Chapter Text
Ilya woke with a sharp pain in his temple and a deep breath from the nightmare he’d been having in his sleep. He blinked with bleary eyes at the scenery around him and found that he was in his apartment in Boston, safe in bed and completely alone. With a soft groan, he rolled onto his back and dragged his palms over his face while he scrambled to figure out why he was having nightmares about his mother again.
He’d been doing good for a while there.
He dropped his arms to his sides and stared up at the bland ceiling of his bedroom while blinking slowly. Ilya didn’t need to look to know that the half drunk bottle of vodka from the night before was still sitting on his nightstand beside him. The dryness in his mouth also made itself known once the last tendrils of sleep slipped away from him.
With another huff to himself, Ilya peeled back the covers and sat up to make his way to the joined bathroom. The night before hadn’t really been something he was proud of. They’d played against New York and Ilya always hated playing against them because they were too fucking good. No passes connected, every shot was blocked, and the general togetherness of the team had been completely off on Boston’s side.
They’d gotten reamed by their coach before every man on the team scurried away to lick their wounds in private. For Ilya, he’d chosen the route more expected by the media these days. He’d gone out, found a club that played ear shattering music, received a messy yet quick blowjob from an eager omega fan, then got the fuck out of dodge to get wasted at home.
He was sure the media that had followed him from the club had captured his rather sloppy and sloshed appearance at some point. It was only a matter of time until the pictures were all over social media and Ilya was getting pulled into the coach’s office once more. They probably were already over social media, actually.
Ilya licked his lips before confronting his appearance in the mirror once he reached the bathroom. His blonde curls were a disaster on top of his head and the facial hair he hadn’t bothered to shave in a while looked scraggly and gross. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was splotchy from the alcohol that was trying to leave his system.
All in all, he looked like a real piece of work.
Ilya ran a nervous hand through his hair and turned to the shower, not wanting to look at himself anymore, when his phone began to vibrate somewhere in the distance behind him. He swore softly under his breath in Russian, then pushed his naked body back out into the bedroom to find the damn thing.
He tore through the covers, lifted pillows, then finally found the nuisance on the floor by the wooden base of the bed. Ilya accepted the call without looking at who exactly was reaching out and asked impatiently, “Yes?” to whoever was on the other end.
There came a scoff in response that was undeniably Cook’s—the assistant coach for the Boston Bears—followed by, “Hello to you too, Rozanov. Coach wants to see you this morning at ten, so whatever you’re doing, wrap it up and get down here.”
Ilya felt his stomach sink slightly inside of him at the implication of what a meeting with Hayes meant, but he accepted anyway with a grumble of agreement to the beta who was far higher up on the hierarchy than Ilya was, regardless of his designation. He tossed his phone back onto the bed, then returned to the shower that was still waiting for him to enter.
As the hot water flowed over his body only a few minutes later, Ilya let his mind turn back to the thoughts he’d been having about his mother. It was the same one he had almost every time he dreamed about her. She’d be in the hammock, swinging and alive, and reach out to hold his hand for just a little while before her eyes would close, her grip would become loose, and all Ilya could do was stand there and plead for her to wake up.
There was probably someone out there that would tell him the reason for his irresponsible actions like hooking up with random omegas and killing his liver with alcohol was directly tied to finding his mother dead, but Ilya didn’t want to hear it.
He just wanted to focus on hockey. Sue him if he needed to drown out his thoughts sometimes.
By the time Ilya showed up to the training facility forty minutes later, the nerves inside of his stomach had doubled and the lack of cars in the parking lot only made him fret further. Coach Hayes wasn’t a cruel man, but he was a serious one. If he was calling Ilya in on an off day to have a private conversation, it most likely wasn’t something light topic-wise.
Ilya shut the door to the newest sports car he’d gotten and shoved his hands into his jeans as he headed towards the front doors. It was just as quiet inside as it was outside, though Ilya knew his way around like the back of his hand and refused to let the uneasiness of the empty hallways turn him around directionally.
He eventually made it to the coaching staff corridor and slowly approached the door with HEAD COACH engraved on a golden plaque attached to it. Ilya lifted his hand and knocked twice before reaching for the door handle and cracking it open. Hayes was sitting inside slumped over his keyboard while he scrolled through some kind of forum on the desktop in front of him.
“Sit down, Rozanov,” Hayes greeted without looking away. Ilya swallowed thickly and did as he was told while Hayes pulled himself away from whatever he was looking at to eye Ilya. The alpha across from him was not one that Ilya ever wanted to challenge. Hayes was older with the wrinkles and grey hairs to prove it, but his athletic build and sharp eyes suggested he could easily best Ilya in any kind of disagreement—physical, verbal, or mental.
Ilya dipped his head and lowered his eyes in a show of respect to the other alpha when Hayes finally met his gaze. “You’ve got more pictures circulating. I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing what I just saw splashed across the internet, Ilya. The orders are coming from management at this point and I don’t have a choice in what I’m about to tell you, but I have to say, I think it’s the right move,” Hayes started cryptically.
Ilya shifted in his seat and nodded while his entire body went numb from fingers to toes. They were going to let him go, terminate his contract, trade him to a new team, send him to rehab—
“We’re bringing in a team omega for you.”
Ilya immediately stopped breathing from where he was sitting across from Hayes. He blinked once, twice, then parted his lips despite not knowing what to say. If he were to speak, Ilya wasn’t even sure it would be English that came out of his mouth. Hayes just watched him with a steady expression that gave away nothing.
When it was clear Ilya wasn’t going to say anything, Hayes tilted his head to the side and shook it gently. “This has to stop. You want to play here? Stay on this team? You need a chaperone that isn’t going to be looked at twice by the media. Team omegas come in all the time for reasons just like this and worse. No more going out, no more getting wasted, and no more getting photographed with random fuckin’ omegas.”
Ilya finally sucked in a breath and found that he felt sick. To put it simply, team omegas acted much like a chaperone who just happened to be hired by management for alphas that needed someone to watch over them. They could serve for whatever reason—calm down a stressed captain during playoffs, bring a hot-headed enforcer to a state of peace, be a voice of reason to an alpha that didn’t make the best choices—anything.
They had abilities with their designation that alphas just didn’t have. They’d been used by the league since the start of the goddamn sport to get wild alphas under control and focused on their teams. The one thing they weren’t to be used for, however, was sex. Which meant that if Ilya was being assigned a team omega, it meant no sex period.
Considering getting wasted was also out of the picture as well, Ilya was going to be left with no outlets for his emotions thanks to the hiring of this new chaperone. Exercise and practice only did so much for him these days while the thoughts of his deceased mother and his father’s declining health plagued his existence. Even Andrei had started to grate on Ilya’s nerves recently by constantly asking for more and more money.
“Management got you a good one—a Canadian omega. Responsible, kind, patient. Safe. He’ll keep you out of trouble and focused for the rest of the season. Playoffs are around the corner, Rozanov, and we can’t take the chance,” Hayes explained severely.
Ilya just nodded dumbly at his coach and watched as Hayes twisted towards his computer. He clicked on a few different tabs, following one link to another, until he found whatever message he’d been looking for.
“Management says he’ll be here in two days. His name is Shane Hollander, he’s your age, and he’s from Montreal. You’ll be his ninth alpha that he’s worked with, but his fourth at the NHL level. If it makes you feel any better, he was the team alpha for Ryan Price at one point, so he can handle your shit. This is nonnegotiable, Rozanov. Do you understand?” Hayes asked after giving Ilya some basic information.
Ilya nodded and took in a shaky, yet steadying breath. This was happening. There would be no getting out of this, then.
“Can I ask a few questions?” Ilya questioned once he managed to find his voice. Hayes nodded and sat back in his chair as he folded his hands across his stomach expectantly. “Will he be living with me? Will it be… that close he is watching me?”
“Unless you don’t have a guest room, yes. He’ll be staying with you. You know how these contracts go, though. No sex, Rozanov. That’s not what he’s there for. You feel like going out? He’s stopping you at the door. You want to get wasted? He’s putting the bottle away. You want to make a bad decision in public? He’s making sure that no the fuck you aren’t.”
Ilya nodded quickly and flared his nostrils while thinking of sharing his space with an omega he didn’t know. There’d be pheromones all over his apartment now—invisible little chemtrails in the air that put him in a constant state of calm—and he’d have no choice but to live in them. Would it take away the nightmares though? He quickly shoved down the thought and met the eyes of Hayes across from him once more.
“How long?”
Hayes shrugged, never looking away from Ilya in a display of the clear power imbalance between them at this moment, and countered, “That depends on you. Could be a month, could be the rest of the season. Until shit like this stops happening in the media, he stays. You’re an alpha—a leader. Act like it.”
Ilya ducked his head and dropped his eyes again while the back of his neck burned in shame. He knew his scent probably reeked of something sour in the confined office space from his humiliation, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He deserved this, so he would sit there in his wilting scent until Hayes let him go.
The alpha across from him just sighed and leaned forward to clap a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Look, I know you’ve got shit going on, okay? I think everyone on the team knows you’re working through shit on your own, but you need help. It stays private until it can’t stay private anymore, got it? This is a last ditch effort before management takes more drastic efforts.”
“I understand,” Ilya murmured. Hayes was quiet for a moment as he looked Ilya over, but he didn’t seem to find anything that warranted another small speech, so he just patted Ilya a few more times then jerked his head to the door.
“You’ll understand then that you’re also scratched tomorrow night. What you’ll be doing is staying home and getting your place ready for Shane when he gets there. Now go home, Rozanov. We’ll see you for practice Sunday morning.”
Ilya didn’t think it could get any worse, and just like that, it had. His shoulders physically slumped and Ilya knew he’d been in a low state of mind for the rest of the day because of everything that had just been dumped on him. No game tomorrow, new chaperone omega, shared apartment, goodbye alcohol and anonymous sex.
He rose from his seat, numbly shook Hayes’ hand, then turned and left the office without another word. Had the pictures really been that bad? Was his deteriorating mental state really that obvious? He’d been doing relatively good on the ice this season aside from the blowout that that was yesterday’s game, so it wasn’t like all of this was affecting his ability to play.
Or, well, not yet anyway.
Ilya pulled out his phone as soon as he got into his car and immediately went to the internet to search ilya rozanov clubbing in the search engine. Almost instantly, news articles of his scandalous behavior from last night with a dozen pictures taken from inside the hazy club splashed themselves across his screen.
He bit down on his bottom lip as he scrolled through them and found the fuzzy yet damning evidence of him in the hallway with his pants shoved to his thighs and an omega on her knees blowing him. Ilya shut off the phone quickly and tossed it to the side with a shuddering breath.
What a fucking idiot.
He drove home in silence—only his thoughts to keep him company and drown out the ringing quiet.
*****
Shane stared out the window of the airplane, his warm cheek supported by the palm that awkwardly kept him from getting jostled too hard by the plastic wall next to him. He’d gotten the call for the Rozanov contract two days ago and he couldn’t lie, he was nervous. He’d seen all the news articles about Rozanov and it didn’t take him too long to figure out that his assistance was needed for the very sleazy public reputation the alpha had.
Shane had dealt with hot-head alphas in the past, first in junior hockey and now at the professional level, but something seemed a little more… raw with this one. He couldn't place his finger on what exactly it was, though, and it had been bothering him the past two days as he packed for a long-term stay with yet another alpha.
He’d done his research to try to prepare himself as best as possible, though.
Ilya Rozanov was from Russia and had been drafted first overall to the Boston Bears when he was eighteen. He had a brother, a father, and a step-mother, all of whom were still in Russia. His mother had passed away when he was younger and Ilya had thrown himself into hockey hard enough that he represented the Russian team in the world juniors championship as captain. His success there was what had led him to Boston where he was the captain there now too.
He lived alone despite the frequent news reports of sharing his time with random omegas from miscellaneous bars or clubs. There had been a few articles online that had hinted at a possible drinking problem as well, but nothing had been confirmed. In contrast, Rozanov was focused on the ice, had led his team to winning a cup already, and was in search of another one.
He was somewhat aggressive on the ice when needed to be and had quite the reputation for getting under opposing players’ skin with his words. His English was very good in all of the videos Shane had watched, though his Russian had been just as addictive to listen to.
Part of Shane wondered if this was going to be a good idea. He’d been a great team omega for other players and was considered to be a star recommendation for teams based on his success in his contracts, but again, this felt different.
He watched as the plane drifted lower and lower until the city of Boston came more into focus beneath the aircraft. Shane closed his eyes when the plane finally touched down with a sharp jerk followed by the harsh rattling of the plane slowing down quickly. For as many flights as he’d been on in his life, they never seemed to get easier.
The process of getting off the plane was slow and monotonous. He slung his bag of clothes over one shoulder and grabbed his additional carry-on full of clothes from the overhead bin, then trailed behind the slow moving line to exit the aircraft that had ferried him from one country to another. Baggage claim was another waiting game for his two checked luggages that were also carrying clothes, shoes, toiletries, and a few other things Shane refused to leave behind in Montreal.
Rozanov was supposed to be picking him up from the airport after the team’s morning practice, but Shane hadn’t received any messages from the Russian man on his phone yet and was halfway convinced that he’d just be getting a taxi to the address on Rozanov’s file instead.
The lights came on at the carousel along with a buzzer and Shane watched with bored eyes as the multicolored bags slid down to be picked up. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there for, but at some point, a large silhouette had approached from behind and made itself comfortable in his shadow. Shane felt the pinpricks of being stared at on the back of his neck first which made him look over his shoulder nervously, then the feeling of shock followed second.
Ilya Rozanov stood before him in all of his alpha glory with a calculating expression on his face and searching eyes. “Shane Hollander,” he greeted in the same thick accent Shane had listened to on his phone. The way the alpha said his name sent a rolling wave of something Shane didn’t want to name through his body and he forced himself to ignore it as he turned fully around.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he greeted. Shane stuck out his hand to the alpha, refusing to look away from the intense gaze on him, and waited for Rozanov to accept his introduction. Rozanov slid his palm against Shane’s and shook it twice before dropping Shane’s hand like it had been something he really hadn't wanted to touch.
“You get your bags yet?” Rozanov asked as he pulled his eyes away from Shane to look in the direction of the belt. Shane turned and watched as one of his bags slid down the ramp at that exact moment followed by the other a second later. It was a good distraction from the blatant fact that Ilya Rozanov was stunning.
Blonde curls, tanned skin, hazel eyes, sharp bone structure, thick lips, and athletic body—he was sinfully gorgeous and Shane could get lost in staring at him if he wasn’t careful. Shane had been around his share of attractive alphas, especially when he did contract work with hockey players, but Ilya Rozanov was in a league of his own. He nearly took the damn breath out of Shane’s lungs, that’s how gravitational the Russian man’s pull was.
Shane didn’t even want to acknowledge his scent either. That could be appreciated later when he was alone.
“That’s them,” Shane pointed out with a cough once he pulled himself from his straying thoughts. Before he could head over, Rozanov passed him and easily grabbed both bags from the belt despite the fact they had to weigh a ton. Shane felt his mouth go dry at the sight of the alpha getting his bags for him with his obnoxiously muscular arms. Okay, he got the damn point. Ilya Rozanov was a hot athletic alpha with an insane presence—whatever.
He didn’t mean anything special.
Rozanov walked over to Shane with both bags rolling behind him and jerked his head in the direction of the exit doors a moment later. “Come. I left the car running outside with no driver. I’d really like to not get a ticket for that,” he instructed. Shane nodded quickly, internally scolding the action from the alpha, and followed behind towards the sports car that had, sure enough, been left unattended in the pick up lane.
It was a bit of a puzzle they had to figure out when it came to shoving Shane’s bags inside of the tight space, but they made it work. Then it was just the two of them in the confined car for a long drive to Rozanov’s apartment. Shane shifted uncomfortably in the passenger’s seat and decided to make the first move in conversation.
“I just want to say that I’m going to do my best to make this not feel like a prison sentence. You’re a grown adult and your own person. There are going to be things that I can’t let you do, I know, but they’re your team’s orders, not mine. I’m here to help you find other ways to calm down or relax or unwind. I’m also here to be someone you can talk to if you want. This doesn’t have to be something we’re both miserable with,” he rambled.
Rozanov gave him a sidelong glance and nodded. “Okay,” he replied simply.
Shane just blinked at him, stunned by the short and nonchalant response. Okay, so that’s how this was going to be then. Shane licked his lips and tried his next approach. “Is there anything you like to do besides what I’m here to prevent from happening? Things I could suggest you do instead when you start to get those other desires?”
Rozanov snorted at that and smirked more to himself than Shane as he watched the road in front of him. “If I liked anything else that wasn’t bad in the media’s eyes, I would be doing that, Hollander,” he countered roguishly. Shane could feel his cheeks burning, especially at the call out of his last name, and he admitted the defeat on that one.
That had been a stupid question to ask anyway.
He resigned himself then to replying the same way Rozanov had after his initial spiel before turning his attention to the car window to watch the Massachusetts scenery pass them by. He could be a better team omega later when he settled somewhat from the flight. For now, he could admire Massachusetts. Everything was a blend of historical and modern with narrow roads, scattered greenery, brick accents, grey statues, and towering buildings. It was a place Shane could appreciate while he was here.
So Shane tucked himself into the sports car and simply stared at all Boston had to offer while Rozanov drove beside him, completely unaware of the secretive looks he was getting from the alpha he’d be sharing the rest of the hockey season with.