Chapter Text
The pretty omega started becoming a regular at Ilya’s gym on a Tuesday in February. All the people around them were whining about the cold (Ilya was from an actual cold place so he had no sympathy), asking the trainers and other staff if the gym was going to be heated better as it stayed cold (no- and those same people started shucking layers the moment they started their workouts), and filming their ‘fitness journey’ (which Ilya didn’t mind, given the sheer volume of his own shirtless self on his Instagram).
But the freckled omega with the sad brown eyes and too-full lips didn’t look at his phone while he worked out. He didn’t talk to anyone except to excuse himself if he felt he’d gotten in their way or somehow inconvenienced them, and he didn’t complain about the cold. He wore beat-up leggings and track-pants that fit badly, faded T-shirts, and a thin jacket overtop that he never removed, only unzipped slightly here and there.
He was tired, he was due for a haircut and a wardrobe overhaul, and he was gorgeous. Absolutely stunningly beautiful, so much so that Ilya had stopped dead in the middle of the gym to stare at him for a moment when the omega had come in the first day, and he was rarely able to take his eyes off him as the omega slowly and grimly worked through a routine that, Ilya realized after a while, was not something the omega was unfamiliar with.
It was weird though, and it took about a week for Ilya to pinpoint what was so weird about it before he pinpointed the issue; the man clearly knew how to use the machines, he obviously knew how to move and what to do with his body, but at the same time he didn’t. He moved, Ilya decided, like someone who knew how to move in a very different body than the one he currently inhabited.
Had he gained a significant amount of weight? Was he recovering from an injury? Had he simply not worked out in a very long period of time, long enough that now his body had a different shape and feel to it? Ilya wasn’t certain about the reason for the wariness that wafted off the gorgeous man who visited Ilya’s gym almost every day, but he knew what he was seeing.
So he circled him, watching and thinking and taking inventory of what he saw. Good form, a foundation of strength that indicated he had definitely been in very good shape at some point. An additional weirdness was a certain care with the way he twisted and bent over, an odd kind of bowing stance when he shifted his weight. A lived-in scent of alpha clung to him, which was heartbreaking when Ilya noted that, but one could look, certainly, even if nothing more than that could occur. And interestingly, although there was an alpha scent that was baked in enough that it meant they lived together and were physically present with each other, there was no bitemark on his neck, the few times he’d moved in a way that Ilya could see it.
Together to this extent but not mated? It happened, of course, but it was… very uncommon.
The alpha in Ilya’s chest was beyond pleased at the unmarked expanse of skin that was exposed by this movement or that, nearly purring in his chest at the lack of bonds it indicated.
It was a full week and a half of watching before Ilya clocked in and headed into the floor to see the omega struggling to reset a machine, clearly irritated. Ilya, who knew that this particular machine had all kinds of stupid idiosyncrasies and he’d told the owner to replace it a thousand times (and Svetlana told him to kiss her ass), moved to assist.
“The pulley, it sticks,” he offered, and the omega turned a searing glare at him. Ilya frowned and the omega blinked, then grimaced.
“Thank you, I’m sorry. It’s been a morning. I figured out it sticks, I don’t know how to make it un-stick.”
“Ah.” Ilya nodded seriously. “This is important trick they teach personal trainers only, to give us a leg up.” He reached up, feeling along the edge, and hooked a finger around the band to winch it back into place as he pulled on the foundation-pin of the weights column. The pulley clanged into place and Ilya gestured. “See? Good as new.”
“Thank you.” The omega looked up at the pulley, studying it carefully. Ilya had never been this close, not enough to see just how intelligent those eyes were, how searching and careful. He hadn’t been close enough before to be able to map the scattering of freckles on his face, like stars that begged to be kissed. Ilya had scented him before, of course, but up close the honey-and-oak was more mouthwatering than he’d expected.
The omega gave a nod, as if agreeing with something, and focused back on Ilya. “Shane Hollander,” he offered, holding out a hand. “You work here, right?”
“No, Shane Hollander, they give the shirts to the prettiest men who use the equipment, for free advertising. You should probably have one, too.” Ilya shot him a grin that had charmed his way into every bed he’d aimed it at as he shook Shane’s hand, allowing the touch to linger briefly, and was absolutely startled at the way the smile in those warm brown eyes seemed to shutter in on itself.
“Probably not. Thank you for helping me with the equipment.” Shane sat down on the bench and Ilya, realizing he’d misstepped somewhere that seemed particularly vulnerable, thought it through. Did he not like being complimented by someone who wasn’t his not-mate? Odd, but reasonable, to a degree. Some people felt even light flirting was inappropriate and bordered on cheating. Ilya could see a boundary and keep behind it, even if his alpha wanted to push the line.
“You need a spotter, yes?” Ilya offered, a proverbial olive branch. “I can spot, my client doesn’t come in for another hour.”
Shane studied him for a beat, then nodded slightly. “Alright, yeah. I’d appreciate it. It’s been a minute since I’ve done barbells.”
“It comes back like a bicycle, yes?” Ilya moved to stand at Shane’s head, and the omega’s lips quirked into a smile. He was truly lovely when he smiled. Ilya wondered what he’d look like with a real smile on his face. “You used to do weights often?”
“Yeah, I was into hockey once, believe it or not.” Shane’s eyes fixed on the ceiling as he lifted. The weight moved through the air above his chest- not smoothly or easily, but it moved. “I liked gym time, it was one of my favorite things.”
“Hockey,” Ilya mused. Yes, he could see it- the broad shoulders, the solidness of him. Sure, the man was carrying a little weight on him right now, but someone who had ever been in the shape that Shane had probably been in, that never truly went away. “I was in hockey when I was young. I was too good, it was a threat to the security of the nation, so I got kicked off the team. Very sad, very unfortunate. Russia would have won the Olympics by now if I was on the team.”
“Yeah?” Shane’s little lip-quirk stayed longer this time. “What position did you play?”
“Center.” Ilya held his hands below the barbells on either side, monitoring the rise and fall of the weights, prepared to move forward and snatch it at the first wobble. “As I said, I was the best.”
“Me too.” Shane looked up and back at him, and Ilya wanted to lick the freckles right off his face. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something to the curve of his face that looked a little happier now, his scent softer and gentler. “Do you miss it?”
Ilya considered. Did he miss it? That was a loaded question. “We live in Canada, Hollander, I can go nowhere away from hockey.”
Shane laughed, and it was beautiful- brief, but warm and soft. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.” He racked the weights and sat up, rotating his wrists. “Went too heavy.”
“You didn’t drop it,” Ilya reminded him. “No squished pill-bugs today.” Shane blinked at him and Ilya mimed a weight coming down on his chest, waving his arms slightly, and Shane’s smile returned, genuine even if it was small. Ilya had been right- it was absolutely stunning on him.
“No,” he agreed. “No squashed pill bugs. Thanks again.”
“You are welcome, Hollander.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his first client of the day waiting at the edges of the mat and wished she would have decided to sleep in. “You want a hand, you call for me, yes? I have client now, but I am here most days in the morning.”
“I’m not sure I need a personal trainer yet,” Shane disagreed, but the way he said it made Ilya wonder if it was less an issue of need and more an issue of the admittedly high prices of personal training at their gym. They were worth it, obviously, but it could be cost-prohibitive. “But thank you for the spotting, Mr…?”
“No mister,” Ilya corrected immediately, and tapped his chest. “Ilya Rozanov. You can call me Ilya or Rozanov, but Mr. Rozanov gets you thrown out in the snow.”
“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane repeated, something dawning in those pretty brown eyes, and Ilya’s attention was utterly caught. “Huh.”
“Huh what, Hollander?” Ilya demanded, and Shane looked around to see Ilya’s client stepping onto the mats with a smile.
“Good morning, Ilya,” she said. “Not wanting to interrupt, am I early?”
“No,” he assured her distractedly. What the hell was that smile for on Shane’s face? It looked like it held secrets, and he wanted them. “We can begin, of course. Goodbye, Hollander. You will be in tomorrow?”
“Sure, Ilya Rozanov.” Shane’s lips curved a little more, dancing with those secrets again, and Ilya may or may not have absolutely run every client he had that day ragged, frustrated with himself for being unable to ferret out those mysterious bits of knowledge hiding behind all that soft brown iris.
“You laughed at my name, Hollander,” Ilya informed him the moment they met the next morning. Shane, infuriatingly, was wearing a color blue that made his skin almost glow distractingly. But Ilya wouldn’t be distracted- he had a purpose, prey to pursue. “Why is it funny? Russian names are laughable to you Canadians?"
Shane rolled his eyes. “Yes, Rozanov, I’ve never heard a Russian name before and I’m going to make fun of you for it, that’s how special you are here in Canada,” he shot back, and Ilya couldn’t help the flare of excitement that flickered through him. He hadn’t been chirped at in what felt like a long time.
“I am special here in Canada,” Ilya shot back. “You do not make men like me here in the Lesser Great White North.” Shane snorted, pulling back on the rowing machine, and Ilya didn’t move away. “You did not answer the question.”
“Your name isn’t funny,” Shane disagreed lightly, “It’s just that I’ve heard it before.” He looked up as Ilya frowned. “I was into hockey, Rozanov, I was going to try and go pro. I was going to be the best center I could be, and that meant understanding the competition. Which, you were. At least a little.” There was that expression again, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks, a real, if small, smile on his face.
“A little?” Ilya protested, his ego genuinely slightly stung, but enjoying the way the banter was making the omega’s scent sweeten and soften out of the miserable funk it had been until now. “I was more than a little competition back then, Hollander.”
“For most people,” Shane agreed, a bit loftily, and Ilya’s alpha wanted to get the pretty omega on the ice and chase him, show him exactly how much competition Ilya Rozanov still could be, even this long removed. He still went skating frequently and considered rejoining a team, but once you were out for as many years as Ilya had been, people were hesitant to bank a risk on bringing you in anywhere that mattered, regardless of your talent.
“I am more than a little competition for you too, I could show you,” Ilya pressed, and there was that little shuttering again, his scent souring slightly. Ilya frowned as Shane looked forward.
“Probably now, yeah,” he agreed. “But not back when I was good.”
“You are likely still good,” Ilya corrected, seeing the blood in the water now. Shane didn’t like being complimented and he felt uneasy about his abilities- whatever had happened to get him to this (truly, very reasonable shape, he was only maybe fifty pounds at the most that he didn’t need to be carrying) was a touchy subject. Fair, if the omega had truly been to the level where Ilya had been a genuine competition to him, not just an ideal.
Wait. Ilya’s brain put those two things together. An omega, playing pro hockey? There wasn’t a single one that he knew of. Maybe a secret omega here or there, posing as a beta, but a star center omega? Unfortunately that simply hadn’t been done. Ilya had never noticed that really, and looking at the man working so hard in front of him now, he wondered what he never had noticed it before, and why it had never bothered him.
Shane Hollander. The name had niggled at him since Shane had introduced himself, but Ilya hadn’t done anything with it. Maybe he should. If the omega had been as good as he claimed…
“I’m not now, but I’ll get back there once I lose all this weight,” Shane replied, derailing Ilya’s train of thought. “I’ll get there, it just takes work.”
“You are putting in the work,” Ilya hummed, and Shane’s scent softened slightly. Ilya’s first client of the day waved as he came in, and Ilya raised two fingers in greeting. “I have to go, Hollander, but you call if you need a spot, yes?”
“Sure.” Shane gave him a smile, not entirely as warm as before, sour notes still bleeding through his scent, but Ilya didn’t have time to sweeten them as his client came toward them, so the alpha stepped back, giving the omega his space, and went to work.
I was the best, Ilya had told Shane that first day they’d began to talk.
Me too, Shane had responded- not haughtily, not vainly, but with the quiet and simple way of someone who knew that they were right and was confident in it. Not the way that Ilya ever said anything, honestly- everything Ilya said was a brag, peacocking for those around him.
And Shane Hollander had not been lying. He had been exactly right to claim the right of being competition to Ilya.
Ilya stared at his phone screen, burrito forgotten in one hand as he watched old, slightly-grainy reels of Shane Hollander’s juvie runs. The man- well, he’d been a teenager then- had been a force. He had been magic. Ilya ached with need as he watched video after video of archived footage- he needed to get that omega on the ice and he needed to do it yesterday. They’d been out for almost the same amount of time, he needed to see what they’d both kept, see how they’d work together and against each other. Hollander’s matches were like watching a dance, knowing that you were viewing something truly spectacular.
Why the fuck had he ever stopped?! Ilya backed out of the videos and went to Google, where he got a sickening answer to his question.
Up-and-Comer Shane Hollander Benched After Omega Scandal, a headline read, and Ilya clicked into it. He’d been outed as an omega, and the commissioners had absolutely lost it. A ‘danger to young, hormonal players’, someone with ‘biological advantages’ of distraction, it went on and on, the kind of thing that Ilya sadly wasn’t surprised to hear. He’d heard of mixed-designation groups having issues because the omegas ‘purposely’ used their pheromones to gain an advantage, even with blockers somehow. It was ridiculous, but it was a thing that had come up time and time again. In a sport where somewhere around eighty-five percent were alphas and the rest were betas, it was absolutely the kind of sport that would discriminate there.
Shane had been benched for most of the season, and he’d just sort of… disappeared after that. There were a few ‘where are they now’ lists that put Shane Hollander as a teacher at a school here in Ottawa, but not much else.
He was about to close the search, dumbfounded, when he caught a thumbnail of a video posted by someone with user name yhollander24, a tiny figure in what looked like a hockey ring. He clicked it and there was Shane, years older than in the grainy footage Ilya had been watching through his whole lunch, standing at the entrance of a rink. He was years older than the previous videos but a little younger than he was now- or maybe just happier? Either way, he looked fit, strong, happy, and a woman’s voice cheered as Shane stepped off the floor and onto the ice-
And he was sailing across the rink like he’d never taken skates off, spinning, ducking, feinting, charging back and forth, as if he had just come off a game like the one Ilya had just been watching. That same magic from before was still present. Sure maybe his reflexes wouldn’t be as good without constant practice, but the skill? It had gone nowhere.
He’s still got it! was the caption on the video.
Ilya spent the last five minutes of his lunch watching the video over and over, listening to the tinny sound of Shane’s laughter bouncing off the rafters as he flew across the ice like he had never left it.
He spent the first ten minutes of his shift back on the floor rearranging his schedule. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, he was booked to work with a new client named Shane Hollander, starting next week.
He couldn’t wait.