Shane made it through the game.
Barely, but he made it.
He'd kept his distance on the ice as much as possible—difficult when they were on the same line, when Coach kept pairing them together because their chemistry was "undeniable." Every shift, Shane focused on the puck, on positioning, on reading the play. He didn't look at Rozanov unless tactically necessary. He didn't breathe too deeply when they were close. He kept his body under control through sheer force of will and nine years of practice at suppression.
The scent was there—cedar and something else, something that made his hindbrain light up with want—but the movement helped. The cold air helped. The focus required to play professional hockey helped.
He could manage this. He could be on the same team as Ilya Rozanov and keep his body in line.
That's what Shane told himself as the final buzzer sounded and they skated off the ice, victorious.
The locker room was chaos in the way it always was after a win—loud voices, laughter, the sharp smell of sweat and ice melt and too many bodies in too small a space. Shane went to his stall and started unlacing his skates, keeping his head down, letting the noise wash over him without engaging.
He had a system. Skates first, then shin guards, then—
Someone sat down beside him.
The scent hit him like a freight train.
Cedar. That unnamed thing. Concentrated, overwhelming, inescapable in the enclosed space. Shane's hands froze on his laces. His body responded instantly—heat flooding his core, slickness beginning between his legs, his cock starting to harden in his cup. No. No, not here, not now, not surrounded by teammates.
"Good game." Rozanov's voice, accented and warm, far too close. "That assist in the third period—beautiful pass. I almost missed it."
Shane's fingers wouldn't move. The slickness was increasing, his body producing it with horrifying efficiency. He could feel it gathering, wet and wrong and impossible to hide if it soaked through his compression shorts. His cock was definitely hard now, straining against his cup. The scent was everywhere, filling his nose, his lungs, seeping into his brain.
He forced himself to turn his head and look at Rozanov.
The alpha was smiling at him, genuine and open, still in full gear except for his helmet and gloves. His dark hair was sweat-damp, curling slightly at his temples. His eyes were bright with post-game adrenaline. He looked—Shane's brain scrambled for the word—happy. Pleased. Like sitting next to Shane was something he wanted to do.
"You almost missed it," Shane repeated.
The words came out flat. Literal. His brain was too busy trying to control his body's revolt to process social nuance or formulate an appropriate response.
Rozanov's smile faltered slightly. "Yes, but I didn't. You put it right on my tape."
Shane stared at him. The compliment made sense objectively—he had made that pass, Rozanov had scored—but Shane didn't understand why Rozanov was telling him this now, sitting beside him, close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating from his body.
More slick. His cock throbbed. The scent was suffocating.
"Okay," Shane said.
Rozanov blinked. His smile disappeared entirely, replaced by confusion and something that might have been offense. He studied Shane's face for a long moment, and Shane watched him arrive at a conclusion: rude. Shane was being rude.
"Right," Rozanov said slowly. He stood up, and the movement sent another wave of scent toward Shane. "I'll just—"
"I need to shower."
Shane didn't wait for a response. He grabbed his towel and shower supplies and headed for the bathroom with mechanical precision, not looking at anyone, not making eye contact. His legs felt unsteady. Every step produced more slick. His cock was still hard, obvious even through his jock and compression shorts if anyone looked closely enough.
No one was looking. They were all caught up in their own post-game routines, their own conversations.
Shane locked himself in a shower stall and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it. He stripped out of his gear with shaking hands, and the evidence of his body's betrayal was immediately visible—his compression shorts were damp with slick, his cock fully erect and leaking.
Nine years. Nine years of suppressants, of careful management, of passing as beta without a single slip.
One locker room conversation with Ilya Rozanov, and his body had tried to give away everything.
Shane leaned his forehead against the tile wall and tried to breathe through the panic crawling up his throat. The hot water beat down on his back. The slickness continued, his body still producing it despite the distance, despite the closed door, despite every mental command to stop.
He didn't understand what was happening.
He didn't understand why his suppressants were failing now, with this specific person, when they'd held for nearly a decade.
He didn't understand the way his chest felt tight, or why his hands wouldn't stop shaking, or what he was supposed to do about the fact that he had to see Rozanov again tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day for the rest of the season.
Shane closed his eyes and started counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. Four.
The physical sensations would pass. They had to pass.
He would figure this out.
He would fix this.
He had to.
Shane's apartment was too quiet.
He'd driven home on autopilot, showered again even though he'd already showered at the rink, and now he was standing in his kitchen staring at his meal prep containers in the fridge without actually seeing them.
He should eat. Post-game meal. Protein and carbs, measured portions, same as always.
He pulled out a container. Put it back. Pulled out a different one.
His hands were still shaking.
The scent memory wouldn't leave. It sat in the back of his throat, in his sinuses, like Rozanov had marked the inside of his skull. Warm and cedar-dark and something else Shane didn't have words for. His cock had finally gone down in the car, but his skin still felt too tight, too hot, like his body was waiting for something.
Shane closed the fridge.
He needed to move. Needed to burn this off, whatever this was. Needed his body to be tired enough that it would stop.
The gym would be empty this late. Most of the guys went home after games, spent time with their families or went out. Shane had been there at eleven PM enough times that the night staff knew him, didn't ask questions.
He changed into clean workout clothes and drove back across the city.
The gym was nearly empty. One guy on the bench press in the far corner, headphones in. The night attendant barely looked up from her phone when Shane scanned his card.
Shane headed for the cardio section. Treadmill. He could run until his legs gave out, until his brain finally shut up.
He stepped onto the machine, pulled his own headphones on, and started the program. Slow warmup, then he'd increase the speed until it hurt.
The first few minutes were fine. His breathing evened out. His stride found its rhythm. The music in his ears was loud enough to drown out most of his thoughts.
Then someone stepped onto the treadmill directly across from him.
Shane's eyes flicked up automatically—just a quick check of his surroundings, the same way he tracked players on the ice—and his stomach dropped.
Ilya Rozanov.
Of course. Of fucking course.
Rozanov was looking down at his treadmill's console, pressing buttons, hadn't noticed Shane yet. He was wearing a grey t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and black shorts, and even across the space between machines, even with the gym's industrial air conditioning blasting, Shane could smell him.
Shane's heart rate spiked. The treadmill beeped—his monitor thought he was pushing too hard.
He looked down at his own console. Focused on the numbers. 6.2 mph. Heart rate 152. He could increase the incline. Focus on that.
He pressed the button. The treadmill angled upward.
In his peripheral vision, Rozanov started jogging. Easy pace, relaxed. Then he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Rozanov's face lit up—an actual smile, bright and surprised, like running into Shane here was the best thing that had happened to him all day. He raised one hand in a wave.
Shane looked back down at his console.
His heart rate was 165 now. The incline was at 4.0. He increased his speed.
He could feel Rozanov still looking at him. Could feel the weight of that attention like a physical thing.
Then Rozanov was gesturing—Shane caught it in his peripheral vision, a motion like take off your headphones, like he wanted to talk.
Shane turned up his music.
Loud enough that the bass vibrated in his skull. Loud enough that he couldn't hear anything else, couldn't think about anything except the burn in his legs and the pounding rhythm and the numbers on the screen in front of him.
He didn't look up again.
His body was screaming at him. His cock filling. The heat spreading through his abdomen, his thighs, his chest.
He kept running.
In his peripheral vision, Rozanov was still there. Still jogging. Shane didn't know if he was still looking, didn't let himself check.
The treadmill beeped again. Heart rate 178.
Shane increased the speed.
His breathing was ragged now, his legs burning, sweat soaking through his shirt. The music was so loud it hurt. He focused on the pain in his muscles, the ache in his lungs, anything except the scent that kept finding him even through the gym's recycled air, even through his own sweat.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five.
Finally, Rozanov's treadmill slowed. Shane heard it—the change in the machine's rhythm—even through his headphones.
He still didn't look up.
He kept his eyes locked on his console as Rozanov stepped off the treadmill, as he walked past Shane's machine toward the weight section. Shane's entire body tracked him anyway, some animal part of his brain that wouldn't shut off, that knew exactly where Rozanov was even when Shane refused to look.
The scent faded.
Not gone. Still there, clinging to the air, but distant enough that Shane could breathe without his body trying to betray him.
He ran for another ten minutes, until his legs were shaking and his heart rate monitor was beeping constantly, until he was sure Rozanov had moved to a different section of the gym.
Then he slowed the treadmill, stopped it, and got off.
He didn't look around. Didn't check where Rozanov was.
He walked straight to the exit, scanned his card, and left.
In his car, Shane sat with his hands on the steering wheel and his forehead pressed against his knuckles.
His compression shorts were damp again. His cock was hard again. His whole body was shaking—from the run, from the adrenaline, from whatever the fuck was happening to him.
He'd avoided Rozanov at the gym.
He'd have to see him at practice tomorrow.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Shane closed his eyes and tried to count his breaths, but the numbers wouldn't come.
Shane got to the rink at five-thirty the next morning.
Earlier than usual. Early enough that the building was still mostly empty, the hallways quiet except for the hum of the zamboni in the arena.
He'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he could smell it—cedar and something darker, something that made his body react even in memory. He'd jerked off twice in the shower before leaving his apartment, desperate and angry, and it hadn't helped.
His body still felt wrong. Oversensitive. Like his skin was waiting for something.
He taped his stick in the locker room, alone. Stretched on the rubber flooring. Put his gear on piece by piece, focusing on each strap, each buckle, the familiar weight and pressure.
By the time the rest of the team started arriving, Shane was already on the ice.
He skated hard. Edges, crossovers, tight turns in the corners. His legs burned. Good. He needed them to burn. Needed to be too tired for his body to do anything except what he told it to.
"Hollander!"
Coach's voice echoed across the ice.
Shane stopped at the blue line, breathing hard.
The rest of the team was filing out now. Rozanov was near the back, helmet tucked under his arm, talking to Lemieux. He laughed at something Lemieux said, easy and relaxed, like he hadn't been at the gym at eleven o'clock last night.
Shane looked away.
"Partner drills today," Coach called. "Two-on-ones, then breakout patterns. Hollander, you're with Rozanov."
Shane's stomach dropped.
He didn't move.
"Let's go, let's go!" Coach clapped his hands. "Line up!"
Shane skated toward the line forming at center ice. Rozanov was already there, gliding to a stop beside him.
"Good morning," Rozanov said.
Shane didn't look at him. "Morning."
"You are here early today."
"Yeah."
"You like to skate alone?"
Shane adjusted his gloves. "Sometimes."
The scent was there. Faint, muted by the cold air and the smell of ice and rubber, but there. Shane's body recognized it immediately—a low pulse of heat in his gut, the beginning of slick.
No.
Not here. Not now.
He clenched his jaw and focused on Coach, who was setting up cones at the far end of the ice.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach blew his whistle. "Two-on-one. Offense works the puck, tries to create a shooting lane. Defense disrupts. Three reps each, then switch. Go!"
Shane and Rozanov skated to the line.
"You want to start on offense or defense?" Rozanov asked.
"Doesn't matter."
"Offense, then." Rozanov grinned. "I like to score."
Shane said nothing.
They lined up. Lemieux was playing defense for the first rep. Coach blew the whistle, and Shane and Rozanov took off.
Rozanov had the puck. Shane drove hard toward the net, calling for the pass, but Rozanov held it, deking left, then right, drawing Lemieux out of position before sliding the puck across the ice.
Shane one-timed it. The puck hit the back of the net.
"Nice!" Rozanov skated over, tapping Shane's shin pad with his stick. "Good shot."
Shane skated back to the line.
They ran it again. This time Shane had the puck. He passed to Rozanov at the top of the circle, then drove to the net for the rebound. Rozanov's shot was hard and high, and Shane tipped it in.
"Yes!" Rozanov's voice was bright, excited. "You see that? We are good together."
Shane's cock twitched.
He skated back to the line, breathing through his mouth.
Third rep. Rozanov had the puck again, but this time he tried to get fancy—a no-look pass that went wide. Shane had to stretch to reach it, nearly lost his edge, and the shot went high.
"Fuck," Rozanov muttered. "Sorry. Bad pass."
"It's fine."
They switched to defense.
Now Shane had to stay close to Rozanov, had to mirror his movements, had to be aware of where he was every second. The scent was stronger when they were moving together, when Rozanov cut in front of him or brushed past him going for the puck.
Shane's thighs were damp.
He focused on the drill. Stick position. Gap control. Angling the offense toward the boards.
"You are very fast," Rozanov said during the break between reps. "Faster than you look."
Shane didn't know what that meant. "Okay."
"I mean—" Rozanov gestured vaguely. "You do not look like speedster, but you are quick. Good acceleration."
"Thanks."
"You have been with Ottawa for three years?"
"Four."
"Four. And before that?"
"Juniors. Then AHL."
"Which team?"
Shane glanced at him. Rozanov was watching him, curious, like he actually wanted to know.
"Binghamton," Shane said.
"Ah. Impressive."
"Yeah."
Coach blew the whistle. "Next group!"
Shane skated back into position, relieved.
But the drills kept going. Two-on-ones became breakout patterns—Shane and Rozanov working together to move the puck out of the defensive zone, passing back and forth, timing their movements. Then it was three-on-two rushes, and Coach kept them on the same line.
Every time they skated close, Shane's body reacted. Every time Rozanov's glove brushed his arm or their shoulders collided going for the puck, Shane felt it—heat, slick, the slow throb of his cock pressing against his cup.
He was sweating under his gear. Not from exertion. From the effort of holding still, of not reacting, of pretending everything was fine.
"You okay?" Rozanov asked during a water break.
Shane was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
"Fine."
"You look tired."
"I'm fine."
Rozanov tilted his head, studying him. "You do not talk much."
Shane straightened. "I'm here to practice."
"Yes, but—" Rozanov smiled, like he thought Shane was joking. "We are teammates now. We should know each other, yes?"
"I know you."
"You know my name. You do not know me."
Shane didn't know what to say to that. He squeezed his water bottle, took a drink, and skated back to the line.
Rozanov followed.
"I am from Moscow," Rozanov said, like Shane had asked. "Well—outside Moscow. Small town. Very cold. You are from...?"
"Here."
"Ottawa?"
"Yeah."
"You grow up playing hockey here?"
"Yeah."
"That is good. Home team." Rozanov grinned. "You have family here?"
Shane's jaw tightened. "Can we just do the drill?"
Rozanov blinked.
The smile faded.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Of course."
He skated ahead, and Shane followed, hating himself.
He wasn't trying to be rude. He just—he couldn't do this. Couldn't make small talk, couldn't pretend to be normal, couldn't focus on anything except keeping his body under control.
The rest of practice was worse.
Rozanov stopped trying to talk to him, but he was still there—right there, close enough that Shane could smell him, close enough that their skates nearly tangled when they turned, close enough that Shane's body wouldn't stop reacting.
By the time Coach blew the final whistle, Shane's legs were shaking.
Not from the drills.
From the effort of holding everything in.
"Good work today," Coach called. "Hit the showers. We've got video review at eleven."
Shane skated off the ice.
He didn't wait for Rozanov. Didn't look back.
In the locker room, he stripped off his gear as fast as he could, ignoring the voices around him, the laughter, the sound of Lemieux chirping someone about a missed shot.
He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers.
Alone.
He turned the water as hot as it would go and stood under the spray, eyes closed, trying to breathe.
His cock was still half-hard. His thighs were slick. His whole body felt like it was vibrating, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out.
He couldn't do this.
He couldn't be on the ice with Rozanov every day, couldn't be this close, couldn't keep pretending his body wasn't betraying him.
But he didn't have a choice.
They were linemates now.
Shane pressed his forehead against the tile and tried not to think about tomorrow.
Ilya Rozanov prided himself on his ability to befriend anyone.
It was a skill he'd honed over years of moving between countries, between leagues, between locker rooms full of strangers who became brothers by season's end. He knew how to read people, how to find the thread that would unravel their defenses. A joke here, a compliment there, genuine interest in the right moment—it was like hockey itself, all about timing and positioning.
The Ottawa Centaurs had been no different. Within his first week, he'd had half the team laughing at his stories about playing in the KHL. By the second week, even the quieter guys—Marcus Chen, who barely spoke to anyone, and Liam Foster, who seemed perpetually exhausted—had warmed to him. Even Hayden Pike, the team captain with his serious eyes and the weight of leadership on his shoulders, had clapped him on the back after practice and said, "Good to have you here, Roz."
Everyone liked him.
Everyone except Shane Hollander.
Ilya noticed it first in the small things. The way Shane's jaw would tighten when Ilya entered a room. The way his gaze would slide past Ilya as if he were made of glass, something to look through rather than at. In the locker room, Shane dressed quickly, efficiently, his movements economical and precise. He never lingered for the jokes and the chirping that followed practice, never joined the groups that formed naturally around shared laughter.
But it wasn't just that Shane was quiet or reserved. Ilya had played with plenty of quiet guys. This was different. This was deliberate.
Still, Ilya kept trying.
"You have siblings?" he asked one day after practice, catching Shane by the stick rack. It was a safe question, an easy one. Everyone had family stories.
"No." Shane didn't even look up from the tape he was unwinding from his stick blade.
Ilya waited for more—an elaboration, a follow-up question, anything. Nothing came. Shane tossed the tape in the trash and walked away, his gear bag slung over one shoulder.
A few days later, Ilya tried again. They were in the training room, Shane on one table with ice wrapped around his knee, Ilya on another getting his shoulder worked on by the team's massage therapist.
"You were born in Canada, yes?" Ilya asked, keeping his tone light, conversational.
Shane's eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. "Yes."
"Where in Canada?"
"Ontario."
The word dropped like a stone into still water. No ripples, no expansion. Just the fact, flat and final.
Another week passed. They were on the ice for morning skate, running drills, and Ilya found himself paired with Shane for a two-on-one exercise. It should have been an opportunity—they moved well together, actually, their timing surprisingly synchronized despite the lack of chemistry off the ice. Shane anticipated Ilya's passes, and Ilya found the spaces Shane created almost instinctively.
Afterward, as they glided back to the line, Ilya tried once more.
"Who is your favorite team?" he asked. "Growing up, I mean. Before this one."
Shane's expression didn't change. His breathing was barely elevated despite the hard skating. "This one."
"But before—"
"This one," Shane repeated, and skated away to join the next drill.
Ilya stood there for a moment, stick resting on his knees, watching Shane's back. The answer was either a lie or a deflection, and either way, it was a door slammed shut. This one. As if he'd never been a kid with a favorite player, a favorite jersey, dreams of making it to the NHL. As if his entire existence had begun the moment he'd signed with Ottawa.
"You coming, Roz?" Hayden called from center ice.
Ilya pushed off, forcing a grin. "Yes, yes, I am coming."
But the confusion sat heavy in his chest. Each short answer, each deflection, felt like a small rejection. Not angry, not hostile—just... absent. As if Ilya weren't worth the effort of full sentences.
He'd played with guys who didn't like him before. There was always someone—a rival from another team, a player whose style clashed with his, someone who thought Ilya was too flashy or too Russian or too much. But those guys usually made their dislike known. They'd chirp at him, challenge him, give him something to push against.
Shane gave him nothing.
It was worse, somehow.
The invitation to Hayden's cookout came in the group chat on a Thursday afternoon. Ilya was in his apartment, unpacking the last of his boxes—he'd been in Ottawa for nearly a month now, and it was past time to make the place feel like home. His phone buzzed, and he picked it up to see Hayden's message:
BBQ at my place Saturday, 2pm. Bring food or drinks. Address below.
The responses came quickly. Marcus was bringing beer. Liam was bringing his famous potato salad—or so he claimed; the chirping started immediately about whether it was actually famous or just something he'd made once. Tyler Brennan said he'd grab burgers and hot dogs.
Ilya typed out a quick response: I will bring something good. What do people usually bring?
Hayden's reply came a few minutes later: Whatever you want, man. Shane's on drink duty because every time he brings food it's too fucking healthy. Last time he brought quinoa salad. QUINOA. At a barbecue.
Several laughing emojis followed from other teammates.
Ilya stared at his phone, reading the message again. Too healthy. He thought about Shane's body, the lean muscle and the discipline evident in every movement. He thought about the protein shakes Shane drank after practice, the way he never touched the pizza when someone ordered it for the team, the Tupperware containers he brought from home with carefully portioned meals.
An idea began to form.
Shane cared about what he put in his body. That wasn't a flaw; it was dedication. And if Shane always brought healthy food, maybe that was something Ilya could use—not to mock, but to connect. To show that he noticed, that he paid attention, that he respected Shane's choices.
And maybe, just maybe, he could share something of himself too.
Saturday morning, Ilya woke early and went to the grocery store. He moved through the aisles with purpose, selecting chicken breasts, brown rice, vegetables for roasting. Simple, clean, healthy. The kind of meal Shane would approve of.
Then he went to the Russian market on the east side of the city, the one he'd found his second week in Ottawa. The woman behind the counter recognized him now, greeted him in Russian with a warm smile. He bought ground pork, fresh dill, onions, and pre-made pelmeni dough because he didn't have time to make it from scratch.
Back in his apartment, he set to work.
The chicken and rice came together easily—seasoned simply with lemon, garlic, and herbs, the vegetables roasted until they were caramelized at the edges. He packed it carefully in a large glass dish, the kind that would be easy to serve from.
The pelmeni took longer. He made the filling the traditional way, the way his grandmother had taught him: pork and onion, seasoned with salt and pepper and a touch of dill. He folded each dumpling carefully, pinching the edges to seal them, his fingers remembering the motion even though it had been months since he'd made them. When they were done, he boiled them in batches, then pan-fried them until they were golden and crispy on the outside.
These, he packed in another dish, still warm.
Two meals. One to show Shane he understood, that he noticed what mattered to him. One to share a piece of home, a piece of himself.
He felt pleased with the plan, almost giddy. It was perfect. Shane couldn't ignore this, couldn't brush it off with a one-word answer. Food was a language everyone spoke.
Hayden's house was in a quiet neighborhood, a two-story colonial with a big backyard. Cars lined the street when Ilya arrived, and he could hear music and voices drifting from behind the house. He parked and was reaching for the dishes when he noticed the truck beside him.
Shane's car.
Of course. Ilya had parked right next to him without even realizing it.
He grabbed both dishes, balancing them carefully, and was trying to figure out how to close his car door with his elbow when Shane appeared beside him.
"Here," Shane said, and reached for one of the dishes before Ilya could respond.
Ilya blinked, surprised. It was the first time Shane had voluntarily done anything for him, the first gesture that wasn't forced by team obligations or proximity. Shane's hands were steady as he took the dish with the chicken and rice, and for a moment, their fingers brushed.
"Thank you," Ilya said, trying not to sound as startled as he felt.
Shane just nodded and started walking toward the house.
Ilya followed, his heart beating a little faster. This was good. This was progress. Shane was helping him, walking beside him, not ten feet ahead or deliberately lagging behind. They moved up the driveway together, and Ilya could smell the grill already going in the backyard, could hear Hayden's laugh rising above the other voices.
"What did you bring?" Shane asked.
The question was casual, almost normal. Ilya felt a surge of warmth in his chest. Shane was asking him something, actually engaging. This was the moment he'd been working toward.
"Chicken and rice," Ilya said, nodding toward the dish Shane was carrying. Then he grinned, unable to help himself, pleased with his own cleverness. "And pelmeni." He added a wink, the gesture playful, conspiratorial. See? I noticed. I paid attention. I made something for you, and something for me, and now we can share both.
Shane stopped walking.
Ilya took another step before he realized Shane wasn't beside him anymore. He turned back, confused.
Shane's expression had changed. The neutral mask he usually wore had cracked, and underneath was something Ilya couldn't quite read. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard. The dish in his hands seemed suddenly heavy, his grip on it white-knuckled.
"Shane?" Ilya said.
Shane didn't respond. He just stared at Ilya for a long moment, something dark and complicated moving behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked to the side door of the house, yanked it open, and disappeared inside.
Ilya stood in the driveway, holding his dish of pelmeni, the warmth of them seeping through the glass into his palms.
What had just happened?
He replayed the conversation in his head. What did you bring? Chicken and rice. And pelmeni. That was it. That was all he'd said. And Shane had looked at him like—like what? Like Ilya had insulted him? Like he'd said something wrong?
But he hadn't. He'd been thoughtful. He'd been considerate. He'd made healthy food because Shane cared about that, and he'd made Russian food because he wanted to share something of himself, wanted Shane to know him beyond the surface level of teammates who passed each other in the locker room.
Ilya walked slowly toward the backyard, his earlier excitement curdled into confusion. He could hear the party in full swing now—music, laughter, the sizzle of meat on the grill. Hayden spotted him and waved him over, and Ilya forced a smile, forced himself to join the group.
But his eyes kept drifting, searching for Shane.
He found him eventually, standing at the far edge of the yard with a beer in his hand, talking to Marcus. Or rather, Marcus was talking, and Shane was nodding occasionally, his expression back to its usual neutral mask. He didn't look at Ilya. Didn't acknowledge him at all.
The chicken and rice sat on the food table, the dish Shane had carried in. Someone had already taken a serving. But Shane was nowhere near it.
Ilya's pelmeni sat beside it, still untouched.
He stood there with a plate of food he couldn't taste, surrounded by teammates who were laughing and joking, and felt more alone than he had since arriving in Ottawa.
He'd been so sure. So certain that he'd figured it out, that he'd found the key to unlocking whatever wall Shane had built around himself. He'd noticed the healthy eating, had respected it, had tried to meet Shane where he was while also offering something of himself in return.
And somehow, it had made everything worse.
Ilya watched Shane across the yard, watched the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he held himself apart even in the middle of the team. And for the first time since he'd started trying to befriend Shane Hollander, Ilya wondered if maybe some doors weren't meant to be opened.
But even as the thought formed, he dismissed it.
No. Everyone could be reached. Everyone wanted connection, even if they didn't know it, even if they fought against it.
He just had to figure out how.
The confusion sat heavy in his chest, though, mixed with something that felt uncomfortably like hurt. He'd tried so hard. He'd paid attention, had noticed the details, had made an effort that went beyond casual friendliness. And Shane had looked at him like he'd done something unforgivable.
Ilya didn't understand.
"Rozanov!" Hayden's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You look like someone just told you hockey's canceled."
Ilya turned to find Hayden and Marcus approaching, each carrying two beers. Marcus pressed one into Ilya's hand without asking.
"Drink," Marcus said. "You're at a cookout, not a funeral."
The cold bottle was a relief against his palm. Ilya took a long pull, letting the bitter taste ground him back in the moment. "Sorry. Just thinking."
"About Hollander?" Hayden asked, and there was something knowing in his tone. Not unkind, just... aware. "Don't take it personally. He's like that with everyone."
"Is he?" Ilya couldn't help the question.
Marcus and Hayden exchanged a look.
"Yeah," Marcus said finally. "Shane's... Shane. Good guy, great player, just doesn't really do the team bonding thing."
"He came, though," Hayden added, like this was significant. "That's actually huge for him. He's my best friend but his social skills are zero."
Ilya wanted to ask more, wanted to understand, but before he could formulate the question, a woman appeared at Hayden's side. She was petite and pretty, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and an easy smile.
"You must be Ilya," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Jackie. Hayden's wife. Welcome to Ottawa."
Her handshake was firm, her smile genuine, and something in Ilya's chest loosened slightly. "Thank you. Is nice to meet you."
"Hayden says you've been tearing it up in practice," Jackie continued. "He's been talking about that pass you made in practice yesterday for like an hour."
"It was a good pass," Hayden said defensively, but he was grinning.
"It was adequate pass," Ilya corrected, falling into the familiar rhythm of chirping. "You almost missed it."
Marcus barked out a laugh. "Oh, I like him."
The conversation flowed easily after that. Jackie asked about his apartment, whether he'd found the good coffee shops yet, if he needed recommendations for anything. Hayden and Marcus debated the upcoming season, pulled Ilya into their predictions, argued good-naturedly about line combinations.
It was comfortable. Easy. The kind of social warmth Ilya had always been good at, the kind he craved.
"Rozanov!" Another voice called out. Ilya turned to see Lemieux, one of the veteran defensemen, approaching with a plate piled high. "Dude, these dumplings are incredible. What are they called again?"
"Pelmeni," Ilya said, and he couldn't help the pleased warmth that spread through him.
"Pel-meni," Lemieux repeated carefully. "My wife's gonna want the recipe. She's really into cooking."
"Is not so hard," Ilya said. "Just take time. The dough, you must roll very thin, and the meat—"
"Wait, you made the filling too?" Lemieux looked genuinely impressed. "From scratch?"
"Of course from scratch. How else?"
Over the next hour, it kept happening. Teammates would approach, compliment the pelmeni, ask questions. Some wanted to know about the recipe. Others asked about Russian food in general, whether he missed it, what else his grandmother used to make. A few just wanted to say they were good, that they'd grabbed seconds, that their wives or girlfriends were demanding to know where they came from.
Each conversation was a small warmth, a thread of connection. This was what Ilya loved about food, about sharing the things that mattered to him. It was a language everyone spoke, a way to say this is who I am, this is where I come from without having to find the right words.
He was in the middle of explaining to Dubois the difference between pelmeni and vareniki when Hayden jogged over, looking half-annoyed and half-amused.
"I'm about to fight Lemieux," Hayden announced. "He's eating all your dumplings. I went to grab more and there's like six left."
"There were a hundred," Ilya said, startled.
"Yeah, well, they're going fast." Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. "Seriously, man, those are amazing. You gotta make them again."
"Maybe for team dinner," Ilya suggested.
"Hell yes." Hayden was already heading back toward the food table, moving with purpose.
Ilya watched him go, something warm and settled in his chest. Good. Exactly what he'd hoped for when he'd agreed to the trade—not just a team, but a family. People who welcomed him, who wanted to know him, who appreciated what he offered.
He let himself relax into it, into the afternoon sun and the easy conversation and the sound of laughter across the yard. Jackie introduced him to more wives and girlfriends. Marcus's boyfriend showed up and immediately started grilling Ilya about Moscow, about what the hockey culture was like there, whether he missed it.
The warmth in his chest deepened. Exactly what he needed.
But even as he laughed at someone's joke, even as he accepted another round of compliments on the pelmeni, even as he felt himself settling into this team, this city, this new life—there was an awareness underneath it all.
Shane had disappeared.
Ilya didn't know when, exactly. Hadn't seen him leave. But at some point in the last hour, he'd looked around and realized Shane wasn't there anymore. Wasn't standing awkwardly by the fence, wasn't hovering near the food table, wasn't anywhere in the yard.
Gone.
And the chicken and rice Ilya had made—the careful, thoughtful gesture that was supposed to bridge the gap between them—was probably still sitting on the food table, untouched and unwanted.
Everyone else had taken what Ilya offered, had welcomed it, had welcomed him.
Everyone except the one person he'd most wanted to reach.
Ilya excused himself from the conversation with Jackie and Marcus's boyfriend, something about needing to use the bathroom. He didn't know why he was looking, what he'd say if he found Shane, or if Shane would even want to be found.
But he couldn't quite let it go.
He checked the kitchen first—empty except for someone's kid raiding the chip bowl. The hallway bathroom was occupied. He was about to give up, head back outside, when he heard a soft thump from the living room.
Ilya paused in the doorway.
Shane was sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him. Hayden's dog—a golden retriever whose name Ilya couldn't remember—was sprawled across Shane's lap, belly-up, tongue lolling out in bliss as Shane scratched behind its ears with one hand.
In Shane's other hand was a plate.
Two pelmeni sat on one side of it. On the other side, the chicken and rice container was mostly empty, just a few grains left at the bottom.
Ilya's chest did something complicated.
Shane looked up, noticed him standing there. His hand stilled on the dog's fur for just a second, then resumed the steady scratching. He didn't say anything. Didn't smile or frown or give any indication whether Ilya's presence was welcome or not.
Ilya stepped into the room, moved slowly to the other end of the couch, and sat down on the floor. The dog's tail thumped once against the hardwood but didn't leave Shane's lap.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Shane said, "This chicken and rice is really flavorful."
His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Not a compliment, exactly. Just an observation.
Ilya felt something loosen in his chest. He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth. "Thank you."
He wanted to say more—wanted to point out that Shane had eaten most of it, wanted to ask if he liked the pelmeni too, wanted to understand why Shane had disappeared and why he was here alone with the dog. But something stopped him. Some instinct that told him Shane was like a skittish animal, easily spooked by too much attention, too many questions.
So Ilya just said, "Thank you," and left it at that.
Shane picked up one of the pelmeni with his fork, took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"The pelmeni is good too," Shane said after a moment.
Ilya's smile widened, warmth spreading through his chest. "Thank you," he said again, softer this time.
He ate methodically, the same way he did everything else. Chewed thoroughly. Swallowed. Another bite. The dog shifted in his lap, resettling with a contented groan.
Ilya watched him eat.
He didn't understand Shane. Didn't understand why Shane had disappeared from the cookout, why he was sitting alone in a quiet living room instead of outside with the team. Didn't understand why Shane had taken the food Ilya made but hadn't acknowledged it, hadn't said anything, had just... left.
But Shane had taken it.
Had eaten it, was still eating it, with the same careful attention he gave to everything.
And he'd said it was flavorful.
It wasn't much. It wasn't the breakthrough Ilya had been hoping for, wasn't the beginning of friendship or understanding or whatever it was Ilya had been trying to build between them.
But it was something.
Shane finished the last bite, set the fork down on the plate with a quiet clink. He went back to petting the dog, his expression unchanged—calm, focused, present in a way that had nothing to do with Ilya at all.
And somehow, that was okay.
Ilya leaned his head back against the couch, let himself just sit there in the quiet living room, the sounds of the cookout muffled and distant through the walls. The dog's tail thumped lazily against the floor. Shane's hand moved in steady, repetitive strokes through golden fur.
Shane kept his hand moving through the dog's fur. Repetitive motion. Scratch behind the ears, down the neck, along the spine. The dog made a satisfied sound and shifted closer.
He was wet.
Not a little. Not the faint dampness that sometimes happened in the locker room when Ilya stood too close, when their shoulders brushed during drills. This was slick, the kind that soaked through his underwear, that made him hyperaware of every shift of his body against the couch cushions.
Ilya was right there. Less than two feet away. Close enough that Shane could smell him—not the suppressant-scrubbed nothingness Shane carried, but actual scent. Alpha. Something warm and cedar-like with an edge Shane couldn't name. It filled the small living room, filled Shane's lungs every time he breathed.
His heart was doing the thing again. The too-fast thing. The thing that made his chest feel tight and his hands want to shake.
He focused on the dog. Golden fur, soft under his palm. Warm body, solid and real. The dog didn't care that Shane was sitting here wet and useless, didn't care that Ilya Rozanov was on the same couch, breathing the same air.
The suppressants were working. That mattered—that was what kept him safe.
If they weren't—if Ilya could smell what Shane's body was doing right now, the slick and the arousal and whatever the fuck else omegas broadcast when they were like this—
Shane's hand stilled in the dog's fur.
The dog whined softly, nudged his palm.
He started petting again. Steady. Mechanical.
Ilya shifted beside him. Not much. Just a small adjustment, settling deeper into the couch. His thigh was maybe six inches from Shane's. Maybe less.
Shane could feel the heat of him.
He should leave. That was the smart thing. The safe thing. Stand up, take his plate to the kitchen, go back outside or get in his car and drive home. He'd eaten the food. He'd done the polite thing. There was no reason to sit here.
Except he didn't know if leaving now would be rude.
Ilya had just sat down. Had just leaned back like he was planning to stay for a while. If Shane got up immediately, would that be—what? An insult? A rejection?
Shane didn't know.
He didn't know what Ilya expected. If this was normal, sitting together in quiet like this, or if there were rules Shane was supposed to follow. Conversation, maybe. People usually wanted conversation.
But Ilya wasn't talking.
Ilya was just... sitting there. Head back against the couch, eyes half-closed. Relaxed in a way Shane had never been relaxed in his entire life.
Shane's underwear was soaked.
He kept petting the dog.
His body felt hot. Not feverish, not sick. Just warm all over, like his skin was too tight, like there was something under the surface trying to get out. His thighs were pressed together. His dick was hard, had been hard since Ilya sat down, maybe before that. Since Ilya smiled at him in the driveway. Since Ilya made him food.
He didn't understand it—why his body did this. Why Ilya—specifically Ilya, not any of the other alphas on the team, not Hayden or Marcus or any of the guys Shane had played with for years—why Ilya made everything worse.
The dog's tail thumped against the floor. Steady, happy rhythm.
Shane matched his breathing to it. Inhale. Exhale.
Like skating. Like drills. One thing, then the next. Don't think about the whole game, just the next shift. The next play.
Ilya's scent was everywhere.
His fingers pressed deeper into golden fur, and he tried not to think about what would happen if the suppressants ever stopped working. If Ilya ever found out what Shane was. If anyone ever found out.
He'd lose everything.
Hockey. The team. The career he'd built. Everything he'd ever wanted.
His chest felt tight again.
The dog shifted, rested its head on Shane's thigh. Heavy and warm. Grounding.
"Good dog," Shane said quietly.
Ilya made a soft sound beside him. Not quite a laugh. Just—acknowledgment. Agreement.
Shane didn't look at him, couldn't risk it.
If he looked, Ilya might see something. Might notice. Ilya noticed everything, noticed things Shane didn't want anyone to notice, and sitting here in the quiet felt dangerous in a way Shane couldn't articulate.
Outside, someone laughed. Music played, muffled through the walls. The cookout continuing without them.
Shane should leave.
He stayed.
His palm stroked through the dog's fur, and Ilya breathed beside him, and Shane sat there wet and hard and terrified, grateful for the chemicals in his bloodstream that kept him invisible.