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Ilya Rozanov woke up the morning after winning the International Prospect Cup with stomach cramps. He groaned, rolling over in his bed, and cracked an eye open at the clock on his bedside table. The red numbers showed 04:30 in the darkness and Ilya groaned again, then reluctantly levered himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Forty-five minutes later, he was showered, dressed, and blearily dragging himself down the hallway to his coach’s hotel room.
Coach Popov opened the door with a disgruntled expression. “Rozanov, who’s dying?”
Ilya scowled in embarrassment. “Sorry to bother you, coach, but I think I have food poisoning,” he said, and Popov groaned.
“Fucking great. Ok, hold on a moment,” he said, disappearing back into his room for a minute and leaving Ilya hovering awkwardly in the hallway. “Alright. Here’s Canadian cash, go to the pharmacy across the street, get a bottle of whatever they have here for that, then get back here and get your shit packed - the bus is leaving at six and if you make us late you will regret it. If any of the other little dumbasses got it too I’ll send them to you, so make sure you put whatever you get in your carryon,” Popov said, handing Ilya a $50. “And I’ll expect change and a receipt!” He added, as Ilya pocketed the cash and slumped lower in his hoodie.
“Yes coach,” he replied, grimacing and taking off down the hallway.
The Canadian pharmacy was horrible and confusing, nothing looked like what Ilya was used to and it was too early for his brain to be functional enough to translate bottle by unfamiliar bottle. Finally, after a glance at the store’s clock showed him that he’d wasted far too much time trying to find anything by himself, he forced himself to talk to the only employee in the store at that hour. After a mortifying exchange with the middle aged woman at the register, trying to explain what he wanted without resorting to curse words to get around his more technical gaps in English, he scurried out of the store and back to his hotel room. Coach Popov eyed him warningly as he hurried through the lobby, where everyone else was wrapping up breakfast, but Ilya managed to shove his stuff back into his suitcase and ended up making it to the bus just as the last of his teammates were loading their suitcases underneath it.
Then it was the whirlwind of roll call and getting to the airport and unloading everything, moving in a disorganized clump of teenage boys to the check in counter, passing out tickets and baggage tags and getting hockey bags and suitcases checked, and there was no time to breathe until they were in the air from Regina to Toronto. Ilya shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sinking miserably into his hoodie and trying to get some more sleep, but a bit more than halfway through the flight he found himself forced up to the bathroom once again. He groaned on the little airplane toilet, cursing the weakness of Canadian drugs, but when he went to wipe he froze at an unexpected sensation from his perineum. What had been a smooth, unremarkable stretch of skin was puffy and inflamed, and when Ilya hurriedly finished wiping and began to poke at it the cramps spiked, making him double over and groan embarrassingly loudly.
Fuck. It wasn’t food poisoning.
Ilya wasn’t sure how long he sat hyperventilating in the airplane cubicle, but when the pilot announced that they would be arriving in Toronto imminently, he knew he had to pull himself together. Ok. His coach already thought he had food poisoning, that’s fine, makes it easier to sneak away in Toronto and have some time before anyone missed him. They hadn’t gone through immigration yet, so no problems leaving the airport. Where to go? Ilya had no idea, but he knew that, between the choice of being on the streets somewhere in Canada in the winter and being in the middle of travel back to Moscow, or, possibly even worse, anywhere between the Moscow airport and his father’s house, when his presentation heat hit, he’d take his chance with the streets of Canada.
He scowled at his seatmate when he asked if Ilya was alright, and when the plane landed he shifted anxiously until the seats ahead of him proliferated out. He hustled down the jetbridge, grabbing one of the other boys who he knew would do as he asked and telling him to tell coach that Canadian drugs sucked and he’d meet them at the gate for the next flight.
From there, Ilya walked down the hallways of the airport as quickly as he dared, only refraining from running because he knew it would attract attention. He strode out the doorways towards baggage claim, then paused, at a loss for where to go from there. Finally, he shrugged and headed towards the sign with a symbol of a bus on it - anywhere away from here was better than being somewhere he could be found if Coach figured out he’d ditched the team while there was still time for him to be tracked down before the flight.
He picked a counter at random, not recognizing any of the options represented.
“Hello, I need bus to other city. Is here?”
The man behind the counter shook his head. “You want Greyhound - over there,” he said, pointing across to a different counter. Ilya nodded. “Thank you,” he said, hitching his backpack up and turning towards the Greyhound counter.
Ilya wasn’t sure what the lady behind the Greyhound counter had thought of him, but something in her expression looked entirely too understanding for comfort, especially after a cramp had hit him mid-sentence, cutting him off briefly. Whatever she’d thought, though, he’d managed to trade $30 of the change he’d not gotten around to giving back to Coach Popov for a bus ticket to Ottawa, and he’d barely had enough time to get from the counter to the pickup point outside before the bus left. Ilya dropped himself down into the first window seat, put in his earbuds, leaned against his backpack, and stared out the window blindly as the bus rolled out of the airport onto the snowy streets.
By the time the bus got to Ottawa, Ilya was properly miserable. His stomach was empty, finally, but the cramps were a slow roll and he had a wad of toilet paper shoved into his pants out of fear that he might leave a wet spot, even though nothing had opened up yet as far as he could tell. He didn’t regret leaving - god, how bad would it have been if this had waited even a few more hours? - but he realized that things could still go badly for him, and he had no idea where to go. He looked around the bus terminal helplessly, wandering through and trying to make a plan. Canada took refugees, right? He was pretty sure he’d qualify, probably, Canada seemed like the kind of place that would take a Russian omega without sending him back. He ended up in front of a newsstand, the kind with a cork board above it with fliers and business cards and stacks of local advertisements and newsletters on the rack below it. He flipped through one, then his eye caught on an advertisement for Centretown Community Health Centre, offering all sorts of services - including omega services. He looked up at the street map pinned to the board, wondering how far it was, scowling as he tried to parse the small street names surrounding the bus station.
“Need help finding something, dear?” A voice asked, and he turned sharply, not having noticed the short lady who had appeared at his elbow.
“Ah, yes. This place,” he asked, pointing to the advertisement, “is far?”
“Oh no, hon, it’s not too far at all! Just go out the front doors, turn left, then walk up Kent until you get to Cooper and turn right and it’ll be right there!” She traced her finger along the path on the map as she explained, and Ilya watched carefully, memorizing the path as her words washed over him a bit too fast to really parse.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling awkwardly in response to her beaming “Oh, you’re welcome hon!”
The weather outside was just as bad as Moscow, and Ilya pulled his hoodie as tight as it could go and slogged down the street. He could feel himself getting feverish and the cramps kept stopping him, but he knew he had to keep going - if it was this cold now, it was only going to get worse as the evening wore on. Finally, after so long he was worried he’d miscounted streets and passed it, he saw the sign for Cooper and turned right.
He let himself into the Centre, stamping the slush from his boots on the mat by the door before approaching the front desk.
“Hi! What can I do for you this afternoon?” The young man at the front desk smiled at Ilya, who tried to smile back but figured it mostly came out as a grimace when he saw the other man’s face fall just a little.
“Ah, yes, well,” he said, moving closer to the counter and looking around, before speaking quietly, “I think I am having first heat soon. So.” He stopped awkwardly, not sure where to go from there - his brain was screaming that anyone knowing this would be bad, would be world shattering, but he didn’t know what else to do. His nose felt frozen off just from the walk, and now that he was leaning on the counter he wasn’t entirely sure how long his legs were going to continue holding him up.
“Oh! Ok, let’s get you back into a room right quickly then,” the receptionist said, looking alarmed. “Um, ok, here’s some intake paperwork, just sit there, I’ll call someone to bring you back right away,” he continued, handing Ilya a clipboard with a packet of pages on it, and Ilya slumped into the chair he’d been pointed at while the receptionist picked up his desk phone and started speaking to someone. Ilya looked at the packet, but the English words were swimming in front of his face and he hadn’t gotten anywhere when he saw a door open and a woman in scrubs come out. The receptionist pointed at him and Ilya stood up as she came over, wincing as he cramped again.
“Sam said you think you’re presenting?” she asked quietly, and Ilya frowned.
“Presenting is first heat? Sorry, my English,” he said, then frowned harder when she got a pitying look on her face.
“Yes, it means first heat or first rut,” she said, and Ilya nodded.
“Yes.”
“Ok, just follow me, we’ll get you taken care of, ok?” She said, leading him back through the doors and down a hallway, before leading him into a small exam room. He frowned at the table in the center, but he didn’t see anywhere straps could be used to hold him down, so settled for sitting in one of the chairs and scowling more.
“My name’s Marie,” she said, as she pulled a blood pressure cuff from the wall. “Do you think you can take off your jacket? I’d like to get your blood pressure,” she added, holding up the cuff.
Ilya grimaced - he both did and didn’t want the hoodie off. On the one hand, it wasn’t his big outer coat - that had been packed in his checked bag so he wouldn’t have to carry it through multiple warm airports - so it wasn’t waterproof and the snow that had collected on his walk was now melting into it and turning it uncomfortably soggy. On the other hand, it felt vulnerable, reducing the layers between himself and the world, when all he wanted to do was burrow deeper into it and block all this out. As he followed that line of thought to its conclusion he let out a harsh laugh at himself - he really was an omega, wasn’t he? - then forced himself to strip it off, doing it in one explosive movement and leaning back against the chair with an affected nonchalance that was, unfortunately, ruined by another cramp that hit so badly it cracked his composure. The nurse took his blood pressure, stuck a thermometer into his ear, and frowned at it before writing down the number on her own clipboard.
“Alright, I can see that you’re having cramps, and your temperature is a little elevated but not enough to worry yet. Can you tell me what other symptoms you’re having?” Marie asked, and Ilya frowned for a moment, parsing out symptoms, before making a guess as to what she wanted.
“I, ah, thought was food poisoning this morning. I took medicine, but did not work. Noticed…uhm, tender? Place where omegas…happen? Painful when I touched, swelling, was not there this morning, no other reason I can think of for this,” he said, picking his way through his words and grateful that ways to describe injuries was considered important English for a hockey player to learn.
Marie nodded. “What medicine did you take?”
Ilya rooted around in his backpack for a moment, then pulled out the bottle and showed it to her. “I take two caps, like it says,” he told her, and she nodded.
“Ok, that probably made your cramps worse earlier than they had to be, but it’s not strong enough that it would cause other problems. Just to be clear, was there any vomiting?”
Ilya shook his head. “No, but I have not tried to eat today either,” he told her, and she frowned.
“Ok, well, that’s not ideal but isn’t out of the norm for a presentation heat,” she said, then moved along briskly. “When was the last time you used the restroom?”
Ilya could feel himself blushing and scowled again. “Four hours ago, maybe?”
She nodded. “Ok, that’s good, your system should be processing like it’s supposed to,” she said, making another note.
“Ok, so you seem to be stable, and we can have a doctor come look at you if you want, but you aren’t displaying any concerning symptoms so you should be alright to go home, and it’s much better to have a presentation heat somewhere you’re comfortable. Do you have someone who can give you a ride if we call them?” She asked, and Ilya felt himself freeze.
He hadn’t thought this would happen. If he were in Russia, had walked into a clinic, they would have a place for him - people didn’t want a male omega heating in the house (people didn’t want a male omega in the house), so of course any clinic would make sure to have a place. And yes, Canada was much more liberal about these things, there was a reason he’d run from the team, but he realized that when he saw the advertisement for the clinic that he’d subconsciously counted on them holding him until his heat was done before kicking him out.
Did he tell her the truth? It would be stupid to do so, his brain insisted. Maybe Canada was better, but that didn’t mean that telling some stranger he was an omega who no one would miss was a bright idea. But what to do? He couldn’t just leave, he would die on the street, it was just as cold as Moscow and he didn’t even speak the language! Did he know anyone on this fucking continent? He panicked for a moment, but then it hit him - Shane Hollander.
Hollander lived in Ottawa, didn’t he? Ilya didn’t know much about him off the ice, but he’d come to introduce himself, just a couple of days before, had been painfully Canadian…but that was what Ilya needed right now. Someone Canadian, who knew him, who knew what he could do aside from be an omega…yes. This was what he needed to do.
“Uhm. I do not know phone number, but I play hockey with Shane Hollander?” He said, and Marie frowned.
“Oh, I meant more like family? Or another adult?” She asked, and Ilya shrugged, then, under her judgmental look, he felt himself explaining more.
“I am Russian. Many Russians do not like male omegas. I do not want to heat in a home I do not know what they think. So I pick someone who I think will not have problem, who I think lives close enough to help?” He tried, and Marie’s face softened.
“Oh hon, ok, I should have realized that. Well. I don’t know this Shane, but Margie’s son plays hockey, so let me see if she does, ok?” Marie said, and Ilya nodded.
“I’m going to go ask her now, and you just wait here. If you could just do your best with this form, that would be great, but don’t stress too much about it,” she told him, then left, shutting the door behind him and leaving him with his thoughts.
Yuna Hollander was surprised to see Margie Beaucannon’s phone number when she picked up her cell - her son had played with Shane several years ago, and she didn’t remember Shane ever having anything negative to say about him, but he was clearly not going to make it professionally and they’d lost touch, having never been terribly close in the first place.
“Margie, hi, it’s such a surprise to hear from you,” Yuna answered carefully, but her surprise ratcheted up when she heard Margie’s sigh of relief.
“Oh Yuna, I’m so glad you picked up the phone. I’m at work, and there’s this kid here that’s asking for your Shane, and Marie’s terribly worried about him,” she started, and Yuna stifled a sigh, having remembered why she and Margie hadn’t stayed in contact.
“I’m sorry Margie, who’s Marie? And who’s asking for Shane?” She cut in, knowing that if she didn’t head Margie off right away she would talk for ten minutes before coming to the point.
“Oh, of course, Marie only started working here a year ago! She’s one of the intake nurses at the clinic,” Margie explained, and Yuna nodded, remembering now that Margie was a PA at the clinic in Centretown. “And this boy, he came in, and Marie says that he doesn’t think he’s going to be safe at home, and he didn’t know anybody’s phone number but he said he thought Shane might be the teammate that lived closest and could help, and of course Marie didn’t know who Shane was, but she knew Artie plays hockey and so she asked me and of course I remember your Shane, and I know you live in the Glebe, so he’s probably right that you’re the closest teammate’s family, and the poor thing, Marie said he didn’t even have a winter coat when he came in, and apparently his English is terrible,” Margie went on, and Yuna felt her heart clench.
She was lucky - Shane had been drafted by the 67’s, so she hadn’t had to send her baby hours away, hadn’t had to worry about whether his billet family would treat him right, but she knew just how rare that was for players of his caliber. And billet families were supposed to be good, but she knew what kinds of things happened in hockey culture, and she could very well see some poor kid from Quebec getting into a situation that went badly, and it made her so proud that this child trusted Shane enough to give his name when asked if he knew anyone safe. Margie was still talking, but Yuna cut her off.
“Of course we can come help, I’ll have all the important phone numbers and David can translate,” she said quickly, not needing to listen to the rest of Margie’s explanation now that she knew the next steps. “We’ll be there in about ten minutes, thanks for calling Margie, I appreciate it, I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up the phone and yelled up the stairs, “Shane! David! Get your coats and shoes, we need to go get one of Shane’s teammates from Centretown Community Health!” She started pulling on her own jacket as she heard Shane pounding down the stairs, looking concerned.
“Who are we picking up? And why us?” He asked, and Yuna paused, wincing.
“I…don’t actually know,” she said, ignoring David’s raised eyebrow. “Margie Beaucannon called, said he didn’t feel safe at home and didn’t have any phone numbers, and his English was bad, and you know how much she talks so I cut her off once I knew what she needed, and I don’t think she actually told me his name,” she continued, as Shane finished lacing up his boots and followed her out to the car.
The drive over was short, and fairly quiet, Shane obviously trying to figure out which of his French-speaking teammates might be waiting at the clinic and keeping up a running commentary that Yuna mostly tuned out. She pulled into the street parking at the clinic and the three of them walked in, Shane trailing behind his parents with concern written all over his face.
“Hi, Margie called me,” Yuna began, and Sam at the front desk nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh yes, she told me! It’s so good of you to help out, poor kid looked like he was really going through it,” he said, then picked up his phone to dial to the back. Before he could, though, Margie came through the doors, smiling at Yuna and waving them back.
“I thought I heard you out there! It’s good to see you again, Yuna, even though this isn’t the best of circumstances. But it’s so good you’re here to help, we’re really not equipped for this and you’ve always been so organized, I know you’ll know what to do with the poor boy,” she said, leading them down the hallway and knocking on a closed door briefly, not waiting for an answer before she pushed it open.
“Hello dear, I’m Margie, and I’ve got your teammate and his family here to help. I’m going to step out now and give you some time, I’m sure you want privacy!” She said quickly, then stepped out of the doorway, ushering the Hollanders in and closing it behind them.
Shane hadn’t been sure which of his teammates he was going to see, or what had happened, but even with all the scenarios he’d run through in his mind on the drive over he had never considered this - Ilya Rozanov, slumped in one of the uncomfortable clinic chairs, his hoodie a wet pile of fabric on the ground beside him, looking pale and exhausted and worn thin.
“Rozanov?! What in the world?” He exclaimed, as both his parent’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Why on earth are you here?”
Ilya hadn’t meant to start dozing, but he’d been awake and running on adrenaline all day long, and the sitting and waiting had gotten to him. He jerked awake when the door opened, but he hadn’t parsed what the lady had said before she vanished and Shane Hollander’s mother strode into the room. He pushed himself up in the chair, trying and failing to school his expression into anything other than exhausted resignation.
“Hollander. I am…not going back to Russia,” he said slowly, and noticing how the expressions on all three Hollander’s faces became even more incredulous. “I did not plan to call you, but this clinic, they ask who can take me home, and I remember you live in Ottawa and are very Canadian, and I need very Canadian, so I say your name because I do not know anyone else in this country.”
“Not going back to Russia!” Shane exclaimed, speaking over his mother’s sharp exclamation of surprise. “What happened, why, you just won the Prospect Cup?!”
Ilya opened his mouth to answer, but a cramp cut him off, hitting him so hard he doubled over with a groan. He breathed for a second, screwing up his courage and waiting for the wave of pain to pass, before picking up his head and answering, “Well, in Russia, male omegas do not play hockey, so that does not matter. And I would rather die in street in Canada than go back to Russia and have heat on the plane, but I would rather not die at all, yes?”
Shane looked horrified, “But you can’t quit hockey!” He blurted out, and, despite the terribleness of the day, Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. He had made the right choice, it was clear - this was one person who would not think of him as an omega first.