"I understand the whole striking-the-iron-while-it's-hot thing," Shane said, picking at a bowl of blueberries and Greek yogurt, "but isn't this a bit much?"
It wasn't like he had even been to development camp yet and knew for a fact that he had made the opening-night roster.
His mother stopped scrolling. "And you will make the roster."
He loved her confidence. He believed the same thing, too. Yes, not getting drafted first overall had dented his confidence a little, but Shane knew one thing for certain: he was a great hockey player, and he had a great career ahead of him. He had proven as much when he helped lead Canada to gold at the World Junior Championship.
"Mom."
"Yuna, you're stressing the boy out."
She sighed and adjusted her slipping reading glasses. "David, Shane can handle pressure."
Shane grunted softly.
She looked at him hard. "Shane, sweetheart, do you understand what you represent?"
He almost choked.
Shane cleared his throat, dragging himself lower in his chair. "I'm not even the first Asian player in the league."
His mother waved him off instantly. "That's not the point." Her expression softened, pride settling warmly into the corners of her eyes. "You're going to mean something more."
His heart dropped quietly into his stomach, but he said nothing, because he knew what she meant. Not just Japanese. Not just Asian. Omega. Manifested.
He didn't like that.
That was not part of the plan. His plan.
"Okay. Do you like the agent?"
She instantly brightened. "Now we're talking about how you feel. She has us scheduled for ten tomorrow."
"Yay," he said sardonically.
David laughed. "Don't sound too enthusiastic now, Shane."
"I just want to play hockey."
"And you will," his mother promised.
He said nothing.
-----------------------------
"The music is too loud," Shane complained, letting Meghan lead him out of the loud house and onto the patio. Shane was drunk and a little giddy.
Meghan, in a skintight red dress, looked back, her gaze enticing, and laughed, her smile catching in the light.
He listlessly returned her smile.
He didn't hate this floaty feeling, but he didn't particularly like it. He didn't drink. He didn't do anything he thought had the potential to harm his game. He knew he was straitlaced, and unlike his many peers inside the huge house, grinding on each other in the open area designated as the dance floor, getting lost in the huge house with its maze-like rooms, traditional long-beamed wooden ceilings, and inlaid furniture, wealth made visible in architecture that pretended it had simply always belonged there.
He wasn't close to the classmate hosting. Brayden had invited him, telling him he couldn't skip. He planned to, until Meghan heard him talking about it and mentioned she had been invited, knew how introverted and serious he was, and was going to respect his boundaries, but it was almost summertime. They were graduating from high school. He was moving away from her, and they would hardly see each other next year. They had to go. It was their swan song. What could he say to that when he could count on one hand the number of parties he had been to? He hadn't had the time to party like his peers during his school years. Meghan deserved more of him, and if he could give her this before he ended it all, he would.
"This is nice," Meghan said, drawing his attention back to her. She was looking at the large garden that sloped down through stands of trees to the river.
"Yeah," he muttered, letting the weight and warmth of her hand anchor him. This moment with her, his hand in hers, leading him, was nice. He was glad he let her persuade him to come.
Aware of laughter echoing from the back porch, Meghan started moving. "Let's go a bit—" She trailed off, pulling him after her.
She led him further, through the back of the house, past glass doors thrown open to the night. Beyond the patio, the ground sloped gently into trees, and past that, the river caught fragments of moonlight and fractured them into moving silver.
The air changed when they stepped outside. Shane exhaled.
"Tired?"
"A bit sleepy," he muttered.
She laughed. "Past your bedtime already." She was teasing, her voice cooing, but she was right.
He laughed, too. "I'm glad I came."
Now accompanying her smile was a wink.
He would miss this. Miss Meghan.
Yes, he was emotionally attached to her. She was a safe person. He didn't know many other than his parents. However, what they had was a habit. And maybe that was why trying to break up with her was easier planned and thought than executed. It would be so easy if he didn't like Meghan. But he liked her so much.
If he kept on cowering away from ending their relationship, he would be denying himself what he truly wanted. Or at least what he thought he wanted. It wasn't that he had a dream of being with an Alpha, or even an Omega, or going into heat — the very thought made nausea clamp in his stomach. No, Shane had made sure, with his strong concoction of medication, that he had never experienced a heat, though the online chatrooms he sometimes secretly visited made it seem like an enticing, pornographic fantasy.
A fantasy he had never wasted too much thought on, but sometimes he did think about it. He had smelled persimmons, and that had changed everything about everything he knew and thought he wanted. Shane knew how his body reacted in the presence of an alpha's pheromones, how his thighs grew hot, and his stomach knotted into tense knots, and there was that hot itch, and a heat wave washed over him as he thought about… that alpha. He knew he didn't like it, just like the beer in his system, but he didn't hate it. He soothed himself with the fact that it was all biological dictation. It wasn't even because of their secondary gender, but because he was logical and he knew he didn't hate it; he knew he needed to lengthen his experience sheet. Maybe what he needed to experience was an alpha (female or male, he didn't know); maybe he needed to be with another omega (female or male, he would soon find out).
And, with a less selfish focus, he would be denying her a chance to be with someone who really wanted her.
"You're thinking too hard again," she said.
"I'm not thinking," he replied automatically.
"Good." Then she added, "At least for tonight." She dragged him to the swing on the patio at the edge of the porch, wide and cushioned, suspended by iron chains that shifted softly whenever the wind passed through them.
Meghan dropped into it first. The cushions gave under her weight, the chains answering with a low, settling creak. She pulled him down, and he fell clumsily. She guffawed.
Under their combined weight, the swing settled into a slow, pendulum rhythm. Behind them, the house continued without interruption — music spilling through open doors, laughter breaking and reforming in uneven bursts, the party still insisting on its own continuity even as they stepped slightly outside of it.
Meghan gathered her hair in one hand and flipped it over her shoulder, shifted closer, and lowered herself across his lap. Her weight settled into him. The swing adjusted with a soft creak.
Shane paused — not from rejection, but from the brief recalibration his body always performed when another person entered his space too completely.
Meghan made a small, satisfied sound and relaxed further, as if the world had finally aligned itself correctly. Meghan laced her fingers through his, pulling his hand and holding it between them.
"I swear," she said after a moment, her voice softer now, "I am so ready to be done with all of this."
Shane glanced down at her. "With graduation?"
"With everything," she said immediately.
"Hmm?"
Meghan stared up at the sky beyond the porch roof, her expression caught between exhaustion and anticipation, before she met his gaze.
"I'm excited for the future. You?"
He shrugged and ran the pad of his forefinger down her soft hairline.
"Mr. Millionaire Superstar."
The corner of his lips lifted. "Huh?"
She rubbed his knee as she sighed contentedly and said, "It's weird."
"Hmm?"
"You know, everyone keeps acting like this is the end of something. But it feels more like a rebirth."
"Rebirth?"
"Yeah. The world is our oyster. Our future is like a blank portrait. We get to paint it however we want now. We're supposed to step out of who we've been and just become someone else overnight."
Shane hummed lightly, his fingers continuing their slow path through her hair. "That's… a nice way to look at it."
"Your voice doesn't inspire confidence." She chuckled, turning her head slightly to look at him. Her expression was open, amused.
He shrugged. "No. I just feel like we've already…" He trailed off, lifting his shoulder. "Our youth is all about doing the work for our future."
"Thank you, Dad; however, we're not all set out to become millionaire superstar athletes."
He paused. That stung. His cheeks heated up with embarrassment.
"I'm just saying," she cooed apologetically, rubbing his hand.
"Yeah. No. I mean, I understand."
"Even you, Shane. You still get to paint your portrait."
"It's painted."
She shook her head. "Nope. This is the perfect time for you to change."
"Huh?"
"You get to decide what kind of person, athlete, public persona you're going to be," she added, as if it were obvious.
That landed somewhere deeper than it should have.
On branding meetings his mother had begun mentioning more frequently, where identity was discussed like a marketable surface. On draft interviews where language was narrowed into digestible traits. On the phrase golden boy, repeated often enough that it had begun to sound less like praise and more like classification.
"What's wrong with my current persona?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said. "It's just — if you wanted, you could be the loud hockey player."
"Hockey player."
"Why not? It would be your public persona." She winked.
Shane grinned. "Are you saying I'm not man enough for you?"
She laughed. "You're barely a man."
"I'm eighteen."
"Whatever," she said, still smiling.
He tried again. "What if I'm going for mystique? Reserved. Controlled. The silent type."
"Golden boy," she corrected immediately.
He flinched.
Swallowing, he shrugged. "Everyone likes the perfect persona."
She tapped his knee lightly. "You know what? That actually works for you."
Shane let out a breath that nearly became a laugh. "I'm stoic."
"You are?"
"Strategic. A natural-born leader. I'm aiming for captaincy through methodology, not aggression."
Meghan laughed openly, and something in him loosened in response.
"I don't think you're stoic. I think you feel a lot, and deeply, and you're… reserved with your emotions. And that's okay. I like this version of you," she said quietly. "But if you feel like that's you, you don't need a different public persona. I'm just talking." She lifted their connected hands and kissed the back of his hand.
His breath caught in his throat.
How was he going to break up with her?
Shane's hand slowed in her hair. Somewhere behind them, the house shouted and clinked and continued. The world proceeded as if continuity were its default setting.
"This is my reset point."
"Are you moving after graduation?"
"I'm excited to leave," she corrected.
"I… won't you miss, you know, everything?" His hand drifted again through her hair, slower now, less certain in its repetition.
"You're moving."
"I… No. Not really."
"Well, Shane, it's different for me."
"They just want what's best for you," he said quietly.
"Shut up," she replied, though it carried no real edge. "Your parents are not my parents, and I don't have — I need to get out from under expectations. From all of it." She lifted his hand and bit lightly into the soft skin of his wrist.
"I think—" he paused. "It's a parent thing."
She rolled her eyes and released him, smiling as if she had confirmed something only she understood. "Stop playing perfect son-in-law," she said. "If they only knew what you and I do behind closed doors."
He felt awkward.
"I thought you wanted to go into medicine," he said, redirecting carefully.
"Changed my mind."
"You did?"
"Some of us can."
Shane frowned.
"I want law," she quickly said, smiling up at him.
"Taking justice warrioring literally?"
"And they say you're not funny."
They snorted.
"Who says that? Not only am I hot, I'm funny, too."
"You are hot."
"And funny."
They were full-on guffawing now.
Then Meghan sighed, shifted on his lap, and said in a small voice, "I just care. You know."
"I know. And I…" he stroked her head. "I love that about you."
"Aww. And romantic, too. Add that to your résumé."
"Always." Then it was Shane's turn to sigh. He hated seeing her this troubled. "You should do it. Whatever it is you want to do."
"I'll need their financial support."
"Oh," Shane muttered, knowing he sounded out of touch.
"Yeah. I need to pursue something my parents are willing to finance."
"That sucks."
"I'll be fine."
"You're so passionate."
"I'll find a way to… do what I want."
"Law seems like an honorable pursuit?"
"Not if you want to focus on women's and omegas' advocacy."
He didn't mean to say it; it just slipped, and he instantly regretted it and hated himself for it: "Seems more like an obsession."
She frowned up at him. "No. It's an honorable pursuit, Shane. You wouldn't understand."
"No. I'm sorry. I meant—"
She sat up, their thighs and sides pressed together. "Shane, every day we're out in this world we are walking past many people who are Manifested. Our sex-ed curriculum is incomplete; we have learned so little about people with secondary genders. Did you know that most Manifested people do not exhibit any of the characteristics we associate with Manifested people? No pheromones, no heats or ruts. Only a selected few, known as dominant Omegas and Alphas, actually do. But based on what we've learned in school, you would think Manifested people are barely able to function because they're so focused on boning each other. And that's the problem, because we did not learn that. We're forming opinions and laws that are based on a lack of education and harming people." She steadily held his gaze. "Our lack of education has allowed people to be hateful. So yes, I care, because Omegas are hurt in a way that I, as a woman, get hurt. The prejudice they face, I face. And even if I didn't, I care because that's the right thing to do. Not thinking about them because of their population size is not okay and will never be okay. I'm sorry if, sometimes, I am a bit too intense, but I care — I do — and I want to make a difference."
"I'm so sorry." He reached for her, knowing he had truly fucked up this time. "I didn't mean it like that. You know I care."
She sighed and flopped back on his lap, facing away from him. "No," she muttered. "I know you're trying to appease me."
That stung. And, for the nth time, he wished he could let go and tell her about his status. He felt safe with her, but something had always stopped him: his parents' voices, his doctor's insistence that he never share his status for the sake of his safety, the voices of bigots sharing their fears and disgust about something they knew nothing about. This was another reason he loved her and put her in his safe-people category and found it so hard to break up with her. Meghan was not infallible, but she was a good person. She was also someone he deeply respected. She was someone who gave him hope that he did not always have to hide who he was or feel this deep sense of shame when it came to his biology and a part of what made him the complete human being that he was.
She cared about something that did not impact her and always spoke up, even if others around her felt uncomfortable. Unlike him, who navigated this world hiding who he was and hoping that the less he thought about it, and if he never thought about it, it would just disappear and everything would be all right. He couldn't do without her friendship, and that's why it stopped him every time.
He grabbed her shoulder gently and got her to look at him. "Hey. I really didn't mean that. I'm not a bigot."
"I know." She looked away briefly. "You're just a jock."
Heat darted down his spine. "No. I… you know me better than that. I'm not a bigot."
She sighed and covered her face with both hands. "I know, Shane." Her words sounded muffled. Then she added, "I don't want to fight."
"It was a bad joke."
"Yes, really bad. Shane, you know I hate this sort of talk. Jokes are never really jokes when we're punching down."
"I… There are no Omegas here."
Wrong move. Her eyes flashed.
"How do you know? Like I just said, Manifested people are not that rare, just like our overflowing, abundant prejudice."
"Yes, you're right, and again I'm sorry. I just meant, it's just us."
She pursed her lips and looked away before saying, "How we talk about people behind their backs and in private is how we truly feel about them."
Shane felt the belligerent shame blooming on his cheeks.
"You're right, Meghan. I do know you hate these kinds of jokes. And it's not even funny. And again, like I said, I love the fact that you care about social issues like that."
She interrupted. "Those are not social issues, Shane. These are people we're talking about. People's biology and identity shouldn't be politics. They shouldn't be social issues. They cannot help who they are. They were born like that."
"I agree. People shouldn't be punished for how they are born."
She sighed and ran his fingers through her hair, pushing it back. She exhaled loudly. "Shit. I'm sorry."
"No. I'm sorry."
They looked at each other. She smiled, and then she laughed. He was confused, but he returned her smile — a weaker version of hers.
"Let's move on. It's okay." She reached for his hand and fused their fingers. "I wouldn't be with you if I thought you were a bigot. And, thank you for apologizing." She caressed his knee.
He felt a bit better, though his shame still turned his stomach. He tried to change the topic as best as he could. "And that's why you want to get into law?"
"Yes!" she said passionately. She was still smiling, and it seemed sincere. "I would make a hot judge."
She was much better at changing the topic.
He cleared his throat. "Yes, you would."
She grinned up at him and caressed his chin. "I know hockey is king for you, but—"
"But? Doctor, I'm scared."
"Don't be. I won't pathologize you today, dear patient. Just that, I don't know. I've always felt like… you're always…"
"Spit it out."
"Shane, you're wound so tightly. Explore."
He blinked. "Well, I—"
"This is the time to do it."
She silently watched, sensing his mood vacillate between confusion and acceptance.
Shane's face wrinkled in obvious discomfort. "I want to… explore things this summer."
Meghan tilted her head, her eyes bright and optimistic. "Things?"
"Yeah," he said, and hesitated only briefly. "You're right. We're supposed to become different versions of ourselves."
She smiled. "So poetic."
He almost laughed. Almost. Then, shaking uncontrollably with nerves, the words came before he could reframe them. "I think I might want to take a break."
The swing kept moving.
"A break?"
"From us."
Funnily enough, they were both stunned by the suddenness of it.
Meghan didn't respond immediately. For the first time all night, she didn't adjust closer or shift or fill the silence with ease. Shane felt it then, not pheromonal, not dramatic, but the simple, unmistakable weight of a moment changing state, like air pressure dropping before the weather breaks.
Outside, the house kept laughing as if nothing had happened yet. Inside that small pocket of quiet, neither of them moved.
He had finally done it, and he felt like hell.
-----------------------------
The airport lounge was crowded with summer travelers and businesspeople moving in brisk currents between terminals, but Shane barely noticed any of it. He sat slouched in the molded chair beside his mother with one ankle hooked over his knee, a hardcover book spread open in his hands. Every few minutes, the overhead speakers crackled with boarding calls in clipped English, though none of them registered beyond distant noise.
The book was dense enough to require concentration. Comparative Manifested Biology: Secondary Dynamics and Modern Research. His mother had given it to him three weeks ago without commentary beyond, "Newly released research. You might find this interesting."
He stared at a paragraph discussing late-presenting secondary dynamics and scent compatibility, rereading the same sentence twice before realizing he hadn't absorbed any of it. Beside him, Yuna scrolled through her phone with increasing intensity, her thumb moving in quick, irritated flicks against the screen. They looked at each other at the same time. She smiled.
"You look happy," she observed.
"Um. No, not really."
"You do," she insisted lightly, her dark eyes skimming his face. "Relaxed, maybe."
"I'm just looking forward to the trip." He shrugged one shoulder and looked back down at the page. "We haven't seen ojiichan and obaachan in a while." He looked back at where he last read. His mood had nothing to do with part one of his plan.
Yuna hummed quietly. Her attention drifted back to her phone almost immediately, her brows pulling together as she read something. Shane watched her for a second over the top edge of the book before closing it loosely around one finger. "You look stressed."
She laughed, but didn't lift her gaze. "I'm not really." Then she exhaled softly through her nose and tilted the phone toward herself again. "I'm more excited and on edge than anything else. Emi and I are close to finalizing something."
Emi was his agent. He liked her. Most importantly, his mother liked her.
"What kind of something?"
"A brand deal. Big. Exciting." She quickly added, as if to placate him. Her expression was caught between caution and excitement. "Preliminary talks, mostly, but serious ones." Her mouth curved into a small smile. "If it happens before you even play in the NHL…" She shook her head slightly. "God, Shane, imagine what that would mean for your career."
He blinked once, but said nothing. He stared at her.
Yuna leaned back in her seat, the phone resting against her thigh. "It's a good idea."
A strange look passed over his face. His mother caught it.
"Shane, sweetheart, the timing would be incredible. Rookie attention, media visibility, the draft buzz still fresh—"
"But?" Shane interrupted quietly.
She paused. Then laughed under her breath. "But nothing; negotiations are a bit awful right now!" she admitted. "Everyone wants leverage. Everyone stalls on purpose. Your Emi thinks it's moving in the right direction, and honestly, I do too." Her fingers tapped restlessly against her phone case. "Once everything is finalized, we're all sitting down, and Emi is going to go through it all."
Shane raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment but said nothing else.
"This is really good. Promised." As she said the last word, she reached over and squeezed his wrist.
He believed her, as he did when he was eight and twelve and had her explain to him in her soft, soothing voice about his doctor's growing understanding of his, strange-to-him, ever-changing biology, from simply being a manifested omega to being a dominant omega — all of those internal organs he had been told meant nothing in the grand scheme of how he lived his life meant a lot — and how she would give him reading materials to answer any questions he had, and that puberty would be a bit different for him, and he needed to be on special medication. All dominant omegas took it. It was normal. It was natural. It would keep him safe.
As always, sitting across from his mother, Shane wanted desperately to believe her, as he had done his whole life. He wanted to keep feeling like his mother was right and that she would always make sure that he was safe.
His mother smiled one last time at him, released him, and went back to her phone. He looked at his book, eyes returning automatically to highlighted passages discussing pheromonal imprinting and instinctive attraction patterns.
"Interesting?"
Shane looked up as his father returned carrying three drinks balanced precariously in his hands.
David passed an iced coffee toward Yuna, handed Shane a bottled water, and dropped heavily into the seat beside his son with an exaggerated sigh of relief. "What did I miss?"
"Nothing much," Yuna answered simply.
"Good." He dropped next to Shane and looked down at the book open on his lap. "Your book looks serious."
Shane made a vague noise.
"Enjoying it?"
Another shrug.
"Secretive."
He looked at his dad. "Mom gave it to me."
"Oh, that explains it." David nodded, a sage look on his face as smile lines creased his features. "You're being academically terrorized."
His mom chuckled. "I am not terrorizing him."
"You made him read a textbook on vacation."
"It's not a textbook," Yuna protested.
-------------------------------------------
At the beginning of July, Shane signed a lucrative endorsement deal with CCM, one of the biggest hockey equipment companies. He was happy with it. He understood why his mother had been nervous about getting the deal, and she was right, it was 'really good'.
He would be reporting to training camp in just over a month. He was on his way to being on the higher end of multi-millionaires, if his mother had any say in it. It all did feel right.
Then, his excitement dampened when he found out that CCM had also signed Rozanov. And then he found out that they wanted to launch an ad campaign with both of them together. He hadn't seen Rozanov since the World Juniors back at the beginning of January, and he hadn't planned to meet him face to face so soon. He then had to spend weeks getting ready to face Rozanov.
It was less dramatic than he expected. He didn't know what Rozanov was doing or had done since they were last in proximity, but he could barely smell him. Smell his pheromones. And he didn't know what to think. So, he went stoic.
Shane felt like a new man as he stared at Rozanov in a dark, mostly empty rink in the suburbs of Toronto. Spotlights had been set up around the ice, creating some very dramatic lighting. The control he felt made him realize what had been missing between them because of their secondary gender. Everything felt normal. And that wasn't normal. Not when he was around Rozanov.
That had Shane feeling off. He didn't wish to ever befriend Rozanov; as a matter of fact, he didn't like him. However, he had been, until Japan, the only other manifested person he had ever met — happenstance as it had been. And Shane had started to feel like they were forming a weird camaraderie. Shane had started to feel less alone — less of a freak — because of him. So it was strange to now not smell persimmons.
It felt wrong.
There were going to be two parts to the day. First, they would do a photo shoot, both separately and together. And then they would skate around and do some fancy stickhandling for the television ads.
This seemed like a bigger production than he was used to, even though Shane was getting used to photo shoots and to having cameras on him in general. It was different: he was wearing makeup and had his hair professionally done. Granted, he did look nice.
Shane took a couple of laps around the ice, stilling his nerves and quieting his mind, while he waited for the crew to finish setting up. He was wearing head-to-toe CCM gear, of course, including a custom black jersey with a big CCM logo on the chest where a team logo would normally go. His name and number, 24, were on the back.
Not wanting to sweat and ruin the hard work done on his face and hair before the photo shoot, he decided he'd better stop skating and sit on the bench while he was waiting. He watched the crew fiddle with the lighting, nervous energy bubbling inside him.
After a few minutes, he felt the unmistakable presence of Rozanov at the end of the bench. No smell. Shane took a big breath before he turned and looked at him. Still nothing. His head buzzed with questions.
Rozanov silently met his gaze. He just stood there in his makeup and perfectly styled hair. His new look jolted through Shane's entire body, stirring up interest in a way he didn't want. Then he gave him a wicked smile. "Surprise, eh?"
Shane frowned. "What?"
He moved his hands around before he said, "You and me. Here."
That was not what was taking all of his attention. Where was his scent? His pheromones?
"Not really," he said laconically, and looked away.
Rozanov leaned on the top of the boards and grinned. "Happy?"
A delicate shiver arced up his spine at his choice of word. He loved asking him that dumb question. Slowing the rush of his thoughts, he glared at him. "Why would I?"
He grinned. It was blinding. He looked good. Magnificent, even, in his getup.
"To have such—" he swiped in front of his face and down over his chest. "Beauty here. With you." Rozanov winked over the top of the boards and grinned.
Shane rolled his eyes because he almost laughed. Why did he have to be such an ass about… everything?
It looked like Rozanov had been working hard those last few months, making sure he had enough English stored up to shit-talk his competitor.
Before they went any further at it, they were called over.
The photo shoot was much more tiring and tedious than Shane had been expecting. It was mostly just standing on the rink holding a few CCM hockey sticks in various positions, and then a few photos standing together, but most of them were separate. They finished with posed photos of the two of them in some sort of face-off position. They held the pose for what felt like an eternity, with their faces just inches apart, staring into each other's eyes.
"Look so serious," Rozanov whispered.
"Shut up."
Rozanov grinned — it was teasing and… flirty. Shane didn't know what to think or how to feel.
"Like what you see?"
Shane glared at him at the perfect time, because the director complimented him.
"Teacher's pet."
Where the hell did he learn that expression? Why?
Another glare.
"Try not to laugh," the director stated. "I know it'll be challenging."
Laughing was not what Shane was worried about. He was growing acutely aware of Rozanov. Shane didn't know what did it, but the sumptuous scent of persimmons had returned. Not as potent, but enough to bloom in the air, curling in his nose and fogging his head, parching his throat. He regretted missing it the moment he smelled it.
His stomach cramped, and it was hard to stay in Rozanov's presence. It was nothing like when they played against each other, or earlier, when he hadn't been able to smell him. And every second, his scent grew more pungent.
"A little more intensity in your eyes, if you could, Shane."
Shane blinked and tried his best not to dissociate and stare Rozanov down like it was a real game. But a real game would only require him to hold this position for a few seconds. This was awkward.
His eyes strayed to his mouth when Rozanov licked his lips, and he felt a jolt of unexpected heat.
"Okay. From the top."
Shane inhaled.
He caught Rozanov's eyes on his neck.
Shane's throat was dry. It hurt.
They bent for the faceoff again.
"We should make it more real."
"Huh?"
"Like game," Rozanov whispered, his voice as smooth as honey. His heart squeezed, his pulse racing like static across his skin as his eyes burned with the effort of his glare.
"What do you mean?"
It was hard to focus on the chirping when desire persisted, bubbling under the surface. He knew what an alpha's touch felt like now, and his brain couldn't help but stray into dangerous territories.
"Are you getting tired of second place?"
Shane growled. That helped. He was better able to focus. "No chance in hell."
"Plan?"
Shane frowned, beyond confused again.
"First season. Seventy goals."
"Are you crazy?"
"Guys, focus. Please."
Rozanov smirked. Shane glared at him. It felt weak.
"Sorry," they shouted haphazardly.
Now Shane's cheeks burned, and he knew Rozanov noticed it.
"Great job, guys!" the director said.
"You were right," Shane said out of nowhere.
"What?" He batted his lustrous, dark lashes at him.
And that made Shane feel really good when he snarked, "You do look pretty."
Rozanov was visibly surprised. His green eyes, with the ridiculously long dark lashes, widened. He hadn't expected that. A thrill shot straight to Shane's core at the small win. Just as quickly, he schooled his expression back into its usual mocking amusement.
Rozanov's lips trembled up. Shane smelled it as it went through him, and a light glistened in Rozanov's eyes. "Hire a makeup artist. For games. Yes?"
He didn't mean to, but Shane's lip twitched, and Rozanov's eyes glazed with pure, honest humor, and before they could stop it, they snorted and started laughing. Big, fat guffaws. Shane was lightheaded now.
They were definitely acting their age. He couldn't help but wonder what his parents would have to say about his behavior.
The director wasn't pleased. "Just a few more seconds, guys. No talking, please."
"Sorry," Shane said again, trying to smooth his features back into a fierce glare. It was no use. As soon as he looked at Rozanov, both men started laughing again.
"Alright, we've probably got enough anyway. Let's take a break, and then we'll do the film footage."
As they skated over to the bench, Shane couldn't help hissing, though it held no bite. "That was your fault."
Rozanov shook his head, his smile still pressed on his face. "You laugh first."
"Your face—"
"My face?" he asked, tone completely deadpan, when Shane stopped.
He made sure not to look at him. "Yeah. It made me laugh."
Rozanov bumped him with his shoulder, and an electric current raced through his skin. Shane jumped away and skated ahead of Rozanov.
His scent got stronger.
A pheromonal reaction. Nothing more.
But… it had been different in Japan. With an alpha. Why?
The filming wasn't much easier.
They both donned CCM helmets and visors and skated around, showing off for an hour or so, probably a bit more competitively than necessary. Shane was proud of himself for his concentration and intensity. He was certain the result would be good. He was now excited, and he realized he couldn't wait to see the end product.
The director thanked them both, and the two young hockey players were left to get showered and changed in the dingy dressing room.
Shane undressed quickly and went into the shower, which was, like most rinks, communal-style, with a row of showerheads facing each other on both sides of a corridor. If he hurried, maybe he could be out of the shower before Rozanov came in. Shane knew that's what would be best. He wasn't sure he was ready to see him naked, especially not with his heady scent now back and present. He didn't want to embarrass himself.
No such luck.
Shane had just gotten his hair wet when Rozanov entered the showers, pheromones filling every crevice, and stood under one almost directly across from him. Instantaneously, goosebumps spread across his skin.
He tried to ignore him. Keep his eyes down and wash. Quick and perfunctory. Keep his traitorous mind from picturing him, ashamed at the guilty desire deep in his belly to see Rozanov naked and wet. The good, scrubbing, cleaning shower needed to happen at home, anyway.
He shouldn't have to embarrass himself. He had showered with hundreds of guys in his life in rooms just like this one. It was just part of the game. It had never crossed his mind or given him pause. He had never looked at any of his fellow players before. It was just unthinkable. He hadn't been into guys, and no one had smelled like Rozanov. Or smelled at all.
But Rozanov did, and it was hard.
And this was the difference between a beta and people who had opposing secondary genders. It was different. Shane wished it wasn't.
They were silent for a moment, and then Shane snuck a look at him, and his eyes landed on the dark brown hair on his chest and on the large bear tattoo on Rozanov's left pec. It was absolutely ridiculous. That calmed him down and oriented him for a few precious seconds. He wondered what the story was behind that choice. If there was even one. He also noticed the gold crucifix hanging around his neck. Since he first saw him, he had that thing around his neck. The chain caressed the base of Rozanov's long neck, the cross resting comfortably on his muscular chest and taut pecs. Then his reprieve was long gone when his eyes trailed lower, first resting on his stomach and the thick, curly, coarse hair that trailed down from his belly button to his thicker, dark hair, where his half-hard penis rested. Shane quickly turned his eyes back to the floor.
He knew his face had flushed deep pink.
After a brief moment, his curiosity piqued again, and he glanced up and saw that Rozanov had turned his back to him. He was stroking water over his face, the muscles in his impressive ass flexing, and Shane was back to being transfixed, staring helplessly at his muscular shoulders and back.
Was he an ass guy? He never knew. But this was an impressive ass that demanded nothing less than pure admiration; it was chiseled and perfect.
Shane was achingly aware of Rozanov's movements. A telltale tightness started low in his belly, a deep surge of desire.
Rozanov knew he was checking him out. He could smell his awareness. That was like cold water being thrown in Shane's face, though it did nothing to temper his attraction and growing arousal. If he could smell Rozanov, he knew that he, too, could smell him.
Fuck!
He only had time to look down at his hardening dick with horror before he noticed that Rozanov had turned back around. He was looking at him. Rozanov dropped his gaze to Shane's crotch and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Fuck off," Shane croaked, throat parched.
Shit.
"You said I'm pretty." Rozanov tilted his head, all bravado and teasing.
"Shut up." He couldn't seem to drop his gaze. He liked the way he pronounced the word 'pretty.' He despised that he liked a lot about Rozanov. No, his body reacted to a lot about him. He didn't consciously… Stop!
He was smirking. Shane wanted to die.
Persimmons caressed his cheeks, his neck, and down his body, wrapping him in soft velvet. Shane fought hard not to let his imagination travel down treacherous avenues.
"Like what you see, Hollander?"
Shane grimaced, wishing his voice didn't betray him. Sex had been all his body cared about, and all his mind could comprehend. "No, it's not like—"
"Lemongrass."
"Huh?" He was surprised; he knew that word. Shane wanted to look away from Rozanov, but he was bewitched.
Rozanov was grinning at him in a way that was not helping Shane's situation. If his mortification hadn't deepened his arousal, Rozanov looking at him with heat in his gaze would definitely egg him on.
Rozanov didn't say more, his big chest inflating and deflating, his gaze steady on him as he seemed to be considering him curiously, and maybe enjoying the effect he knew he was having on him.
Just another goddamn thing for you to hold over me, Shane thought.
Shane took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to steady his breathing and his racing thoughts.
He was so busy being mortified that he didn't immediately notice that Rozanov's dick was starting to swell. The grin had faded from Rozanov's face. His eyes were full of intensity.
Shane felt like he was on fire, and his brain had been dunked in a bowl of sugar. His skin was like a furnace. Lava ran through his veins. He was starting to sweat.
He needed to get out of here.
This was too bizarre. He absolutely could not do whatever this was.
It wasn't the animalistic attraction between them. No. Japan proved he liked it. He was fine with men. He might even prefer men. That might explain why being with Meghan had always felt like a chore. An unpleasant chore. He liked being with an alpha. Being touched and held by an alpha felt nice. He craved it. Pheromones and all. Late into the night, he thought about it. About it. Rozanov touching him. His olfactory senses were inundated with the ghost of his pheromones. But he couldn't do the real thing. Something about it felt wrong. A no-go.
He needed to leave.
But Rozanov let a big hand trail down his stomach, wading his fingers through his damp pubes, and Shane's lecherous, spellbound gaze followed; he watched him wrap it around his stiff, fat dick to give it a slow, firm stroke.
Shane gasped, loud enough that the running water couldn't mask it.
"You don't have to lie," Rozanov said, his deep voice slow, hypnotic. He maintained steady eye contact.
He was too good at this, and Shane felt like a child. A stupid, dumb child.
"Wha—" Shane was trembling.
"I can smell it. You."
Shane's teeth rattled.
"What were you thinking about?" His voice was soft. His accent sounded thicker.
Shane swallowed. His throat was bone dry. "You," he quietly admitted.
Rozanov heard it and smirked, and gave himself another stroke and caressed his face with his eyes and his body with his pheromones. "You want me."
"I—"
"I can smell you," he said again.
"What do you mean?" he whispered, his tongue feeling thick and heavy.
Rozanov finally took a step toward him. Shane jumped and stepped back.
Rozanov stopped. "Lemongrass."
Shane stared at him, perplexed.
"You smell like lemongrass," he said, barely above a whisper. "Lemon. Citrus. Fresh." And he licked his lips as he said that. He looked hungry. "Sweet."
Shane's stomach twisted painfully, and his nipples felt like they were about to fall off. He wanted to give in to whatever the hell this was. If this was even something. It felt like a compulsive need.
"I…"
"It got stronger." That mean smirk appeared again.
Shane jerked his head up. "You too!"
Rozanov smiled with his whole face; it was slow and languid, and he blinked innocently. "I know."
Shane's eyes went back to his veiny hand and its firm hold on his dripping dick. That's an image he knew he would store and use for a while. Maybe for forever. He wanted to watch Rozanov jerk himself off, but not here. His head was hot and static.
Shane stammered in a soft, barely audible voice, "Someone could come in."
Rozanov nodded and released himself. Shane felt a deep sense of regret. It was ridiculous. Rozanov turned and shut off the water. He didn't say more. He didn't even look at him. He just calmly walked off.
Strange.
Everything was strange.
Shane waited, heart racing, until Rozanov had left the showers before he turned off his own water. He was shaking.
What the hell was happening?
Rozanov couldn't possibly be suggesting that he and Shane, that they... Holy shit. Fuck!
Shane had to get out of here. He wondered if he could smash through the tile wall of the shower room and escape that way. Or liquefy and just… evaporate. Or something! Anything would be preferable to facing Rozanov again.
Staring intensely at the tile walls of the shower, he took a few deep breaths to settle himself; instead, he inhaled the strong, honeyed fragrance of persimmons, and he started coughing. The smell clung to the inside of his nose, crawling to his brain.
Lemongrass.
Was that what Rozanov smelled?
He smelled like lemongrass. All this time, he hadn't even thought about what his pheromones smelled like. Was that the scent that permeated Rozanov's every waking moment, like persimmon was his? But what if that wasn't true and Rozanov was out here experiencing many different omegas? He seemed to be more knowledgeable and skilled than he was when it came to Manifested people.
Granted, Rozanov was an alpha, and Shane, as a dominant omega, should know more.
Regardless, he couldn't do this. This was too much. He could talk reasonably to Rozanov if he needed time to think.
Determined, he wrapped his towel tightly around his waist before returning to the dressing room.
Rozanov was already half-dressed and sitting shirtless on one of the benches. He didn't seem to notice Shane when he walked in. Shane felt safe. Maybe they could act as if nothing had happened in the shower.
But after a minute of tense silence, Shane realized that wasn't smart. As he opened his mouth to talk, he felt increasingly stupid: "Look," Shane said, his voice scratchy, "that was... We can just pretend that never happened, okay?"
Rozanov looked at him, studying him with big, beautiful green eyes. He wrinkled his nose. "I smell it on you."
"I… It means nothing." He squared his shoulders.
Rozanov nodded, then shook his head, droplets flying. Pushing his fringe back, his chest pumped as he inhaled and exhaled before he said evenly, "If that's what you want."
"Yeah." He dropped his gaze. He suddenly felt like a coward. This was the one feeling he hated the most, and being around Rozanov always made it resurface. "I mean, yeah, of course."
Rozanov stood, it was sudden, and left Shane reeling, and crossed the floor until he stopped right in front of him. Shane stared at his toes. "You're a bad liar."
Shane looked up and scowled at him.
He smirked and arched an all-knowing, cynical eyebrow. "I can smell it."
"I…" He closed his mouth, flabbergasted, and swallowed. His eyeballs felt like they were shaking.
"What is your room number?" Rozanov asked, tone clipped.
"Fourteen-ten," Shane said automatically, and far too quickly. He blinked, taken aback and stunned by his subconscious enthusiasm.
Rozanov smiled. He looked pleased.
"I might knock on your door, fourteen-ten." He paused and studied Shane's face again. "Say… nine."
Shane fought to keep his voice even. "I… might open the door."
What the hell was he saying?
Shane felt a bit like he was losing his mind.
Rozanov's smile grew even wider, and his smile lines deepened. Charming.
Was he like, genuinely, into… Rozanov?
That couldn't be.
"I might knock."