Chapter Text
The tension in the corridor felt suffocating and thick.
“Fucking Rozanov,” Scott muttered, running a hand down his face. “Fucking Boston Bears.”
Losing was a bitter pill under any circumstance, but surrendering a home-ice victory to Boston made the stomach acid burn twice as bad. The Bears didn’t just beat you; they tenderized you. They were a team built on brutal physical contact, relentless board battles, and filthy cross-checks that left fresh bruises bloom under your pads before the second period even ended.
And then, above the violence, there was Rozanov.
It wouldn’t surprise Scott if the guy was half bird, not with the way he never stopped chirping. He talked from the opening puck drop to the final horn, an endless stream of jabbering designed to get under your skin and stay there.
Walking beside Scott, Carter Vaughn shrugged his shoulders, his brow furrowed in annoyance. Ryan Price and Eric Bennett trailed just behind, the four Admirals marching down the backstage hallway of the New York arena in a haze of post-game frustration.
“Say whatever you want about him,” Eric grunted, kicking a loose piece of tape off the floor. “Say he’s an annoying, arrogant showboat, and that his mouth needs a padlock.”
“The problem,” Ryan chimed in, hesitantly, “is the bastard backs it up.”
That was the nightmare of Ilya Rozanov. If he were just a loudmouth, you could hit him into next week and forget about him. But Rozanov possessed a terrifying hockey IQ.
It was almost freakish.
He read the ice like he’d written the playbook himself, tracking the puck’s trajectory before the guy holding it even decided where to pass. It was like playing against a psychic—a mischievous, evil mind-reader who used his brilliant brain strictly to ruin your night and talk shit while doing it.
“Superpower wasted on pure malice,” Carter deadpanned.
A faint, tired chuckle rippled through the group. It was a lame joke, standard locker-room gallows humor, but after a brutal loss on home ice, it was the best they could manage.
They turned the corner toward the high-security family and guest area, only to pull up short.
Standing near the intersection of the main hallway was an omega. He looked completely out of place, turning in slow, hesitant circles as if trying to decipher the arena’s maze-like layout.
Who the hell is that? Scott thought, his eyes narrowing. And why is an omega wandering around the back corridors of the Admirals’ rink wearing black and gold?
Because there was no mistaking the oversized jersey draped over the stranger’s shoulders. It was a Boston Bears Rozanov 81.
Despite the opposing colors, Scott’s eyes lingered. The omega was striking. He was half-Asian, with dark, lustrous hair framing a face that belonged on a billboard. His skin looked soft and pristine, save for a scattering of freckles across his cheekbones that looked remarkably like delicate constellations. His eyes were a warm, deep brown, illuminated by the harsh overhead fluorescent lights.
Even clad in a bulky hockey jersey, the guy could easily be a professional model. Not even the number 81 emblazoned across his back could stop Scott from staring.
“Well, well,” Eric murmured, leaning in slightly toward Scott. “Look at that. Must be one of Rozanov’s puck bunnies.”
Carter scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Unbelievable. They go completely insane for that guy.”
Insane is an understatement, Scott thought silently.
When Rozanov had been drafted four years ago, the media had predicted a circus. A nineteen-year-old alpha prodigy coming over from Russia, overflowing with raw talent and supreme confidence. In his very first NHL interview, Rozanov had casually claimed he would score fifty goals in his rookie season. Everyone had laughed it off as arrogance.
The worst part? The bastard actually hit fifty.
With that kind of instant stardom, everyone assumed Rozanov would tear through the city, partying non-stop and leaving a trail of broken hearts in every hotel he stayed in. And while the tabloids certainly caught photos of him out late with his teammates, getting drunk and causing chaos at high-end clubs, the rumors were entirely wrong about his personal life.
Rozanov never took anyone home.
Not once. The puck bunnies had gone wild trying to crack his armor. It had devolved into an actual contest among the groupies in half the cities in the league—a high-stakes game to see who could finally be the first person to tame Boston’s golden boy. None of them had succeeded.
Yet here stood an omega, wearing Rozanov’s exact jersey, waiting in the restricted belly of the New York arena.
Scott watched as the omega glanced down at his phone, a subtle, annoyed line forming between his brows as he tapped the screen. He didn’t look like a frantic fan or a desperate groupie.
Before Eric or Carter could make another comment, Scott adjusted his gear bag on his shoulder, shifting his weight as he stared at the intruder.
“Come on,” Scott muttered under his breath, taking a decisive step forward. “Let’s go give the guy a heads-up before arena security drags him out.”
Carter, Ryan, and Eric fell into step right behind him, a wall of navy-and-red tracksuits marching down the narrow concrete passage. It was standard protocol—fans weren’t allowed in the restricted corridor behind the locker rooms, and an omega wearing an opponent’s jersey was bound to draw aggressive guard attention sooner rather than later.
Scott intended to be civil, give a polite warning, and point the guy back toward the public concourse. Five paces away, the omega turned his head, hearing their approaching footsteps.
Then the scent hit Scott like a physical blow.
It wasn’t a subtle note lingering in the hallway; it was an absolute tidal wave of scent. Scott froze in his tracks, his chest hitching as his lungs filled with the overwhelming aroma of fresh lilies and sweet honey.
The potency of it made Scott’s head spin. Most people who watched Ilya Rozanov on television—watching him tear up the ice, hurl himself into brutal physical checks, and bark endless chirps—assumed the Russian alpha would smell like ash, cedar, or raw iron.
They were dead wrong. Rozanov’s scent was surprisingly rich and comforting, a lush, golden atmosphere that carried an unexpected warmth. In hindsight, Scott realized with a jolt, that very scent was likely the reason the Boston Bears were able to maintain their composure.
No matter how rowdy, aggressive, or chaotic the team got on the ice, they never stepped over the line. It was a miracle considering this league throws so many Alphas on the ice and allows them to get into fights. It must be the alpha’s underlying presence acting like a soothing buffer, rounding off the Bears’ rough edges whenever they regrouped.
Right now, that exact scent was saturating every single thread of the oversized jersey in front of them. It was draped over the omega so heavily that Scott couldn’t catch a single trace of the guy’s natural scent. It was a complete, suffocating blanket. An undeniable, public declaration of ownership from an alpha.
As the omega shifted his stance, clutching his phone closer to his chest, the wide collar of the gold-and-black jersey slipped slightly off his left shoulder.
Scott’s eyes dropped to the exposed curve of the neck, and his blood ran cold.
Indented deep into the smooth skin over the scent gland was a dark, fully healed mating mark. The puncture scars were distinct, perfectly shaped, and unmistakable.
Behind Scott, Carter let out a sharp: “What the fuck…”
Scott couldn’t even formulate a reply. His mind scrambled to reorganize everything he thought he knew about the league’s most notorious bachelor. This wasn’t a groupie. This wasn’t some random puck bunny who had snuck backstage after a game. This was Ilya Rozanov’s claimed, mated omega.
How the hell did he keep this a secret? Scott thought, stunned. How does nobody in the media know about this?
Before Scott could even process the absurdity of the situation, the pleasant aroma of lilies in the air underwent a terrifying transformation. The crisp, sweet scent turned instantly bitter and acrid—the sharp, decaying stench of wilted lilies that only ever surfaced when Rozanov was consumed by unadulterated rage.
Scott snapped his head to the side.
Down the intersecting corridor, Ilya Rozanov was prowling toward them.
He moved like a predator closing in on a target, his broad frame tense, as his blue eyes locked onto the group of Admirals. Flanking him like two giant enforcers were Cliff Marleau and the Bears’ newest alpha rookie, Connors. Both of them had their arms crossed over their chests, their expressions hard and murderous.
Rozanov didn’t say a word as he closed the distance. In one swift, fluid movement, he slid an arm around the omega’s waist and pulled him flush against his chest, pivoting the smaller man so his back was to shielded from the Admirals.
Rozanov buried his face directly into the curve of the omega’s neck, nuzzling aggressively against the mating bite, flooding the air with a suffocating blast of territory-marking alpha pheromones.
Scott felt a sharp knot of nausea twist in his gut. Watching an alpha as notorious and aggressive as Rozanov act so hyper-possessive, so animalistically protective in the middle of a stadium hallway, was deeply unsettling. It was raw, unfiltered alpha instinct exposed in a way Scott had never witnessed up close.
Then, Rozanov lifted his head.
Over the crown of the omega’s dark hair, Rozanov fixed Scott with a glare so frigidly violent it sent a shudder straight down Scott’s spine. The Russian’s blue eyes were cold, promise-of-bloodshed sharp, silently warning the four New York players that if they took one more step, they wouldn’t make it out of the hallway on two feet.
Scott couldn’t breathe, as the dread settled into his bones like ice.
Then, as if a master switch had been flipped, the terrifying aura vanished instantly.
The menacing, feral posture melted away, replaced by a soft, almost puppy-like demeanor. Rozanov leaned down, resting his chin lightly on the omega’s shoulder, his expression instantly changing into something tender, and shockingly affectionate.
Scott stared, feeling unmoored from reality as he watched the absolute terror of the NHL turn into a needy, purring mess.
“Shanya,” Rozanov crooned, his voice dropping into a fond, low rumble as he addressed the omega. “What are you doing out here? I was waiting for you near the guest room.”
The omega’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. He looked at the golden-haired alpha with warm brown eyes, an embarrassed smile tugging at his lips.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his tone sweet and sheepish. “I’m so used to the layout back at TD Garden in Boston. I took a wrong turn at the main ramp and got turned around.”
Rozanov stroked a hand over the back of the omega’s jersey, smoothing down the fabric with practiced affection. “These guys weren’t bothering you, were they?” he asked softly, though his tone carried an underlying edge.
Behind Rozanov, Marleau and Connors hadn’t dropped their guard for a fraction of a second. They stood like immovable stone statues, their shoulders squared, and glaring daggers at Scott, Carter, Eric, and Ryan.
If the situation weren’t so intensely hostile, Scott might have found the sheer absurdity of it funny. It felt like stepping directly into an alternate reality—a surreal, twilight zone where the most ruthless player in hockey was a coddling, overprotective mate, guarded by two silent bodyguards in the basement of the Admiral arena.
“No,” the omega replied easily, shaking his head. “They didn’t even say anything before you showed up. I was just trying to find my way to you with my phone.”
Rozanov smiled, a small, terrifying flash of white teeth that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Great,” Rozanov purred.
The word dripped with pure, unadulterated malice, directed squarely at the four Admirals who remained frozen on the rubber flooring.
Without another word, Rozanov turned his mate around, keeping one hand planted firmly on the small of the omega’s back. Marleau and Connors fell into step seamlessly behind them, forming an impenetrable wall of gold and black that blocked the omega from view as the group turned the corner and disappeared down the hall toward the exit.
For a long moment, nobody moved. The lingering scent of wilted lilies and honey hung in the air, a fading reminder of what they had just witnessed.
Carter let out a slow, ragged exhale, staring at the empty space where the Boston players had been standing just seconds prior.
“What the fuck?” Carter repeated, his voice echoing off the bare concrete walls.
Scott rubbed a hand over his face, his heart still hammering against his ribs from the sheer intensity of Rozanov’s threat.
“Yeah,” Scott muttered, completely dazed. “What the absolute fuck just happened?”
The weeks following the locker room confrontation blurs into a haze of grueling road trips, early morning skates, and relentless game prep. As captain of the New York Admirals, Scott Hunter forces the bizarre image of Ilya Rozanov and his hidden mate into the dark corners of his mind. He has a locker room to lead, young players to guide, and a playoff push to execute.
The strategy works. The Admirals tear through the latter half of the regular season, earning a spot in the playoffs and battling their way to the Eastern Conference Finals.
Then, they hit the brick wall that is the Boston Bears.
The series is a bloodbath, stretching the Admirals to their absolute physical limits, but Boston’s relentless pressure ultimately prevails. The Bears take the series, ending New York’s season short of the ultimate prize.
A week later, the mood inside Scott’s Manhattan penthouse is a mix of frustrated defeat and lingering pride. The living room is packed with players and empty beer bottles cluttering the coffee tables. Mounted on the central wall, the massive television screen illuminates the room as Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final between the Boston Bears and the Colorado Avalanche ticks down its final, excruciating minutes.
Scott sits on the edge of the leather sectional, a cold bottle resting loosely in his hand, his eyes fixed on the broadcast. He feels the phantom ache of the loss in his shoulders, a dull bitterness that refuses to lift.
Beside him, Carter sets a fresh pack of drinks on the table and turns to face the room. Ever the steady alternate captain, Carter’s presence instantly shifts the atmosphere.
“Hey, bring it in for a second,” Carter says, his voice carrying clearly over the ambient noise of the television crowd. “I know this sucks to watch. Trust me, I get it. But look at what we did this year. We fought all the way to the Eastern Conference Finals. We proved we’re the second-best team in the East, and we made them earn every single inch of that ice. Hold your heads up. Next season, is ours.”
A wave of agreement ripples through the penthouse. Eric Bennett nods, raising his bottle, while Ryan Price taps his glass against the counter.
“To next year,” Scott agrees with his alternate.
“To next year,” the room echoes.
The momentary toast is cut short by a sudden, deafening roar from the TV speakers.
On screen, with less than ten seconds on the clock, Rozanov intercepts a pass at his own blue line, shifts his weight, and breaks down the ice. With a fluid, brutal wrist shot, the puck slams off the inside of the far post and ripples the back of the net.
The horn blares, as the red light flashes, and TD Garden explodes into a ruckus of celebrations as the final second ticks away.
The Boston Bears are Stanley Cup Champions.
Scott stares at the screen. As much as he disdains the Russian’s endless chirping, his showboating, and his relentless aggression on the ice, there is no denying the absolute truth of what just happened. Rozanov, the youngest captain in Boston Bears franchise history, has led his team to the absolute peak of the sport.
The guy is a force of nature.
Setting aside his frustration, Scott raises his beer toward the screen in a gesture of sportsmanship. Across the living room, Carter, Eric, Ryan, and the rest of the Admirals follow suit, silently acknowledging the victory.
On screen, the gold-and-black jerseys flood the ice, burying Rozanov in a sprawling, ecstatic dogpile near the glass. Minutes pass in a blur of celebration until the ice is cleared for the trophy presentation. Rozanov lifts the Stanley Cup high above his head, the arena shaking under the roar of the crowd, before taking his victory lap around the rink.
Then, the arena doors open to allow the players’ families onto the ice.
Scott leans forward slightly, his eyes tracking the moving crowd on screen. Walking alongside the team officials is the same dark-haired omega from the arena corridor—Shanya something.
He isn’t alone. Walking beside him is an older Japanese woman with striking, elegant features, and a tall, grey-haired man walking shoulder-to-shoulder with her.
As Rozanov skitters over on his skates, stopping near the red line, the two older adults step forward. The woman reaches up, gently holding the sides of Rozanov’s face, and plants a warm kiss directly on his forehead. The older man steps in immediately after, pulling the broad-shouldered alpha into a swift hug and pressing a brief kiss to the top of his head as well.
Scott blinks, stunned by the sight. The formidable, ruthless captain of the Boston Bears instantly melts into something surprisingly youthful, ducking his head with an affectionate, bashful grin that makes him look every bit his twenty-three years.
“Is that…?” Eric starts from the kitchen island, leaning over the counter.
Before Eric can finish, Rozanov skitters two steps forward, wraps his broad arms around Shane’s waist, and hoists the omega straight up into the air. Shane laughs, clutching Rozanov’s shoulders as the alpha twirls him around in a dizzying circle right on the ice, before pulling him down into a deep kiss in front of twenty thousand screaming fans and millions watching at home.
The broadcast commentary goes entirely off the rails, the play-by-play announcers stumbling over their words as the cameras zoom in on the couple.
“Wait, folks—is that who I think it is?” the play-by-play announcer stammers into his microphone. “Is that Shane Hollander? The Canadian model? He’s been on every major campaign cover this year!”
In Scott’s living room, Carter snorts into his bottle, shaking his head with a breathless laugh.
“Of course,” Carter mutters, taking a sip of his beer. “Of course Ilya Rozanov is mated to a famous model. The bastard really does have everything.”
Scott continues to watch the screen as Rozanov sets Shane back on his feet, keeping one arm securely wrapped around the omega’s waist as the team gathers for the official cup photo.
By three in the morning, the penthouse had emptied out. The residual smell of stale beer, takeout boxes, and alpha sweat lingered in the living room, a dull reminder of another season ended without a championship.
Scott moved through the silent apartment in a daze, stacking empty beer cans and clearing abandoned bottles from the mahogany coffee table. His teammates had retreated into the New York night, eager to drown their postseason disappointment in sleep or distract themselves until training camp rolled around in the fall.
He threw a handful of trash into the bin, wiped down the granite kitchen island, and finally dropped onto the leather sofa. The massive TV screen was dark now, but the image from before remained burned into the back of his eyelids.
Ilya Rozanov, hoisting a dark-haired omega into the air on home ice, looking at him as if the rest of the world had completely ceased to exist.
Scott reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and unlocked it. He stared at the blank search bar for a long second, his thumb hovering over the screen. He felt an inexplicable knot of embarrassment. As captain of the New York Admirals, he had no business prying into the personal life of his biggest rival. It was weird.
It borderlined on absurd.
Yet, he couldn’t stop himself. His thumb tapped out the name: Shane Hollander.
He didn’t know where the compulsion came from. Maybe it was the sheer shock of that encounter in the arena corridor—the animalistic possessiveness Rozanov had displayed, radiating a dangerous, territorial aura that made Scott’s blood run cold. Or maybe it was the way Shane had looked back at the Russian monster. The omega hadn’t looked intimidated or overwhelmed by the suffocating scent of lilies and honey; he had turned toward Rozanov naturally, blossoming under the attention like a flower soaking in the sun.
Scott needed to understand. He needed to figure out who had managed to tame the untamable beast of the Eastern Conference.
The search results loaded instantly, flooding the screen with high-resolution imagery.
If Shane Hollander had looked striking in an oversized gold-and-black hockey sweater, he was downright breathtaking in high fashion.
Scott scrolled through campaign photos, his eyes widening slightly. There was Shane walking the runway for Yves Saint Laurent in Paris, draped in an impeccably tailored dark suit that accentuated his long, lean frame, his dark eyes sharp and captivating under the bright runway lights.
There he was as the fresh-faced ambassador for Canada Dry, smiling warmly with those distinct, constellation-like freckles dusted across his nose. There he was in a crisp white shirt, his wrist adorned with a silver watch as the global ambassador of Rolex.
He was a powerhouse in the industry. An omega who held his own in an elite world, matching Rozanov’s athletic stardom with his own towering presence in haute couture.
Scott leaned back against the couch cushions, scrolling deeper into the search results, diving down a rabbit hole that he knew crossed the line into cyberstalking. He clicked through entertainment blogs, fashion magazines, and official profiles, searching for a link, a quote, a single grain of context.
Nothing.
There were plenty of articles detailing Shane’s rising career, his roots in Ottawa, and his studies in Montreal, but not a single mention of hockey. No red-carpet appearances with athletes. No leaked tabloid photos of him at TD Garden or spotted in Boston restaurants. No personal social media posts hinting at a partner, let alone a fierce, high-profile alpha captain.
How had they kept it all a secret? In an era where every move Rozanov made was dissected by sports journalists and paparazzi, they had somehow managed to keep not only a relationship, but a full mating mark completely hidden from the world until the exact second they lifted the Stanley Cup together.
How did a kid studying in Montreal meet a Russian hockey prodigy playing out of Boston? Scott thought, staring at a photo of Shane from a recent Vogue shoot. How long have they been doing this? And how the hell did they pull it off?
The secret remained entirely out of reach, locked away behind the tight-lipped silence of the Boston Bears locker room and the closed doors of their private lives.
Scott locked his phone and set it face down on the couch beside him, leaning his head back against the cushion and staring up at the dark ceiling of his penthouse.
He still hated Ilya Rozanov. He still wanted nothing more than to crush the Bears on home ice next season and take that trophy for New York. But as Scott finally closed his eyes to get some sleep, one thought lingered in his mind: whatever bond existed between that alpha and his omega, it was stronger, deeper, and far more lethal than anyone in the league could have ever guessed.