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Shane picks up the alpha from the private air strip near LAX, idling in his car by the runway and seeing the little plane land on the tarmac, a hard thud as wheels hit the road. It came in from Vancouver, but the alpha's been shipped across the ocean, all the way from the heart of Moscow.
Shane's never seen him play—the VHS the front office sent him of grainy CCCP footage is still sitting unopened on the coffee table at the cottage, where it sat all summer—but the front office is excited about him. They said he made waves at the Prospect Cup the last three years running, probably gonna be leading his national team in Lillehammer in two years. Rozanov dragged the USSR to all three of the golds they won under his captaincy at the PC before their union was broken up and Russia was just Russia again.
He watches the plane taxi over to its parking spot before the stairs are finally wheeled over by some workers in neon orange vests. The door opens.
Both the GM and the President of the Bulls are waiting for Rozanov at the bottom of the stairs, plus the coach that Shane's been under for two years, the one that likes to push rookies up to his line as if he's waiting for someone to come along to steal Shane's place. Pax always says, "Let them get a taste of playing with the legend!" And then he laughs and pats Shane on the back before watching practice with careful, calculating eyes.
Standing in the doorway of the plane, squinting into the sun, the alpha—Rozanov—is handsome. Boyish. Golden brown curls and a thick, muscled body. Wide shoulders like most alphas Shane knows. He's in baggy jeans, an oversized shirt with Cyrillic lettering across the front. He holds one small duffel bag branded with the CCCP logo in his hand. His grip is tight against the handle.
The gaggle of people waiting at the bottom all welcome him with open arms as he makes his way down the stairs, chattering in his ear. The September sun beats down on them; Shane can see sweat stains on the workers' backs.
Don't be too prickly, Hollander, his GM had told him when he sat Shane down at the end of last season and explained they were utilizing his mating rights, finally, after an entire career of him wriggling out of them. We got you one that speaks English, at least. Rozanov is looking at the men surrounding him with wide eyes, a careful smile, nodding a little.
Finally one of them points to Shane waiting in his Range Rover, his window tinted black to keep out the California sun. Paxton puts his hand between Rozanov's shoulder blades and pushes him, a little, towards the car, enough that Rozanov has to cover up his stumble.
They get over to his car, just Rozanov and Pax. The other two are waiting by the plane. They're both betas, same as Pax. It's a delicate thing—introducing an omega and an alpha, a mating pair, letting them scent each other—and none of the front office wants to be to blame for things souring between the Bulls' phenoms.
Pax taps on the glass of Shane's window and he steels himself for a moment, a quick breath in and out, his shoulders tensing. He imagines turning the key and driving off, back to Canada where someone would sign him, even as old as he is now. He's still a point per game.
Then, he fucking rolls down the window like he's supposed to.
"Hollzy," Pax says, his voice upbeat, his Ray Bans hiding his eyes. "Ilya Rozanov." He points to the alpha next to him, even younger up close. He's nineteen to Shane's thirty seven and just looking at him makes Shane feel a complicated mix of guilt alongside heat in his groin.
"Hollzy," Rozanov repeats, his tongue carefully forming around Shane's nickname, his accent thick. "Flying Dutchman, yes?"
Pax laughs. "That's him," he confirms. It's a stupid announcer name, something they call him over the radio.
"Hollander," he corrects before Pax gets any ideas about sharing the other names various broadcasts have called him over the years—the Shane Train, 24/7, one from the mid 80s that referenced Japan that he doesn't usually think about.
"Yes," Rozanov says quietly, "Hollander." The wind is blowing, but Shane's catching some of his scent as it comes in through the open window. It's deep, musky, with a hint of spice like a cinnamon candle. In his underwear, Shane can feel himself slicking up, just a little.
They gave him some artificial heat aids to start last week. Everything's been making him slick, his thighs perpetually wet and slippery.
Pax waits for a second before saying, "Well, let's get your stuff in the car, Rozanov."
He and the alpha go around to the trunk as the Bulls' GM comes up to the window, a man named Alfred who's fifteen years older than Shane's parents. He's known Al almost his entire career, since the Bulls' early days when they traded Montreal for Shane a few years into his career.
"Everything okay?" He asks. "You reviewed everything we faxed over, right? All the procedures for—um—tonight?"
"Yep," Shane says shortly. Behind the car, Pax is distracting Rozanov, pointing out the Los Angeles skyline that just a few years ago you could hardly see through the smog.
"Good, good," Al says. His voice is hoarse from age and smoking a pack a day for forty years. "Don't hesitate to call someone if the alpha ends up being aggressive." Shane nods. "You never know with the Ruskies."
The mandates that were waiting for Shane last week when he got home with the prescription for the heat aids predate any Soviets being allowed in the MLH. Alphas themselves are still barely allowed in the league and only under the strictest conditions.
Shane doesn't need to correct that though, not now when he's already been cowed and embarrassed, sold off in the twilight years of his career to the younger model. It feels like there's ants under his skin as he watches Al's beady eyes looking him over, appraising whether he could have gotten more for Shane's mating rights in the complicated trade that brought the alpha here. He's always been the prized trophy in Al's collection.
Until now, he guesses. That honor probably belongs to the alpha, a shining stud brought over to replace Shane on the ice and sire the next generation's legendary Bull.
Finally, he hears the passenger door open next to him and the alpha—Rozanov, he really needs to get into the habit of calling him by his name—slides into place.
Inside the car, his scent starts to saturate the air, making Shane's pulse jump and more slick gather in his folds. There's a base layer to it that he didn't smell before—something warm, unique.
Al clears his throat before he says, "Well, I guess you boys better get going, huh?"
Shane nods and cranks up the window as the three men stand off to the side watching. Beside him, Rozanov is looking out his window, neck craned to watch a plane come in.
"Ready?" He asks. His voice is steady. He's careful about that.
Rozanov turns to look at him just as the plane he was watching touches down. He nods, his mouth tight for a second before he throws his head back against the headrest and crosses his legs so his ankle rests on his knee. He puts his arm on the center console and the other on the windowsill and waves a hand in front of him. "Yes, go," he says.
Shane huffs and shifts into drive as Rozanov smirks at him and says, "Think we have something to do tonight, hm?"
Gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, Shane pictures shoving a muzzle onto the alpha, stilling his tongue. He bets the Bulls already have one fitted for Rozanov. They're required to wear them on the ice, the alphas in the league.
Rozanov fiddles with the radio controls for a few minutes, until they're on the highway and he finds the most obnoxious station, buzzing bass rattling Shane's speakers. He slams his hand against the power button and blessed silence fills the car.
"I don't like to be distracted when I'm driving," he says.
Rozanov hums in the passenger's seat, and is quiet for a second before he points out his window towards downtown. "Do we play there?"
"No, we play in Inglewood, at The Forum," Shane says. He waves his hand vaguely southwest. "Down that way."
"So we are Inglewood Bulls?"
Shane looks over and Rozanov is smiling. He's missing two teeth on the bottom, but at least his canines are intact. The Bulls' dentist will get him falsies for the missing ones, like he did for Shane last year when he caught a high stick and finally lost a molar, the first dental causality of his career.
"Yeah, I guess," Shane answers. "Does Dynamo play in Moscow?"
Rozanov shrugs. "Da, in the city."
It's quiet for a moment while Shane tries to think of something to say before he finally settles on, "The scouting department says you have a great shot."
"Better than yours," Rozanov says. Shane huffs and looks over to see him smirking lazily before he continues, "It is all pass, pass, pass for you."
"I'm a playmaker," Shane says defensively. "I've won the cup three times." He can still remember how it feels in his hands, cool metal and the weight of history.
Rozanov shrugs. "I am also champion three times. And I scored some goals in those games." That was in the scouting report the Bulls sent to Shane—Rozanov dragging his team to the top of the Soviet league when he was sixteen and ending CSKA Moscow's 12 year reign. And then doing it again, and again.
"Shut up," Shane says. He's tenth in all time goals for the MLH. He just has more assists.
In the passenger seat, Rozanov laughs.
By the time they're halfway home, he can see Rozanov scenting the air—the flare of his nostrils, the way his mouth opens slightly so he can coat his tongue in the smell of Shane's slick.
It's leaving a mess of his underwear, his folds sopping wet. The alpha's scent is so overwhelming it feels like it's in his bloodstream. Like it's covering his skin. Like it's settled into his lungs, a permanent mark that he'll never breathe out.
He pictures Rozanov's cock in his mouth, his nose buried into his groin where the scent is the heaviest before he pushes the thought away. He needs to focus on driving.
Beside him, Rozanov's head lolls towards him, his breaths coming fast and shallow, the tip of his tongue against his lips even as he jokes about American traffic.
"They gave me some meds," Shane explains as he exits the highway even though Rozanov didn't ask about the way he's slicking up. His eyes are glassy when Shane looks over to him. "To help start my heat. I'll take a trigger shot when we get back to my place."
His place but just for the next few minutes until the alpha crosses the threshold and lives there too. Shane's never billeted anyone before, but even that wouldn't compare—this is a permanent arrangement. Rozanov's teeth marks in his neck, and Shane's signature on any of Rozanov's official documents. The sire to Shane's kid. They have a year to try, before the Bulls' medical office gets involved.
"They give me same," Rozanov says, "while I wait in Vancouver. For rut."
"Are you in rut?" Shane asks, a swell of alarm rising up in his stomach like the tide coming in. Sharing both a heat and a rut is—well, he's never done it. But everyone says it's intense.
"No," he answers. "Like, maybe in few days? They said, like, it's good for bond."
"Okay," Shane says. He can plan for that at least. His heat will be over by then if he gets the knot a couple of times. He can get groceries, contact both the Bulls and his parents to let them know Russian alpha didn't maim him too badly. Change the sheets. Make sure Rozanov isn't a Russian spy sent from the CCCP to steal MLH tricks like Hayden keeps joking about.
They pull into his apartment's parking garage, and Shane practically tumbles out of the car, sucking in a breath of air, tinged with the smell of gasoline and cigarettes and Los Angeles, trying to rid himself of Rozanov, even if its only for a minute.
Rozanov's the opposite. He's lingering in the car, touching everything, bringing whatever he can up to his nose for a quick inspection. His fingers all over Shane's things. Leaving his mark there, too.
Shane bangs on the window when his lungs feel clear, and Rozanov looks over. Shane nods towards the private entrance up to his apartment and Rozanov gets out of the car, picking up his duffel out of the trunk and striding over to the door where Shane's waiting.
"When we get upstairs, I'll take the shot," he says. No point in waiting around until tonight. No need to prolong anything.
Rozanov nods and says, "Okay." His accent curls around the word. Oh-key.
They get upstairs and Shane leaves Rozanov alone in the foyer to grab the heat trigger shot from the fridge where he was told to keep it. He takes one of the sterilizing wipes he got from the pharmacy, wipes down his stomach, just to the right of his belly button, pinches a bit of skin and muscle there and plunges the shot into his skin.
Rozanov is wandering through his house, rubbing his wrist on all of Shane's shit—the couch and the fancy blanket his mom bought for him to artfully drape over the back, the SNES controller on the coffee table, the rows of VHS tapes lining his entertainment system.
He's keeping a running commentary, spoken in Russian, but Shane knows when he's being made fun of—like when Rozanov picked out Stars Wars: Episode VI with delight in his eyes before making lightsaber sounds. He laughs and puts it back on the shelf before continuing spreading his scent all over the apartment so Shane couldn't escape him even if he wanted to.
He comes into the kitchen as the trigger shot is starting to settle into Shane's bones. He feels hot, itchy, and like his clothes are too tight.
"Rozanov," he says, "we need to get upstairs."
"Da," he answers, "yes." His nostrils flare as he inhales Shane. His scent must be everywhere in here, but he knows Rozanov's not just smelling the air. He presses his thighs together for second, as if that could stop the scent of his slick from making its way to Rozanov.
Rozanov clocks the movement and looks down at Shane's groin, shameless, his eyebrows quirked.
Embarrassed, Shane takes off up the stairs, his body buzzing. Heat's clouding him. The cinnamon in Rozanov's scent is making his mouth water, his knees tremble. It's never come on this fast before. For half a second, he imagines pushing Rozanov onto the stairs, pulling down his stupid ugly baggy jeans and riding him until he's knotted up tight inside of Shane.
But there are protocols and procedures to follow. Shane read through the faxed documents again before he left for the airport. When they get up to his bedroom, he beelines for the bag of stuff the Bulls sent over.
Rozanov is right behind him before Shane can register it. His body presses up against the heat of Shane's back, his sweaty shirt against Rozanov's. "Can smell you," Rozanov says. His hands are on Shane's hips; his lips are against Shane's earlobe. He bites it, gently, working it between his teeth as Shane tries not to moan. "Think you should take your clothes off."
"Did they—" Shane's voice sounds weird, too high. It feels like he's standing on the precise of something, the moment before the roller coaster drops. He swallows. "Did they tell you what the requirements were?"
He feels Rozanov's lips curl into a smile. "Yes. Sexy old man Hollander tie me up," he purrs, "so big mean alpha cannot hurt you."
"I'm not old," Shane says reflexively even though next to Rozanov he feels ancient. He grabs the Bulls branded cuffs out of the bag and turns around. He works to clasp them onto the alpha's wrists without looking at Rozanov. Single minded focus, like when he's on the ice.
There's one on each wrist, with chains on both that he'll use to tie Rozanov to the slats on his bed frame. He had a call with Dan, the Bulls' equipment manager, last week to see which kind of cuff he needed.
There's a gag in the bag as well, meant to be taken off right when the alpha is supposed to bite the mating bond, but Shane leaves it there. He likes Rozanov's accent, wants to hear him moan.
He goes over to the bed. His movements feel awkward, his legs bowed like he's already taken a knot twice in one night and is walking to compensate. His back to Rozanov, he pulls off his shirt and folds it neatly, laying it on the edge of the bed and ignoring Rozanov's snort of laughter. He does the same to his pants before finally pulling off his tacky, soaked underwear. He goes into his closet to put them in the laundry basket.
He hears Rozanov moving, the metal fastener on the cuffs clinking against the D rings they're clipped into.
When he comes back into the bedroom, he sees Rozanov standing up against the dresser, his hands on the ledge, body open as if to invite Shane look at what you're getting.
His hard cock is long, thick, with enough loose skin at the base to suggest a big knot. He's uncut, something Shane's not familiar with. He picks up the packet of mating procedures the Bulls sent alongside the equipment and flips through it, pretending to read. Then he says, "I am on bed?"
Shane nods, swallows down the saliva that's gathered on in his mouth. "On your back."
Rozanov nods and stalks over the bed, flopping down in the middle and holding his wrists up. He winks. "Make it easy for my omega, hm?"
"Shut up," Shane says and rolls his eyes before straddling over Rozanov's torso and grabbing one of the chains so he can loop it around a slat.
Below him, with his other hand, Rozanov puts his nails on Shane's thigh. They're sharp as he drags them up, leaving white trails against Shane's skin towards the patch of hair he has above his cunt. His own dick is nestled there, peeking out from his folds, but Rozanov doesn't try to touch it. He scrapes his nails along Shane's hair and settles there, so close to Shane's cock that when he bucks his hips without thinking, Rozanov's fingers brush up against him. It lights up Shane's nerves.
"Oh God," he breathes, and Rozanov laughs a little underneath him, even though Shane heard him gasp too. He clicks the first fastener into place and grabs Rozanov's free hand harshly, pulling it so its tight up against his headboard, no more touching.
Rozanov flexes his fingers and says, "So I should just use my tongue?"
He sticks out his tongue, and Shane sighs before he shimmies his hips down towards Ilya's groin, sitting back a bit on his heels. Heat is thumping through his body, making him hyper aware of his pulse, the way he's breathing hard out of his mouth, the sweat dripping down his face, his abs, collecting in the back of his bent knees. There's alpha in the air, his scent consuming Shane.
The chains on the cuffs clink as Rozanov tries to move his hands. There's one moment of something flashing in his eyes, wild and nervous as he looks up at them, before he looks back at Shane and says casually, "Fine. You come on my cock. Next time, I lick you clean."
A bolt shoots through Shane's gut at the reminder—they'll be mated, after this, and there will be a next time and a time after that, and after that. Most of the omegas sleep around outside of their MLH contracted bonds while their alphas wait at home, but Shane's going to take Ilya a few times before he's tempted.
"Put your—your pussy on me first, get me messy," Rozanov says and hitches up one of his thighs so it's pressed against Shane. He gasps. Sweet pressure against his cunt, finally.
Any shred of self restraint he had left falls away, and he rocks against Rozanov's thigh as he chases his pleasure, spreading slick through his coarse, curly leg hair. "Yes," Rozanov says, and he sounds different too. His voice is deeper, accent thicker like he's losing his grasp on English. He babbles a string of Russian before he says, "Make me yours, cover me."
Shane whines a little, a pure omegan sound, high and quiet in the back of his throat. He presses harder into Rozanov's thigh and angles his hips so his cock is dragging there too. Rozanov keens beneath him, and the chains rattle again.
His orgasm comes hard and fast, his cunt clenching against nothing, his cock spurting onto Rozanov and getting his leg and balls messy. "Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov shudders as Shane's pussy keeps contracting against his leg.
They're both breathing heavy as Shane finishes throbbing. It didn't take the edge off his heat at all, his hips still moving on their own, jolting against Rozanov's thigh. Below him, Shane sees through blurry vision, Rozanov looking disheveled already—flushed, mouth open.
"Let me inside now," Rozanov demands.
Shane feels the command run down his spine. "Yeah," he says, "okay."
He takes the base of Rozanov's cock where his skin is still loose and overly sensitive. Rozanov hisses a little at the touch and grinds into Shane's hand. He tightens his grip and lets Rozanov fuck his hand until he's shivering beneath Shane and saying, "Come on, come on."
He lifts his hips and lines himself up, rubbing the tip of Rozanov's cock through his slick, letting it get soaked until finally he starts to sink down, the tip slowly stretching Shane wide.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov says. He's trying not to just spear up into Shane, he can tell. His hips are shuddering and grinding little circles that open Shane up more, but it feels so good that Shane isn't even tempted to get the other restraints, the ones meant to keep the alphas exactly where they're put.
Finally, Shane's seated on Rozanov's cock, and he sits up as he adjusts, his head thrown back, his chest heaving as he breathes in the lust-laden cinnamon scent. It goes down his throat like honey, thick and slow and sticky.
"Fucking move, Hollander," Rozanov says through gritted teeth.
"Fuck you," Shane says, breathless.
He hears the clink of the cuffs again as Rozanov tries to move, but before he can fully register it, Rozanov is rutting up into him, fucking Shane from the bottom, leaving him to bounce on his thick cock.
It punches a gasp out of him before he pinches Rozanov's hip to still him. The upjumped rookie might be here to steal his ice time, the C on his chest, but Shane's still got the upper hand here.
He sets a hard, fast pace, grinding his hips into Rozanov and clenching down on him, rocking back and forth as he does so Rozanov's cock rubs up against the spot inside him that makes his breath hitch.
"Fuck, fuck," Rozanov says, "Hollander. Captain."
Shane looks down at him. Kep-tin. And he's heard himself called that a million times, but it's never hit him like this.
He leans down and crashes his lips into Rozanov's as he keeps moving his hips. He can feel the knot starting to form, the decadent pop into his cunt as he works to thrust down onto it.
When their lips meet, Rozanov growls under his breath and darts his tongue out to trace Shane's bottom lip until he opens his mouth for him.
Rozanov's tongue in his mouth and his cock in his cunt. Shane moans, wantonly and unembarrassed. He's taken the knot before, a few times, but fucking has never felt like this—overwhelming, desperate.
Rozanov pulls back for a second and says, "Let me out." He tugs his hands against the cuffs. "Let me out before I knot."
Shane's moving without thinking, undoing the clasps on the first cuff. Rozanov's hand immediately comes to his ass, pulling at his skin and muscles, telling Shane how he wants him to move. He follows along and changes his pace and angle as Rozanov's fingers guide him.
He undoes the second clasp, and Rozanov is instantly rolling them over so Shane's back is pressed into the mattress, his legs wide open around Rozanov's body as he starts to fuck into Shane.
"Is okay?" Rozanov says, his lips back up against Shane's ear like earlier.
He sucks at the tender spot just behind Shane's earlobe as he answers, "Yeah."
It feels so good—Rozanov's lips on him and his erratic, deep pace, the way he has to shove his knot into Shane harder each time. He snakes a hand between them and starts jerking off Shane in rhythm with his thrusts and—
Shane's orgasm comes quick, and he groans loudly as he spills into Rozanov's hand. Rozanov shoves his knot into Shane one last time before coming deep inside him.
"Rozanov, now," he manages to say. "You gotta do it now."
Rozanov's hips still shifting, tiny movements now that Shane's cunt has him clutched up inside, he sets his teeth against Shane's skin and says, "You sure?"
"Yes," he says and is surprised to learn he means it, at least at the moment—come drunk and heat addled.
There's a blinding moment of pain as Rozanov sinks into the thin skin at the mating gland, his teeth sharp. Shane feels his neck get wet with blood, but beneath the pain there's something else.
A bond, just barely beginning, but already he feels more aware of Rozanov, like he can feel his pulse in his own body.
Rozanov keeps his teeth inside Shane until his knots goes down and he pulls out, leaving a mess behind on the sheets.