet. Too visibly omega.
That combination could become ugly fast.
Still, none of that explained why management would trade away a valuable player entering his prime.
Unless the issue was Shane himself.
Ilya hated that his mind went there automatically, but he had captained teams long enough to understand that talent alone did not hold a locker room together. Personality mattered. Stability mattered. Chemistry mattered.
One difficult player could poison an entire season.
And omegas… well.
Omegas complicated things.
Not always badly, but undeniably.
Especially around alphas.
His fingers tightened unconsciously around the puck.
“What kind of omega is he?” Ilya asked suddenly.
Harris looked up from the laptop. “What does that mean?”
“You know what means.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
Ilya rolled his eyes dramatically.
“Is he shy omega? Loud omega? Drama omega? Sweet omega? Tiny omega with murder personality?”
Bood barked out a laugh.
“There are murder omegas?” Harris asked.
“Oh yes,” Ilya said seriously. “Scariest kind.”
“Shane Hollander isn’t scary.” Harris said.
Harris hesitated.
That caught Ilya’s attention immediately.
“And…?” he asked again.
“He’s…” Harris searched for the word carefully. “Quiet.”
“Quiet can still be asshole.” Ilya pointed out.
“That’s true.”
“Doesn’t mean it kindly.” Bood added.
“I know what it means.”
Harris sighed before closing the laptop halfway.
“He seems nervous all the time,” he admitted. “Like he expects someone to say something cruel every five minutes.”
Something uncomfortable settled over the room.
Even Coach Wiebe looked away.
Ilya frowned faintly.
An involuntary reaction stirred in his chest, unpleasant and instinctive. Protective. His alpha side disliked the idea immediately, though he pushed the feeling down before it could root itself deeper.
Not his omega. Not his responsibility.
Still.
He remembered entering the league himself at eighteen years old, all sharp arrogance and impossible talent, and even then it had nearly eaten him alive. Reporters, older players, media pressure, endless scrutiny.
Now add omega instincts to that.
Add scent sensitivity. Add being rare.
Add being visibly vulnerable in a league full of violent men pretending vulnerability did not exist.
No wonder the omega looked nervous.
“How old?” Ilya asked.
“Twenty-four.” Harris answered.
“Younger than I thought.”
“He started early.”
Coach Wiebe finally sat forward, clasping his hands on the table.
“Listen carefully,” he said, voice firmer now. “Whatever happened in Montreal stays in Montreal. Shane Hollander is a Centaur now, and he’ll be treated professionally here.”
“That bad, huh?” Bood murmured.
Wiebe’s jaw tightened.
“No speculation.” he said immediately.
Which, naturally, made everyone speculate harder.
Ilya tilted his head slightly.
“You think he problem.”
“I think,” Wiebe replied carefully, “that he’s had a rough few years, and I expect leadership from this team.”
That answer told Ilya almost everything.
Not that Shane was dangerous.
Not that he was disruptive.
If anything, it sounded like the opposite.
Ilya knew alpha phrasing. He had lived among alphas his entire life. When coaches spoke cautiously like that, when they emphasized professionalism and leadership, it usually meant somebody had been mistreated badly enough that management was already preparing for damage control.
His suspicion shifted direction instantly.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Harris reopened the laptop.
“I’m posting the announcement in ten minutes,” he said. “Please try not to start any media wars online afterward.”
Bood looked offended. “I’ve literally never started a media war.”
“Last month you told a sports journalist to ‘develop critical thinking skills’.”
“He needed them.”
“You quote-tweeted him, Bood.”
“He still needed them.”
Ilya grinned lazily.
“Was funny though.”
“You are not helping either.” Harris informed him.
“I always help.”
“You called a Toronto commentator ‘sentient wallpaper’.”
“He was boring me.”
Coach Wiebe stood abruptly before the argument could continue.
“Enough,” he said. “Shane arrives tomorrow morning. Practice starts at eleven. I expect all of you to behave like professionals.”
That made Bood cough suspiciously into his hand.
Ilya smirked.
Harris muttered: “We’re doomed.”
The meeting dissolved shortly afterward, chairs scraping against the floor as everyone began gathering their things. Harris remained behind to finalize the social media announcement while Bood wandered toward the coffee machine in the corner.
Ilya lingered.
Coach Wiebe noticed immediately.
The older alpha paused near the doorway, clearly unsurprised.
“What.”
Not a question.
Ilya rolled the puck across his knuckles.
“You hiding something.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Wiebe stared at him for several long seconds.
Ilya stared back easily.
Most people found his gaze unsettling when he wanted them to. Years of media attention had sharpened his charisma into something dangerous, bright smiles covering razor instincts.
Finally, the coach sighed.
“Rozanov.”
“Aha.”
“You don’t need to go looking for problems.”
“Maybe problem comes looking for me.”
“You ever think about becoming less dramatic?”
“Never.”
That almost earned a smile. Almost.
Wiebe rubbed tiredly at his temple.
“Hollander’s a good player,” he said. “A very good player. Whatever assumptions you’re making, stop making them.”
“I am captain. I make many assumptions.”
“You make too many assumptions.”
“Usually correct assumptions.”
The coach pointed at him.
“That attitude is exactly why I’m warning you now.”
Ilya’s amusement faded slightly.
Interesting again.
Warnings from coaches rarely meant nothing.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Wiebe hesitated.
Then, finally…
“The Metros had a locker room culture problem,” he admitted. “Management ignored it for too long. Shane requested the trade personally.”
Something sharp twisted in Ilya’s chest.
Requested. Not mutual.
Not strategic. Escape.
His alpha instincts stirred again, restless now beneath his skin, reacting to implications more than facts.
“Someone hurt him?” he asked.
“No,” Wiebe said immediately, too quickly. “Nothing like that.”
But there had still been enough damage for Shane to leave an entire team behind.
Enough damage for a young omega player to uproot his career.
Enough damage that Ottawa’s head coach was warning the captain in advance.
Ilya looked away briefly toward the practice rink visible through the glass wall outside the meeting room. Players skated during optional sessions below, blades carving clean lines through ice while coaches shouted drills from the sidelines.
Hockey was brutal even on good days.
Pack dynamics made it worse.
“I do not want distractions.” Ilya said after a moment.
“I know.”
“If he brings drama…”
“He won’t.”
The certainty in Wiebe’s voice surprised him.
That did not sound like a coach protecting management.
That sounded personal. Protective.
Huh.
“You like him.” Ilya realized.
The older alpha’s expression softened slightly.
“He deserves a fair shot here.”
There it was again.
Not concern about Shane causing problems.
Concern about Shane surviving them.
Ilya leaned back against the table edge, thoughtful now.
He could work with shy. He could work with nervous. Hell, half the rookies who entered the league looked ready to throw up for their first six months.
But unresolved trauma inside a locker room filled with alphas?
That became complicated fast.
Especially because scent changed everything.
No matter how professional players tried to be, instincts existed underneath the surface at all times. Alphas reacted to omegas. Omegas reacted to alphas. It was biology sharpened into social hierarchy, impossible to completely ignore even in modern society.
And Ilya himself… well.
He was not exactly subtle.
Loud scent. Strong presence.
Aggressive instincts during games.
He had spent years learning control because without it he would have been unbearable to everyone around him.
Would Shane Hollander be afraid of him too?
The thought irritated him unexpectedly.
He did not care about strangers liking him.
But fear was different. Fear smelled awful.
Before he could respond, Harris suddenly made an offended noise behind them.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Ilya turned.
“What now?”
Harris stared at his phone in disbelief.
“The comments section already found out Shane likes ginger ale.”
Bood wandered over immediately. “How.”
“One of the Montreal equipment staff apparently told somebody.”
Ilya blinked.
“That is weird thing to leak.”
“Fans are now debating whether ginger ale is an omega drink.”
Bood groaned. “People are exhausting.”
Harris kept scrolling, horrified fascination growing across his face.
“Oh my god. Someone edited together a compilation video of Shane falling on the ice.”
“That was fast.” Bood admitted.
“It’s been four minutes!”
Ilya walked over and leaned down to glance at the screen.
The omega in the clips was smaller than he expected, dark-haired and flushed beneath arena lights, warm brown eyes wide as he laughed helplessly after colliding with another player during warmups.
Freckles dusted across his cheeks.
Cute.
Ilya paused.
Huh.
The realization arrived abruptly enough that he straightened almost immediately afterward, annoyed with himself.
Cute was dangerous territory.
Especially when attached to omega scent memory.
Even through video, he could almost imagine it already.
Orange rind.
Fresh and bright.
Probably soft underneath.
Nope.
Absolutely not thinking about that.
“You okay there, Roz?” Bood asked suspiciously.
“Fine.”
“You look weird.”
“I always look beautiful.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Harris kept scrolling.
“Oh, this is bad.”
“What now?” Coach Wiebe sighed.
“Someone from Montreal replied to the trade announcement with a shrug emoji.”
The room went still.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Hockey teams communicated in coded public language constantly. Tiny comments. Deleted tweets. Likes that disappeared twenty minutes later. Fans dissected everything.
A shrug emoji from a former teammate could become headlines by evening.
Ilya held out his hand silently.
Harris handed him the phone.
The reply sat there beneath Ottawa’s official announcement post.
@MetrosDefense92: 🤷
Nothing else.
But the implication felt ugly.
Ilya’s jaw tightened.
“Who is this?”
“One of their defensemen.” Harris said carefully.
“Idiot.”
Coach Wiebe looked grim now.
“Ignore it.”
Ilya handed the phone back, but irritation simmered hot beneath his skin anyway.
Not because of the emoji itself.
Because suddenly he could picture exactly how Shane Hollander must have felt inside that locker room if teammates were willing to publicly mock his trade departure four minutes after official announcement.
Petty. Cruel.
Pack rejection disguised as humor. Alpha bullshit.
His instincts hated it immediately.
Which was annoying.
Because now he was curious.
And curiosity always caused trouble. Especially for him.