Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

It started like any other day off.

 

Shane shifted slightly, softly moaning into the pillow buried against his face. He turned his head away from the bright sunlight hitting his sensitive eyes. Groggily, he hugged his pillow and edged away from the large bay windows, positioning himself toward Ilya. Ilya, sleeping on his stomach with an arm draped over Shane, muttered irritably as Shane moved.

"Shane," Ilya muttered irritably, turning to face him.

"Mmm-" Shane responded with a soft hum before yawning quietly. His eyes slowly opened, gaze drifting over Ilya's relaxed figure.

"Stop moving. Need my beauty sleep," Ilya mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.

Shane's eyes crinkled with a soft smile. He reached out, tucking a soft curl behind Ilya's ear. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Ilya's forehead. He shifted, then pulled away from Ilya's grasp. His bare feet met the cool wooden floor. Those feet were quickly shoved into a pair of house shoes. He walked to the bathroom, lazily scratching his bare stomach as he pulled his sweatpants up, contemplating what today might hold.

As Shane headed to the kitchen, he was distracted by his phone buzzing. He looked annoyed as he retrieved it from his pocket. There was one new notification: a message from Hayden Pike.

 

 

 

His phone buzzed again, and Shane saw two smiling girls: Jade and Ruby. They wore Disney Princess dresses, with Jade as Elsa and Ruby as Anna. Shane leaned on the counter, zooming in on the photo with a smile. Quietly, Ilya appeared and wrapped an arm around Shane.

"Those my nieces? They got the package?" Ilya hummed, resting his chin on Shane's shoulder as he studied the photo. He leaned against Shane, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Shane was startled. "Fuck, Ilya," he gasped before shaking his head. "Yeah, they got it. Just look at them." Shane grinned, holding up his phone for Ilya to see. Ilya's gaze lingered on the photo, softness evident in his eyes as he touched Shane. Shane relaxed, put away his phone, and then faced Ilya directly. Gently cupping Ilya's cheek, Shane leaned in and softly kissed him on the lips.

Ilya responded in kind, pressing his lips to Shane's with equal ease. He tilted his head, sighing into the kiss as Shane leaned back against the counter. Shane loved these mornings—slow, easy kisses between lovers in the dawn. Shane pulled away, his eyes opening to find Ilya already studying his face.

"I can get used to this," Ilya said, a smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned down, peppering Shane's neck with open-mouthed kisses. Shane squealed, laughing as Ilya nipped Shane's jaw.

"Ilya-" he giggled, reaching for his phone, "I've got to text Hayden back."

"Nope, you're mine. No Pike." Ilya growled playfully, his hands coming up and gripping Shane's waist.

"At least let me make breakfast before you jump my bones," Shane huffed in fond exasperation.

"No bones are being jumped, yes?" Ilya said, faux innocence dripping from his voice. "Can I not appreciate my handsome husband, hm?" Shane arched an eyebrow at Ilya, his face incredulous. Ilya rolled his eyes.

"Right," Shane drawled, unconvinced. "Because pinning me against the counter is a perfectly normal way to appreciate someone."

Ilya's grin turned unapologetic as his hands slid down to rest on Shane's hips. "You make it hard to behave."

"That sounds like a you problem."

"Mmm, could be yours, too." Ilya waggled a brow at Shane, who scoffed.

"Move, you absolute brute. No funny business before breakfast. I'm hungry." Shane shooed Ilya away before making his way to the fridge.

"Not funny business. Am not laughing," Ilya muttered to himself, looking cowed as he padded toward the living room. His eyes still shimmered with amusement as he flopped onto the couch.

Shane snorted at Ilya, shaking his head as he pulled two bowls from the cupboard. Yogurt, fruit, and granola were plated with artistic precision, even though Shane knew Ilya would stir the yogurt into a homogeneous mixture anyway.

Shane walked into the living room, his house shoes quietly clacking against the hardwood floor. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Ilya's forehead. His gaze fell on Ilya's phone, which was displaying a mobile game. A frown settled on his face.

"What are you playing?" Shane asked as he placed the bowl in Ilya's lap.

Ilya's eyes never left the screen as his hand reached down to stir the yogurt. "Nothing."

"It's obviously something," Shane said, huffing fondly. He settled beside Ilya, with the bowl resting in his lap. He scooped a grape slice onto the spoon, then guided it toward some granola. With equal amounts of yogurt, grape, and granola on his spoon, he lifted it to his mouth. A victory jingle chirped from Ilya's phone. Bright, animated vegetables danced across the screen. Shane blinked. "Are you playing a farming game?"

"No," Ilya swiped his phone with one hand while shoving a mouthful of yogurt into his mouth, "Am managing agricultural resources."

"You are harvesting carrots," Shane said, exasperated.

"These are strawberries," Ilya said, deeply offended.

Shane rolled his eyes as he turned toward the window, watching as birds flew over the quiet lake. "How long have you been playing?" He asked, amusement lacing his tone.

"Three weeks," Ilya muttered. Shane failed to hide a snort as Ilya huffed. "Stared ironically, but now…" he trailed off, then took a large bite of yogurt, chewing noisily on the granola.

"Now?" Shane pressed.

"Now, Beatrice is expecting her second goat, and if I don't finish upgrading this barn by tomorrow, winter will destroy everything," Ilya said, his face serious.

Shane stared at Ilya, exasperation evident on his face. Ilya stared back, his face serious.

"It's life or death, Shane." Ilya said, nodding slightly, "Yes, you understand?"

Shane shook his head, "Sure," he answered simply as he continued to eat his breakfast. A soft smile was on his face. Ilya watched him carefully for a second, clearly trying to determine whether Shane was mocking him.

"You do not sound supportive."

"I'm incredibly supportive," Shane replied around a bite of yogurt.

"I fed them every morning."

"They are pixels."

"They rely on me." Shane failed spectacularly at hiding his grin.

Ilya narrowed his eyes immediately. "You think this is funny."

"I think," Shane said carefully, setting his bowl down, "that you bullied me for an entire year over Stardew Valley just to become a mother of livestock."

Ilya looked deeply offended by that description. "I am a very successful farmer."

"That's true," Shane conceded solemnly. "You've come so far."

Ilya huffed, but he shifted closer until his knee pressed against Shane's. Shane glanced down at it fondly, then looked back up at him. Ilya rested his head on Shane's shoulder as he planted more strawberries.

Shane finished his breakfast, so he opted to watch Ilya play his game. His fingers carded through Ilya's hair as the Russian tapped his screen and occasionally took bites of his breakfast.

Once both bowls were empty, Shane carefully set them on the coffee table. He shifted them, letting Ilya rest his head on Shane's chest. Soon, Ilya grew bored with the game. Ilya rolled over, hovering over Shane.

"It is after breakfast," Ilya said, voice dropping an octave, as he grinned wolfishly.

Shane snorted, his hand reaching up to settle on Ilya's side. He slid his hand up, rubbing his thumb gently over the other's ribs. "You're ridiculous," he murmured fondly, eyes full of love. Ilya was ridiculous, but he loved him for it.

"Mmm," Ilya agreed, pressing a soft kiss to Shane's lips. Shane responded in kind, his eyes fluttering closed as they kissed lazily on the couch. Ilya held himself over Shane, arms resting on either side of Shane.

Ilya broke the kiss, nuzzling Shane's head to the side as he pressed kisses along the column of Shane's neck. Shane whimpered, his unoccupied hand rising to tangle in Ilya's curls.

"I-Ilya…" Shane whimpered, breath hitching as Ilya playfully nipped at Shane's ear.

"You look so pretty under me, Hollander," Ilya muttered, a playful lilt to his voice. "So pretty and needy." He purred.

Shane opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by a moan. Ilya palmed Shane through his sweatpants, smirking devilishly down at him. "Fuck, Ilya." He breathed, stomach tightening as Ilya leaned down to bite at his neck.

"So… responsive." Ilya mused as he pulled his hand away. One pleasure was traded for another as Ilya pressed their hips together. "Love the little sounds you make." He mused.

Shane's hands fell to Ilya's hips as he ground against Ilya. "Ilya…" Shane whined again, breath hitching as he kissed Ilya's mouth once more. They kissed feverishly, panting into each other's mouths as their hips bucked against one another.

"Need…" Shane whimpered as their lips parted. Ilya nodded jerkily, grabbing Shane and hauling him into his lap.

They continued to kiss, Ilya's hands roaming over Shane's body. His hands wander lower, gripping Shane's bottom, then sliding up to caress Shane's arms. Shane whimpers softly as his arms wrap around Ilya's neck.

Ilya gripped Shane's sweatpants, pulling them down just below the swell of Shane's ass. He hummed in appreciation, running his hands over the warm flesh. Shane shivered at the contact. Ilya shoved his plaid sleep pants down with far less grace, lifting his hips before settling back down. Shane laughed, pulling away as Ilya pulled his boxers down.

Ilya made quick work of gripping both their cocks together. Shane shifted forward, whimpering at the friction. "Fuck-" Ilya muttered before spitting into his hand. He wrapped his hand around them once more.

A long moan left Shane, his head falling against Ilya's shoulder. Likewise, Ilya breathed out shakily before gripping his free hand into Shane's hair, pulling him into a searing kiss. The two hockey players rutted against each other, moaning and panting into each other's mouths as Ilya stroked their cocks together.

Soon, Shane was gripping onto Ilya's shoulders. The obscene squelching sound of Ilya's hands wandering lower at rocking their cocks in tandem was driving Shane insane. "I… I'm…" Shane groaned, face red from exertion. Heat pooled in his abdomen, his stomach clenching.

"Me too." Ilya clenched his jaw, the muscle in his temple bulging with the effort. He held Shane against him, panting heavily as Shane moaned in his ear.

Shane came first, a low moan falling out of him as his hips stuttered, painting Ilya's abdomen with cum. Ilya followed soon after, tossing his head back against the couch as his hand slowed. Both panted heavily, pressed together as they came down from their high. Ilya let out a soft chuckle, his arm wrapped around Shane as he gazed up at him.

"What?" Shane said, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Nothing, I… I really love you." Ilya breathed, his eyes reverent. "And your cum is all over me. You are messy." He smirked.

Shane groaned, quickly tucking himself back into his sweatpants. "Moment ruined, thank you, Ilya."

Ilya looked entirely unapologetic as he squeezed Shane's bottom. "Oh, no," he drawled, tightening his arm around Shane before Shane could pull too far away. Ilya's grin widened as he glanced down at himself with exaggerated drama. "Look at this. Tragic. I've been attacked in my own living room."

Shane buried his burning face in the crook of Ilya's neck with an embarrassed groan. "You're the worst."

"And yet," Ilya hummed, rubbing slow circles into Shane's back, "you continue to climb into my lap voluntarily."

"That feels irrelevant right now."

"It feels relevant."

Shane tried to glare at him again, but it melted the second Ilya kissed the corner of his forehead, gentler this time. The teasing softened at the edges, replaced by something warm and fond that always caught Shane off guard.

Ilya murmured. "I love you."

Shane's expression immediately melted despite himself. "I love you too..."

Ilya pressed another kiss to his hairline before glancing downward again. "You should get me a towel."

Shane sighed, smiling warmly as he stood. He collected the forgotten bowls and headed into the kitchen. Placing the bowls in the sink, he then grabbed a hand towel. After wetting it, he brought it to his stomach and wiped away the spend. He then moved toward the living room and stood at the top of the stairs leading to the couch. A soft splat sounded as the towel hit Ilya's bare chest. The Russian looked up with a mixture of exasperation.

"Really?" He asked, holding up the towel as if it personally offended him. Shane shrugged and grinned, turning back toward the kitchen to wash the two bowls.

The day was spent relaxing on the couch. Shane enjoyed his days off but often felt restless by the afternoon. Meanwhile, Ilya had fully settled into the comfort of the couch. Shane had pulled on a pair of joggers and an old cotton T-shirt. He tied the laces on a pair of Nike trainers when Ilya frowned from his blanket fortress.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, the jingle from his farm game playing in the background.

"Going on a little run. I need some air," Shane said, walking toward the sliding glass door. Ilya, placated, gave a little wave, his attention back on his game. Shane rolled his eyes as he shut the door.

One of the reasons why Shane loved the cottage so much was the foot trails around the lake. Natural paths from years of use carved their way through the land around the lake. The forest surrounding the lake was quiet this evening, save for the soft call of a loon somewhere on the water.

Shane jogged down the path, his feet beating a quiet rhythm as he focused on his breathing. The cool evening air burned pleasantly in his lungs as he ran, damp earth crunching softly beneath his shoes. The air around him carried the scents of pine and lake water, clean and familiar in a way that made something in his chest loosen every time he came here. The cottage sat far enough from everything else that the world felt quieter here. Simpler. His breath came steadily as he rounded a bend in the trail, the lake briefly visible through the trees. The setting sun painted the water gold, ripples glimmering between the trunks.

Shane slowed slightly, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with the hem of his shirt. His muscles ached pleasantly from the run, but he welcomed it. It gave him something to focus on besides the constant noise in his head.

That quiet held for only a moment longer.

It wasn't dramatic at first—just a subtle wrongness in the air, as if the woods had shifted from one foot to the other. The loon call didn't echo again. Even the insects seemed to hesitate.

Shane paused. A faint sound moved through the underbrush, neither quite a growl nor anything human. Shane's pulse pounded loudly in his ears.

It was large. Wrongly large.

Initially, his mind tried to interpret it as a bear. However, the shape didn't match. Its limbs were too precisely defined and sharply angled. Shane slowly stepped backward, and the creature mirrored his movement. Suddenly, it moved quickly.

Shane barely time to react before he instinctively threw himself sideways off the trail, crashing into wet leaves and roots. Pain shot through his shoulder upon impact, but adrenaline masked it immediately. He quickly scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, with his trainers slipping on the forest floor. Behind him, branches broke sharply, sounding like twigs snapping.

He ran.

The forest blurred, trunks whipping past, the lake flashing through gaps of foliage. Shane's breath tore in and out of him now, rhythm gone, replaced by the desperate need to survive. Something heavy hit the ground behind him. Closer.

Too close.

Shane risked a glance over his shoulder.

The creature was on all fours now, moving with terrifying ease through the terrain, closing the distance. A shadow surged beside him.

Shane twisted just in time to dodge snapping jaws that missed him, catching only air where his arm had been a second earlier. Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky the next moment. A paw slashed across his back, and Shane yelped, desperately pumping his legs faster. His eyes were fixed on the edge of the forest. He could see the cottage; he just needed to reach it a little more.

The only luck Shane seemed to have was that the beast was reluctant to venture past the forest's edge. Taking full advantage of this, Shane scrambled up the steps of the patio and slammed into the glass sliding door. His fingers scrambled for purchase before yanking it open. Then, once he was safely in the cottage, he yanked it closed.

The moment the sliding door slammed shut, the cottage was filled with its sound—glass rattling in the frame, the sharp scrape of wood on track, and Shane's ragged breathing as he nearly fell inside.

Ilya was already on his feet.

"What—" he started, voice sharp with alarm, but it died the moment he saw Shane.

Shane stood just inside the threshold, chest heaving, one hand still clasped around the door handle like he wasn't convinced it would stay shut. His eyes were wide, hair damp with sweat, shirt half-shredded.

"Shane." Ilya breathed, hands hovering over the claw marks across Shane's back. "What happened?" He demanded.

Chapter Text

Shane ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. "I don't fucking know," he said, eyes wild with panic. "It was this beast, and it was chasing me. I've never seen anything like it before."

A sinking feeling welled in Ilya's gut. He shook his head. "You need to be cleaned up," he said, his voice full of concern. The duo walked to the bathroom, the air silent and charged. Ilya pulled out a washcloth and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He frowned at it. "You think this is enough? Should we go to ER?"

"No," Shane cut him off sharply before softening his tone. "No, I... it should be okay. Let's clean the wounds first, then I'll take a shower. It should be fine." He repeated, as if trying to reassure himself.

Ilya's frown grew deeper, but he realized he couldn’t persuade Shane while he was upset. He nodded slightly and soaked the rag in hydrogen peroxide. Shane took off his shirt and leaned against the counter, as the antiseptic burned and foamed, reacting with the blood from the wound.

"Fuck," Shane grunted, curling his toes as he leaned further forward. "That burns." Ilya silently kept wiping the wound; his stomach churned with nausea as the lacerations oozed. Shane straightened up, carefully pushing the cloth aside. "I'm going to take a shower to wash away the rest," he said, his face showing pain.

"Yeah." Ilya couldn't think of his usual flirty comeback whenever Shane brought up a shower.

Shane stepped back from Ilya, his face tense as he headed toward the shower. It was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a rainfall showerhead. However, Shane couldn't enjoy it right now, as his attention was on the burning sensation spreading down his back. Ilya lingered just outside the shower, his face etched with concern.

"Don't worry about me," Shane began. "The key to wound care is cleaning, isn't it?" He attempted a smile at Ilya, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Ilya understood Shane's reluctance to visit the hospital. Tomorrow marked Shane's first practice with the Centaurs. "Shane..." Ilya's gaze shifted to the scratches on his husband's back, his brow knitting slightly. Although they didn't look severe now that the water had rinsed away the blood and dirt, it was still right for Shane to be examined by a medical professional.

"Ilya," Shane repeated, almost petulant as he looked through the quickly fogging glass. "I'm fine. I need to clean it and put on some Neosporin. I can't miss my first practice."

Ilya shook his head as he pulled down his flannel pants and opened the shower door. He stepped in behind Shane, unable to look away from the wounds on his love's back. Gently, he began cleaning around them, his hand resting on Shane's hip. "I'll kill whatever beast did this to you..." Ilya murmured softly.

Shane shook his head, "No, Ilya. It was just some wolf." Even when he said it aloud, Shane couldn't convince himself. "It was just doing what wolves do," he shrugged, glancing back at Ilya.

"Is dangerous," Ilya said softly. "No one touches my velosiped."

Shane paused, thoughtful. "Your... bike?"

Ilya grinned and nodded, while Shane rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Da, you like?"

"No," Shane replied, turning away but betraying a slight smile.

Ilya chuckled as he pulled his hand away from Shane. The two focused on cleaning up, the shower's noise drowning out any lingering conversation. The couple was clearly ready for bed.

Shane sighed as he pulled up the covers and lay down on the soft cotton sheets. Since lying on his back was painful, he chose to sleep on his stomach. Ilya, usually a stomach sleeper, appeared to claim that position tonight. As if summoned, Ilya settled into the bed, scooting closer to be in Shane's personal space. He smiled softly at him.

"Good night, moya lyubov," Ilya murmured, then pressed his lips to Shane.

Shane lifted his head slightly and kissed him back. "Good night," he said as their lips parted, his face inches from Ilya's. He smiled back, eyes brimming with love for his husband.

Together, they slept peacefully.

 

When Shane awoke that morning, he was drenched in sweat. The bed around him was damp. Shane stood quickly but was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He groaned, holding his head as he leaned on the nightstand. Pressing his forehead against the cool wood, he breathed shakily. Sweat continued to bead on his forehead. On shaky legs, Shane wandered into the bathroom. He grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and dragged it over the warm skin of his face. He sighed heavily, finding a small amount of relief in the motion. He rifled through the drawer, looking for a thermometer. Once he had found the device, he unwrapped it and pushed it under his tongue. He stared at himself in the mirror, towel in one hand, thermometer in his mouth, sweat rolling down his face. He turned, trying to look at his back. His brow furrowed as his eyes traced four long, angry pink scars. He tilted his head, confused as he studied them.

Before he could think too long, the thermometer chirped. 101.4 F. Shane shook his head, shoved the device back into the drawer, and closed it much harder than necessary. He crossed the bathroom toward the closet and pushed it open with a sigh. He grabbed the first pair of pants he saw—a pair of Reebok joggers, courtesy of his brand deal. The shirt matched, of course, but he grabbed an Ottawa Centaurs hoodie to pull on top of it. Shoving his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, he turned to walk out of the closet. He bumped into Ilya, who was frowning.

"Love, you are sweating," he said, cupping Shane's face in his hands and inspecting him. Shane clenched his jaw, annoyance bubbling to the surface.

"I'm fine," he snapped, pushing past his husband. Ilya's frown deepened. Shane wasn't usually the type to be snappish or rude. He bit his bottom lip, worry flickering across his face as he watched Shane leave the bathroom.

Shane entered the kitchen, his stomach aching more than usual for this early time. He frowned as he prepared his morning oatmeal, stirring it with little enthusiasm. That's when Ilya saw Shane staring at his lumpy cereal. Shane looked up, meeting Ilya's gaze, then looked down again. "Sorry about earlier. I don't know what came over me," he said, sighing and worriedly biting his lip.

Ilya shook his head, smiling softly as he draped himself over Shane's back. He pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Is okay." He mumbled into his ear softly, "Just worried about you. Oh-" He backed away suddenly. "Sorry, how is your back?"

Shane's hand twitched around the spoon.

"It's…" He hesitated, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the ache out. "It's fine. Just tight."

"Tight," Ilya repeated, then moved closer, squinting. "You're sweating, snapping at me, and acting like you're okay. Is not 'fine,' Hollander.

Shane let out a breathy laugh. "You're so dramatic. I got scratched by a wolf. It looks worse than it is."

"Oh, da, of course," Ilya said dryly. "Random beast in forest gives you racing stripe down back, and you say is 'nothing.'" He hooked two fingers in the edge of Shane's hoodie. "Lift."

"Ilya—"

"Lift," Ilya repeated, leaving no argument.

With a put-upon sigh, Shane set the spoon down and tugged the hoodie and T-shirt up, exposing the bandaged stretch of his back. The gauze was clean, no fresh blood, but angry pink lines peeked out at the edges, raised and too neat.

Ilya's breath hissed between his teeth. "It already scarred." His fingers hovered above the marks, not quite touching. "Overnight. That is not normal, lyubimyy."

Shane swallowed. He'd noticed that too. "Maybe it wasn't as deep as it looked," he said, even though they both knew that was bullshit.

"Do not gaslight me." He gently tugged the hoodie back down and turned Shane to face him. "You took temperature?"

"It was nothing." Shane's gaze skittered away.

"Numbers, Hollander." Ilya's voice went flat in the way that meant he'd already decided he was right.

Shane sighed. "101.4."

Ilya closed his eyes for a second, like he was communing with a higher power for patience. "And you still think you go to first practice and pretend you are fine?"

"I have to go," Shane insisted, the words coming out sharper than he meant. His heartbeat thudded in his ears; he could hear the refrigerator hum, the soft scrape of Ilya's sock on the tile, everything. "If I miss day one, they'll decide I'm fragile, or that I can't handle the league, or-"

"Shane." Ilya cut in, softer now. "You are having panic attack. You are not missing first practice because you are scared." He cupped Shane's damp face in his hands. "There is difference."

Shane tried to pull back, but Ilya held firm, thumbs brushing along his jaw. Shane's skin felt too hot under his touch, almost buzzing.

"I feel…" Shane searched for the right word. Everything under his skin itched with restless energy, and his teeth ached. "I don't know. Wired. Like I drank nine coffees and ran a marathon at the same time."

"That is not selling your case," Ilya muttered. "You should be in bed, not on ice." His eyes searched Shane's.

Shane's shoulders slumped a fraction. The fight went out of his posture, even if his words didn't quite follow.

"If I call in sick on my first day," he said quietly, "they'll never forget it. I know you're the captain, but... I can't afford to be fragile again. Not after everything with Montreal."

Ilya flinched almost imperceptibly at the mention of Montreal. He lowered his hands but didn't step away. "You are not fragile," he said, voice low and certain. "You are stubborn and stupid sometimes, but not fragile." A beat. "What if we compromise?"

Shane narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Your compromises are never actual compromises."

"Rude," Ilya sniffed. "I am very reasonable. Look." He held up one finger. "Option one: you listen to me like smart husband, we go to hospital, you get drugs, who knows—"

"Ilya."

"Option two," he continued relentlessly, "you go to practice, but I drive you, I talk to Wiebe, and if you so much as wobble…"

Shane chewed his lip, considering. The idea of showing up with Ilya at his side, clearly mother-henning, made his pride bristle, yet the thought of not showing up at all was worse.

"You'll talk to Coach Wiebe?" he asked

Ilya lifted his chin. "I will be extremely charming and professional. Maybe a little scary. But for your own good." He softened, taking Shane's wrist and squeezing lightly. "Let him know you are hurt but still committed. That you showed up even when you feel like death. That is what they remember. Not that you skated full speed with fever until you collapsed like idiot."

Shane huffed. "You really know how to paint a picture."

"I am artist," Ilya said smugly. Then his voice gentled again. "Let me take care of you, lyubov. Just this once, listen to me instead of your panic, da?"

The word panic landed a little too close to the truth. Shane's shoulders loosened a millimeter.

"Fine," he muttered. "You can drive me. You can talk to Coach. But I'm still skating. I have to at least get on the ice."

Ilya exhaled, some of the tension leaking out of him. "We see," he said, which, in Ilya-speak, did not actually mean "we see"; it meant, "If you look like death by then, I am turning the car around." "Eat your disgusting oatmeal. Then we go."

"It's not disgusting-" Shane started.

Ilya smirked and leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his sweaty temple anyway. "You are disgusting. Your breakfast matches. Perfect." He squeezed Shane's shoulders and stepped back. "Ten minutes. Then we leave."

As Ilya moved away to grab his keys and shoes, Shane stared down at the bowl, the steam curling up in faint, shifting patterns. His pulse throbbed in his throat, in his wrists, like something pacing just under his skin.

He quickly ate his oatmeal while pulling out his phone. As he glanced at the screen, a faint smile appeared when he saw Hayden's photo from yesterday morning. He then sent a text to his friend.

 

 

 

He paused before texting again, as an inconsistency gnawed at the corner of his mind.

 

 

Chapter Text

He shoved his phone back in his pocket with a frown, then slipped on his shoes.

Ilya stood beside his car, a sensible Mercedes SUV that Shane had convinced him to buy. Shane smiled softly at the sight, shaking his head as the cheerful tune from Ilya’s farm game drifted through the air.

"I'm going to have to put a parental lock on that game. Only one hour a day." He smirked.

Ilya frowned, bottom lip sticking out. "No." He said simply, shoving his phone into his pocket.

Ilya clicked the key fob to unlock the doors, then paused when Shane didn’t move toward the passenger side. Shane stood a few feet away, his shoulders rising and falling a little too fast for someone who’d just eaten oatmeal, his gaze fixed on the tree line beyond the driveway, like it might shift and spit that thing back out.

Ilya followed his line of sight. The woods looked ordinary, just pines, bare branches, a dusting of frost clinging to shaded patches of earth. The kind of quiet, postcard-perfect winter morning people paid too much money to experience. He knew better than to trust postcard quiet.

“Get in car, Shane,” he said gently. It wasn’t quite an order, but it wasn’t a suggestion either.

Shane blinked, then shook himself, dragging his focus back to the SUV. “Yeah. Sorry.” He tugged at the hem of his hoodie like that might settle something inside his skin and headed for the passenger door.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the road winding away from the lake, trees giving way to the outskirts of the city. The radio stayed off. Ilya’s game chimed faintly from his pocket once with the sound of some in-game notification, and he slapped a hand over it like he could smother the noise.

“Blanche can survive without you for one day,” Shane said, because if he didn’t talk, his brain would keep replaying claws and teeth and the way the woods had gone silent.

“Beatrice is fine,” Ilya said, mildly annoyed. “I left her with enough hay. She is independent woman-goat who needs no man.”

Shane snorted. “What about the second goat?”

“Ivan? He is idiot. But also fine.”

The familiar, easy bickering eased some of the tension in Shane’s shoulders, but not all of it. His back still ached with a deep, unfamiliar tightness that didn’t feel like any injury he’d had before. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make his spine feel like a live wire.

“Hurts?” Ilya asked quietly, eyes still on the road.

“A little,” Shane admitted, jaw clenching. “It’s not… It’s not like when I tore my shoulder. It’s different.”

“How?”

Shane searched for the right words. “It’s like… my whole body is buzzing."

Ilya’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “That is… new,” he said mildly.

Shane swallowed. “Yeah.” They fell into silence again, but it wasn’t as comfortable this time. It was thick with unasked questions.

 

Ottawa’s practice facility loomed ahead, all glass and steel, the Centaurs’ logo emblazoned along the side. The massive centaur silhouette looked more ominous than usual. Shane’s heart rate spiked as they turned into the parking lot. By the time Ilya pulled into their reserved player spaces, Shane’s palms were slick with sweat again. The cold air outside bit at his damp skin the instant he stepped out, but it cleared his head, if only by a fraction. He drew in a breath and nearly staggered.

The smell of the arena hit him like a physical thing: ice and rubber and metal and the faint tang of old sweat soaked into concrete. He’d grown up in rinks. The scent was familiar, but it had never been this loud before. He blinked, jaw going slack for a second as he tried to process how every molecule of it seemed to separate out in his nose.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice cut through the sensory rush.

“I’m good,” Shane said, a bit too quickly. He forced his feet to move, falling into step beside Ilya.

Inside, the lobby was already buzzing. Early staff moving with purpose, media crews setting up cameras along the second-level viewing area, and a handful of fans lingering at the far end, hoping for a glimpse. Every conversation, every footstep on the tile, every squeak of rubber soles on the floor seemed to leap out at him, each sound caught in its own harsh spotlight. He kept his head down.

“Captain!” someone called. Ilya lifted a hand in acknowledgment without breaking stride.

At the players’ entrance, security nodded them through. Shane flashed his pass with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady.

“I go find Wiebe,” Ilya said once they were in the relative quiet of the hallway near the locker rooms. “You go get changed.”

“Yes, Dad,” Shane muttered automatically.

Ilya’s mouth flicked into a brief smirk. He grabbed Shane’s hoodie at the shoulder, tugging him closer for a second. “If you feel weird, you text me. Yes?”

Shane rolled his eyes but nodded. “Got it.”

Ilya gave his hand a quick squeeze, then strode off down the corridor, his steps confident and unhurried. The captain was on a mission. Shane watched him go, then turned toward the Centaurs’ locker room. The moment he stepped inside, the familiar blast of cold air and the sight of stalls, gear bags, and skates slammed into him, a jolt of nostalgia and dread in equal measure. A few guys were already there, half-dressed in compression shorts and socks.

“Yo, Hollander!” He turned toward the voice. Zane Boodram, one of Ilya's line mates, grinned at him from across the room, tape dangling from his hand. “Heard we stole you from Montreal.”

Shane forced a grin. “Yeah.” He dropped his gear bag at an empty stall and sank down on the bench.

The room smelled of detergent, coffee, and the faint ghost of yesterday’s sweat. His brain wouldn’t stop cataloging everything: someone had eaten peanut butter recently, and someone else’s cologne was woody and too sweet. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to breathe past the flood.

“You good, man?” Boodram asked, closer now.

Shane opened his eyes. “Yeah. Just… long drive from the cottage. Didn’t sleep great.”

“First day jitters,” Boodram said, sympathetic.

He bent to unlace his shoes and swap them for his skates. You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s just from the run. Adrenaline. Fever. He forced his hands to keep moving.

Out in the hallway, Ilya found Coach Wiebe near the video room, clipboard in hand, already mid-conversation with an assistant. The coach’s hair was shoved back like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and his sharp eyes flicked up when he saw Ilya approaching.

“Rozanov,” Wiebe greeted. “You’re early. Miracle.”

“New year, new me,” Ilya said. “Need to talk about Hollander.”

Wiebe’s expression shifted, attention sharpening. “Something wrong?”

“He was out at cottage, got scratched by… something. Big.” Ilya kept his voice low but steady. “Back is bandaged. Fever this morning. He did not want hospital. Says he is fine.”

“And you don’t agree,” Wiebe said.

“I rarely agree when he says he is fine,” Ilya replied. “He is here because he is terrified to miss first practice. But if he looks bad on ice, is… not good first impression.”

Wiebe considered that, jaw working as concern filled his eyes. “What’s his temp?”

“101.4 when he checked.”

Wiebe exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dammit.”

“I will keep eye on him. But I want you to know before you see him skate.”

The coach was quiet for a long beat, weighing something. “All right,” he said finally. “He dresses. He does warm-up with the guys. No contact, no drills. Understood?”

Ilya nodded once. “Understood.”

“And if he collapses on my ice,” Wiebe added dryly, “I’m blaming you, Rozanov.”

“You always do,” Ilya said, but there was a hint of relief in his voice.

By the time Ilya stepped back into the locker room, most of the guys were in various stages of getting dressed. Shane stood in front of his stall, jersey still hanging on a hook. He was breathing a little too fast, color high in his cheeks.

“Hey,” Ilya murmured as he came up beside him. “Wiebe says you skate light. Warm-up only. No drills.”

Shane’s jaw tensed. “Did you tell him I’m dying?”

“I said you have tiny fever,” Ilya said. “He is not surprised.”

Despite himself, Shane’s mouth twitched. “Tiny fever.

“Like tiny dog. Annoying, but harmless if supervised.”

“Pretty sure I’m more like a rabid raccoon right now,” Shane muttered.

Ilya’s gaze softened. “Just get through warm-up. Show him you can move. Then we see.”

Shane nodded, swallowed, and pulled his jersey over his head.

The moment his skates touched the ice, something in him sighed in recognition. The world narrowed to a familiar plane of cold beneath his blades, boards at his periphery, the centrifugal pull of his edges biting into the surface.

Everything was wrong.

The steady roar of the compressors, the soft hum of the lights above the arena, the scrape of blades carving shallow lines; all of it should have been comforting. Home. Instead, the sound hit him too clearly, too sharp around the edges. Every turn of a skate against the ice sounded like it was happening right next to his ear.

 

The first glide sent a bolt of sensation straight up his spine. His balance was fine, muscle memory dragged his body into the right posture without asking for permission, but everything felt amplified. The cold was chewing at his exposed neck. The weight of his gear on his shoulders. The way his heartbeat thudded against his ribs like it was trying to bruise its way out. He circled into the flow of the other guys in warm-ups, following the easy laps around the rink. Edges in, edges out. Crossovers at the blue lines. Nothing complicated.

He was acutely aware of all of them: who’d showered and who definitely hadn’t, who used that same brand of laundry detergent that always reminded him of away tournaments when he was fifteen. At center ice, he pivoted into a tight turn.

For one heartbeat, everything in his field of vision snapped into razor focus. Boodram’s chuckling carried from halfway down the ice, loud and intimate, as if the sound brushed right against his ear. A wave of dizziness crashed into him so quickly that it stole his breath. The lights overhead flared too bright; the white ice seemed to glow. He forced himself to straighten, driving through the turn instead of pitching out of it.

“Hey, Hollander!” someone called from the bench. “Looking smooth, man!”

He threw a hand up in a vague acknowledgment, hoping it came off as casual, not desperate. One more lap. Just one more. Then you can pretend you’re grabbing water like everyone else.

He made it only halfway down the rink before his back seized. It wasn’t like getting cross-checked or pulling a muscle. This was a sudden, clenching heat right over the scars, as if someone had pressed a hot iron to his skin beneath the pads. He sucked in a breath, teeth gritted. For a second, he was back in the trees, the smell of damp earth filling his nose, claws scraping against bark behind him.

Someone cut across his path a few meters ahead, turning sharply. The surge of motion slammed into Shane’s senses like a physical blow.

“Yo, you good?” Boodram was coasting toward him, slowing from his drill. Another guy turned his head, curiosity sparking.

Shane forced a laugh that sounded a little too high, even to his own ears. “Yeah, yeah. Just caught an edge.” He said, ignoring the way his legs trembled. He could feel eyes on him. He straightened his shoulders, shoved off again, and glided toward the bench like it was just time for a line change. From the boards, Ilya’s gaze tracked him like a laser.

They hadn’t started formal drills yet; Wiebe and the assistants were still clustered near the far blue line, talking. A few guys were stretching at the bench. Ilya leaned on the boards in his usual spot, gloves hooked over the top, looking like he was just watching warm-ups.

“You look like shit,” Ilya said mildly.

“Love the support,” Shane muttered back, balancing one hand on the rail. “I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that word,” Ilya replied. His eyes flicked over Shane’s flushed face, the way his shoulders rose and fell. “How many fingers?” He held up three.

“Seriously?”

“Answer question.”

“Three,” Shane snapped, then winced at the sharpness in his own voice.

“Drink water,” Ilya ordered, shoving a bottle into his glove. “Sip. Slowly.”

He focused on unscrewing the cap without crushing it. The cold water helped a little. It cut through the dry, metallic taste in his mouth. By the time he’d taken a few shallow swallows, Coach Wiebe had walked over, stopping near the bench. He pushed his helmet back a fraction, sharp eyes landing on Shane.

“You look pale, Hollander,” Wiebe said, blunt as ever. “That fever still hanging around?”

Shane straightened automatically," Just a bit, sir. I can skate.”

Wiebe’s gaze narrowed, flicking briefly to Ilya, who did not bother to look innocent.

“Warm-up only,” Wiebe repeated. “You’re here so the guys see your face and know you’re not a ghost. That’s it.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. “Coach, I—”

“Do you want me to remember you as the guy who came in smart and steady,” Wiebe cut in, “or the idiot who passed out on my ice because he couldn’t admit he was sick on day one?” A few of the guys nearby pretended, badly, that they weren’t eavesdropping.

Heat crawled up Shane’s neck that had nothing to do with the fever. “Smart and steady,” he muttered.

“Thought so.” Wiebe’s tone softened a fraction. “You move well, even at half-speed. That’s enough for today.” He rapped his stick lightly against the boards. “Take another lap if you need to save face, then park it. Understood?”

Shane swallowed. His pride bristled, but the buzzing under his skin was getting worse, not better. “Understood.”

Wiebe nodded and walked off again. Ilya stayed where he was, still watching him. “Go,” he said quietly. “One lap. Then sit and look pretty.”

Shane huffed once, half a laugh, half a breath of resignation. “You’re insufferable.”

“Da,” Ilya agreed, utterly unbothered. “Now go before I pick you up and carry you in front of team.”

That single mental image was enough to drive Shane back onto the ice. He forced himself to keep his pace steady, to look casual, even as some restless part of him ached to explode into a sprint. He finished the lap, curved toward the bench, and stepped off. The moment his blades hit rubber, the urge to move eased a fraction, like someone had turned down a dial.

“You did not waver,” Ilya said quietly. “This is progress.”

Shane snorted, letting his helmet thump lightly against the wall behind him. “New bar is low.”

“It can go lower,” Ilya said. “Please do not test.”

Out on the ice, the rest of the guys began the first set of structured drills. Shouts, sticks on ice, the sharp tap-tap of passes filled the air. By the time practice wrapped, his undershirt was plastered to his back, more from the fever than exertion. Wiebe had held to his word; Shane did warm up, then spent the rest of the session parked at the bench, water bottle in hand, pretending he was totally fine with it.

He wasn’t, but no one had seen him stagger. No one had watched him puke in a trash can. Small mercies.

In the locker room afterward, the air hung heavy with shower steam and the sharp tang of menthol from someone’s liniment. The volume cranked up the moment Wiebe disappeared, guys immediately chirping at one another. Shane peeled his gear off slowly.

“You sure you’re okay, man?” Boodram asked from the next stall over, rubbing a towel through his hair. “You looked a little pale out there.”

“Just a bug,” Shane said, aiming for casual. “Bad timing.”

Boodram grimaced sympathetically. “Better now than playoffs, I guess.” He clapped Shane lightly on the shoulder, then winced when Shane flinched.

“Sorry,” Boodram said immediately.

“It’s fine,” Shane lied again, forcing a tight smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ilya glance over from across the room, a towel slung low around his hips as he talked to Dykstra. Even mid-conversation, Ilya’s gaze swept over Shane like a radar scan. Shane would have to talk to him properly once they got home. About the fever. About the scars. About how everything smelled too loud now.

Shane swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of the faint copper tang of someone’s bleeding cut, the citrus bite of cheap body wash from the communal showers, and the thin metallic scent of the old iron showerheads beneath it all. No shower—he couldn’t handle that today. He would just shower at home. He dressed quickly after that, tugging on his joggers and hoodie with stiff fingers. His phone buzzed in his locker. He grabbed it automatically, thumb swiping across the screen.

 

 

 

Shane stared at the messages, heartbeat thumping harder again. His mind supplied an image unbidden: the thing in the trees, the wrong length of its limbs, the precision of its movement. He typed before he could talk himself out of it.

 

 

“Shane.”

He looked up.

Ilya stood in front of his stall now, already dressed, car keys dangling from one hand. “You ready?” His voice was casual, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Yeah,” Shane said. His own voice sounded rough. “Just… texting Hayden back.”

Ilya’s gaze flicked to the phone, then back to Shane’s face. Something in his jaw ticked. “You can text in car.” He jerked his head toward the door.

Shane huffed a weak laugh, sliding his phone into his pocket. “I hate you.”

“Lies,” Ilya said easily, stepping aside so Shane could grab his bag. “You love me very much. You are just too sweaty to admit.”

By the time they stepped outside, the sky over the city had settled into a flat, winter gray. Their breath puffed out before them in thin, lingering clouds. The parking lot was a jumble of luxury SUVs and beat-up sedans, all dusted with salt. The second the doors shut and the outside noise fell away, Ilya turned the engine over and twisted in his seat to look at Shane fully.

“Okay,” he said. “Talk.”

Shane blinked, caught mid-reach for his seat belt. “About what?”

“About the fact that you look like you are about to turn into puddle,” Ilya said flatly. “And about beast. And about why your scratches are scars already.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR

 

The word 'beast' scraped Shane’s nerves, making his fingers tighten on the seat belt. He could brush it off, crack a joke, say he was tired, and move on. But Ilya’s steady, unamused gaze held him back. After a second's pause, Shane closed his eyes and exhaled. “It’s... weird," he said. He clicked the belt into place and leaned his head against the headrest. “Everything is weird.”

“Start with back,” Ilya suggested, hands loose on the wheel for now. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Shane said, too quickly. “No. Not like it should.” He grimaced. “It feels… hot. Tight. Like the skin doesn’t fit.”

Ilya’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “And the fever?”

“Still there.” His voice came out hoarse. He swallowed. “I checked again before we left. 102.”

Ilya swore softly in Russian under his breath. “And?” he pressed.

“And what?”

“What else?” Ilya said. “You are jumpy like rookie. Do not tell me that is just ‘bug.’”

Shane’s mouth went dry. “You noticed that?”

“I am not blind, lyubov.”

Shane scrubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt too hot under his own palm. “I can smell everything,” he admitted quietly, the words tasting strange out loud. “The rink. The ice. The guys. You. It’s… too much.”

“You did not smell like this before?”

“No,” Shane said. “I mean, I’ve always liked the rink smell, but this is… different. I walked in, and it was like getting punched in the face by a candle shop made of sweat and rubber.”

Despite himself, Ilya huffed out a laugh. It faded quickly. “And the woods? Last night?” he asked.

Shane’s chest tightened. His pulse jumped, memory skittering back to snapping branches, to that wrong, hulking shape between the trees.

“The woods went quiet,” he said slowly. “Like someone hit mute. No birds. No bugs. Just… nothing. Then I heard it.”

“It?” Ilya echoed.

Shane opened his eyes and stared straight ahead through the windshield, even though the car wasn’t moving yet. “It wasn’t a bear. Or a wolf. I know what those look like.” His stomach rolled. “This was… bigger. The shoulders were too high. The legs looked… wrong. Too long. Too… human?" The word hung between them.

Ilya’s fingers tightened around the wheel again. “Human?”

“Not human,” Shane said quickly, shaking his head. “Just… not like any animal I’ve seen. It moved like it knew where I was going before I did. And it stopped at the tree line, like the cottage was…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Line it would not cross,” Ilya supplied quietly.

“Yeah,” Shane whispered.

The car’s heater hummed softly, filling the brief silence. “Do you think it was wolf?” Ilya asked. “Like you told me?”

Shane’s jaw ached from how tightly he clenched it. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t.”

He swallowed, the next words sticking in his throat. “I think it was something else.”

He didn’t say the word that had been nagging at the back of his mind: Werewolf. It seemed ridiculous, like something out of a horror movie, not real life. People don't turn into monsters just because they were bitten in the woods. Still, somehow, his back had healed suddenly overnight.

Ilya exhaled slowly, long and controlled, then finally put the car into gear. “Okay,” he said. “We go home. We check temperature again. We look at back. And then…”

“And then what?” Shane asked when he didn’t immediately continue.

“And then we figure out what this is,” Ilya said, voice firm in that way that brooked no argument. “Together. Maybe it is infection. Maybe it is… something else. But you are not doing this alone, Shane. Understand?”

Shane’s throat tightened. He nodded, unable to speak for a second. The car rolled out of the parking lot, the city swallowing them up again. He shoved his hand into his hoodie pocket, fingers curling around his phone like an anchor. Hayden’s messages still sat unread.

They didn’t talk much on the drive back. The city fell away behind them, glass and concrete giving way to bare trees and narrow roads dusted with salt. They didn’t talk much during the drive home. Behind them, the city disappeared, replaced by bare trees and narrow, salt-dusted roads. Ilya kept his hands firmly on the wheel at ten and two, his knuckles pale. Shane focused on the shifting snowbanks and tree trunks, counting telephone poles for reassurance. When the turn to the lake finally appeared, a dull ache in his back had become a sharp, coiled burn. His skin felt stretched thin, as if he were wearing a body that was slightly too small.

“You are quiet,” Ilya said at last, voice low.

“Trying not to puke in your car,” Shane muttered.

“Is my car, but also your car,” Ilya said. “If you puke, I make you clean it.”

“Romantic,” Shane said, but it came out weak.

The cottage came into view a minute later, dark roof peeking between the trees, the lake beyond it a sheet of dull pewter. Ilya pulled into the gravel driveway and killed the engine. Something prickled along the back of Shane’s neck. The world, which had been overbright and too loud all day, suddenly felt… sharpened. Focused. The air outside the car carried a jumble of scents he couldn’t quite sort through: cold, lake, wet earth, and something else. Warm. Familiar.

Ilya unbuckled. “Come on. Inside. Bed.”

“Bossy,” Shane mumbled, fumbling for his own seat belt.

They stepped out into the cold. The wind cut across the driveway, carrying the scents of snow and pine. Shane sucked in a breath, the chill shocking his overheated lungs, and then froze. Someone was on the porch. A tall figure sat on the top step, hood up, elbows braced on his knees. For a second, as the light hit him, Shane’s pulse spiked with recognition of the wrong shape in the trees. Then the figure straightened and pushed his hood back.

“About time,” Hayden Pike called, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “You two took forever. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Shane stopped dead. “Hayden?”

Beside him, Ilya blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Hayden walked down the steps, hands shoved into the pockets of his parka, shoulders tucked up against the cold. He looked like he’d driven straight from town, jeans, beat‑up sneakers, a Montreal Voyageurs beanie pulled low over his curls. His car was parked off to the side, Shane realized belatedly, half‑hidden behind Ilya’s SUV.

“You texted me ‘Something attacked me’ and then stopped answering,” Hayden said flatly. “So either you were dead in a ditch, or you were doing that thing where you pretend you’re fine.” He looked Shane up and down. “Judging by the sweat, I’m guessing option two.”

Heat crawled up Shane’s neck that had nothing to do with the fever. “I’m fine,” he started automatically, then winced at Ilya’s immediate, annoyed look.

“No,” Ilya said. “We are retiring that word.”

Hayden’s brows climbed. “Oh, good. We’ve reached the ‘ban certain vocabulary’ stage of marital crisis. Always a healthy sign.” He closed the distance in a few quick strides.“You look like shit,” Hayden said, softer now.

“Thanks,” Shane muttered.

Hayden’s gaze swept over his face, lingering on the sheen of sweat along his hairline, on the way his pupils had swallowed almost all the hazel. His nostrils flared just barely. For a moment, his brow furrowed. He tilted his head and drew in a deep breath, and his expression went utterly still. Then it was gone, smoothed over by his usual easy concern.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Inside,” Ilya cut in. “He is burning up.” His hand found the small of Shane’s back, steering him toward the porch. 

Hayden fell into step on Shane’s other side like it was instinct. Too close, some thin, wary part of Shane thought. Too aware. Hayden wasn’t crowding him exactly, but he tracked him with a focus that made the hairs on Shane’s arms rise. The moment they crossed the threshold, the cottage’s warmth wrapped around them. Shane’s legs wobbled. He caught himself on the edge of the console table and swore under his breath.

“Couch,” Hayden said, already toeing off his shoes. “I’ll grab water.”

“That is my job,” Ilya objected automatically.

Shane let himself be guided to the couch. The cushions dipped under him, and he sank back, head thudding against the armrest. The room spun for a second and then snapped back into place. He shut his eyes. It didn’t help.

He could hear Hayden moving in the kitchen. cabinet doors, the glug of water from the tap, the faint rustle of a pill bottle. Underneath it all, there was the steady thump of two heartbeats: Ilya’s, familiar and solid, and Hayden’s, a fraction faster, threaded with something like tension. He should not be able to hear that. 

“You still with us?” Hayden’s voice came from closer this time.

Shane cracked an eye open. Hayden stood over him, holding out a glass and two caplets. Up close, his eyes looked darker than usual, something almost golden tucked around the edges of brown.

“Take these,” Hayden said.

“Traitor,” Shane grumbled, but he took the pills, swallowing them down with a few gulps of water. His stomach rolled, then settled.

Ilya hovered at the end of the couch, arms crossed. “He was attacked on run last night,” he said abruptly. “Something in the woods.” 

Hayden’s eyes flicked to him, then back to Shane. “Yeah,” he said lightly. “I got that from the ‘something attacked me’ text.”

“It was not wolf,” Ilya said. “Not bear.”

Hayden’s jaw flexed. “No?”

Shane stared up at the ceiling. Part of him wanted to shut down this entire conversation, to tell Ilya to drop it. The rest of him, tired, buzzing, scared, was sick of pretending. “It followed me,” he said, voice flat. “Mirrored me on the path. It stopped right at the trees when I reached the cottage. Like there was a line it wouldn’t cross.”

Hayden went very still. “How bad are the scratches?” he asked.

“Scarred already,” Ilya answered before Shane could. “Overnight.”

“Show me,” Hayden said.

Shane blinked up at him. “What are you, our doctor?”

Hayden’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Humor me.”

Ilya hesitated, then nodded once. “Sit up, lyubov.”

It took more effort than it should have, but Shane pushed himself upright and turned, fingers clumsy at the hem of his hoodie. The fabric dragged over his shoulders, damp with sweat. Hayden stepped behind the couch, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. That warm scent washed over him again: soap, coffee, and beneath it, something wild and clean he’d never noticed before. His hands brushed the edges of his sweatshirt, lifting it higher. Cool air hit his back as the fabric bunched around his shoulders. Silence settled for a beat. Then Hayden swore, very softly.

Shane felt more than heard Ilya stiffen. “What?”

Hayden didn’t answer right away. His fingers ghosted just above the scars, never quite touching, but close enough that Shane could swear he could feel the heat of them. “Looks good,” Hayden said finally, voice light again.

“That is not how ‘good’ works,” Ilya snapped. “Why do you sound like this is normal?”

Hayden’s hand withdrew. The hoodie fell back into place. Shane tugged it down, shivering.

“Because I’ve seen worse,” Hayden said.

Shane twisted around to look at him. Hayden had moved around to the coffee table now, perched on the edge with his elbows on his knees, head down. His shoulders were tight.

“You’re being weird,” Shane said bluntly.

“You got mauled by something in the woods, Shane. You’re running a fever. Your scars closed overnight. Weird is baked into the situation.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Shane swallowed. His throat felt dry again. “You sound like you… know something.”

Hayden exhaled, long and slow. Then he finally lifted his head. His eyes met Shane’s. For the first time, he didn’t bother to smooth his expression into something easy and harmless. “I drove up here,” Hayden said quietly, “because your text scared the shit out of me.” Hayden shook his head. “Not just that. The way you texted. The fact that you asked about wolves. The timing.”

“The timing?” Ilya echoed.

Hayden’s gaze flicked to the window, where the sun was slowly sinking beneath the lake, then back to Shane. “Last night was a full moon.”

The words hung between them. He almost laughed. Almost. “You’re joking,” he said instead. “You have to be joking.”

Hayden didn’t laugh.

"All of this. And fever. And back pain,” Ilya started, eyes full of worry.

Hayden nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something he’d already suspected. “Yeah,” he said. “That tracks.”

“Tracks with what, Pike?” Ilya said, becoming frustrated.

Hayden hesitated.

Shane’s pulse pounded in his ears. “Say it,” he said, voice raw. “Whatever you’re dancing around. Just say it.” 

Hayden looked at him for a long moment. Then, with a resigned exhale, he said, “It tracks with a fresh scratch.”

“A what? Shane said, voice flat.

“You were clawed by something that wasn’t a normal wolf,” Hayden said, each word deliberate. “On a full moon. You’re running hot, your senses are shifting, and your body is healing like it’s on fast‑forward. That’s not an infection, Shane... It's a change.”

“Change into what?” Shane demanded, even though the answer stood there, obvious.

Hayden’s mouth twisted. “Into what you smelled in the woods last night,” he said. “Into what you ran from.”

Ilya moved before Shane could. He reached across the room in two quick strides, grabbing Hayden’s hoodie with his fists and pushing him against the nearest wall. A picture frame shook. “You think this is joke?” Ilya snarled, his face close to Hayden’s. This wasn't a funny joke anymore. “You come into my house and tell him this fairy-tale nonsense-”

“Ilya-” Shane croaked.

Hayden remained unfazed, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, as if Ilya's fury was nothing more than that of a small kitten. “I’m not joking,” he said softly. “And this isn’t a fairy tale.”

Something in his tone made Shane’s skin prickle. “Let him go, Ilya.” Shane managed.

For a heartbeat, it looked like Ilya might not. Then his jaw clenched, muscle ticking, and he dropped his hands, stepping back. “Explain,” he bit out.

Hayden smoothed a hand down the front of his hoodie, more for something to do than out of any real need. His gaze returned to Shane. "I know what you're going through, because I've already been through it."

Heat surged in Shane’s chest, mixing with nausea. “You’re saying…” His voice cracked. “You’re a-"

“Werewolf,” Hayden said casually, as if mentioning something mundane like being left-handed. “Yeah. I've been one for a while now." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and offered Shane a small smile.

“Bullshit,” Ilya said hoarsely.

Hayden shrugged one shoulder. “Wish it was.” He reached up then, tugged the collar of his hoodie down just enough to reveal the skin at his shoulder. Four pale, ugly scars curved there, like something with too many teeth had taken a bite and almost finished it. He let the fabric fall back into place. “Got that when I was nineteen. I had the same fever you did. Same senses going haywire." 

Shane swallowed, his own scars burning in a sympathetic echo.

“Your team doctor thought… what?” Ilya asked skeptically.

“That I had a nasty case of the flu and a very lucky escape,” Hayden said. “They don’t exactly run ‘check for mythical curse’ on the standard panel." He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Look, you don’t have to believe me right this second. I get it. It sounds insane. But something got you last night, and your body is already responding like this. You can either pretend it’s nothing until it gets worse…” His gaze went to the window again, then back to Shane. “Or you can let someone who’s been through it help you not die.”

The words fell like a stone between them. Shane stared at him. The room felt too small, the air too thick. “Not die,” he repeated numbly, almost petulant.

Hayden’s face softened, just a fraction. “The first change can kill you,” he said quietly. “If you fight it wrong. If you’re alone. If you don’t know what’s happening.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, eyes locked on Shane’s. “I’m here,” Hayden said. “Because I’ve seen guys not make it. And because I’m not letting that happen to you.”

Somewhere under the fear and the fever and the static of too‑sharp senses, something in Shane’s chest lurched. Pike had driven out to the middle of nowhere on a weekday, without telling anyone, just because of a two‑line text.

“You knew from a text?” Ilya asked, skeptical, wary, and desperate all at once.

"Well, I was more worried because of the text, yes… But when you stepped out of the car, I could smell it on you." Hayden frowned, but his gaze held steady. “The same way I smelled it on myself the first time I looked in a mirror and didn’t recognize what I was becoming.”

Shane’s throat bobbed. His fingers dug into the couch cushion, nails biting into the fabric. “So that’s it?” he rasped. “I go for a run, something out of a horror movie jumps me, and now I’m like you?”

Hayden’s expression shifted, something fragile flickering at the edges. “You’re still you,” he said firmly. “You’re still Shane. This adds a layer you didn’t ask for.”

“That’s not helpful,” Shane said, half a laugh, half a gasp. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I couldn't even stand in a locker room without wanting to crawl out of my skin. I nearly face-planted on the ice during warm-up. With Wiebe and the whole team watching,” His breath hitched. “If they find out-”

“They won’t,” Hayden cut in quietly. “Not unless you want them to. Most Plainfolk don’t see what they’re not looking for; they can't see past themselves half the time.”

"Plainfolk-?" Shane started, but was cut off by Ilya.

“That is not answer. He is sick. He is changing. He could die, and you talk about bullshit?” The edge in Ilya's voice was still there.

Hayden turned his head, meeting Ilya’s glare without flinching. “You want me to lie to him?” he asked, voice low. “Tell him this won’t touch hockey, that it won’t matter who’s watching when the first full moon hits? Because it will. I’m not sugarcoating it. But I’m not leaving him alone in it either.”

“Do not talk like he is project,” Ilya snapped. “He is my husband.”

“Ilya,” Shane said hoarsely. Two sets of eyes snapped to him. Shane swallowed, his mouth dry. “Can you… sit,” he asked, patting the spot beside his hip. “You’re making me nervous."

For a second, it looked like Ilya might argue on principle. Then his shoulders sagged a fraction. He exhaled hard through his nose and rounded the coffee table, dropping onto the couch so close that their thighs pressed together. He automatically slid a hand to Shane’s knee, his thumb rubbing back and forth in rough, grounding strokes.

“Sorry,” Ilya muttered under his breath, not quite looking at him. “Am just…” His jaw worked as he searched for the right word. “Scared.”

The admission knocked something loose in Shane’s chest. He turned his hand, catching Ilya’s and lacing their fingers together. “Me too,” he said quietly.

Hayden watched them for a beat, something like relief easing into his features at the sight of their hands tangled. He shifted from his perch on the coffee table to the armchair opposite, intentionally giving them space while staying close. “Okay,” Hayden said softly. “Let’s slow this down. First thing: you’re not dying today.”

Shane huffed weakly. “Comforting.”

“I’m not trying to be dramatic,” Hayden said. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, palms open between his knees. His voice softened even further. “The first change that matters is the next full moon. You’ve got time before then. We get your fever under control, figure out how your body reacts, and get you ready so that when it hits, it doesn’t break you.”

Shane blinked at him. “You make it sound like a training camp,” he muttered.

Hayden’s mouth quirked, a flash of the old easy grin slipping through. “Well, lucky for you, I’m pretty good at training camps.” His grin faded quickly, but the warmth stayed in his eyes. “We treat this like we’d treat any new system on the ice. Prep, reps, knowing your limits. You don’t just… white‑knuckle it and hope.”

Ilya’s grip around Shane’s hand tightened. “What does ‘prep’ mean?” he demanded. “You going to turn my living room into dog kennel? Chain him up? I have seen movies.”

Hayden grimaced, as if the thought physically pained him. “Jesus, no. That’s not how this works.”

A shiver crawled down Shane’s back at the thought, colliding with the ever-present heat in the scars. “How long,” Shane asked quietly, “until I… shift? Or whatever you call it.”

Hayden’s gaze softened. “Next full moon is in about four weeks,” he said. “That’s your first real change. The fever you have now, the senses? That’s your body rewiring itself. It might come in waves. You might feel almost normal some days and like you’re crawling out of your skin on others. It doesn’t mean you’re losing your mind.”

“Debatable,” Shane muttered, but the faint humor in his tone made Ilya huff out a reluctant breath that might, on a kinder day, be called a laugh.

“So we have month.” Ilya latched onto that, something tangible. “Month to make plan. To… train him.” The word still sounded strange in his mouth. “To keep him safe.”

“To keep both of you safe,” Hayden corrected gently. “And everyone else. Because the first time is messy and awkward, no one is graceful. But it’s survivable. I’m proof.”

Ilya eyed him, gaze dipping briefly to the spot where Hayden’s scars were hidden under his hoodie. Some of the suspicion in his stare had cooled into wary curiosity. “Who helped you?” he asked.

“Another wolf,” Hayden said. His gaze grew distant for a moment. “Older guy. Tough as nails. Found me before I did something stupid. Made me listen. Pulled me back when I wanted to tear my own skin off.” His eyes were distant, as if he was remembering something. "It's why I'm here now."

“Lucky us,” Shane said faintly. He exhaled a trembling breath, some of the tightness in his chest unraveling. He tipped sideways until his shoulder pressed fully into Ilya’s, letting the solid weight of him soak into his bones.

“What about hockey?” he asked after a moment, voice muffled against Ilya’s shoulder.  

“Yeah, you keep showing up. You tell Wiebe you caught something nasty, and you’re working through it, which isn’t a lie. On the ice, you go by feel. Some days might be easier than others. If the noise gets too much, you take a breath, step off, and text one of us.”

“Tell me what happens next,” Shane said after a moment. “Today. Not a month from now.”

Hayden’s expression grew intent, professional in a way Shane recognized from between‑period talks on the bench. “Okay. Right now, we cool you down properly. Fever first. I brought stronger meds than whatever you’ve got here,” he nodded toward his abandoned backpack near the door, which Shane only now noticed. “You take those with food. We keep you hydrated. Then we get you horizontal in a dark room.”

Shane opened his mouth to argue, then paused. The idea of lying down somewhere dark and quiet sounded… embarrassingly good. “What about my back?” he asked.

“We’ll check it again after you cool down a bit,” Hayden said.

“And if fever does not go down?” Ilya asked, always two steps ahead. “At what point do we stop playing and take him to hospital?”

Hayden met his gaze head-on. “If he starts seizing, if he stops responding, if his temp goes over 104 and won’t budge even after meds and cooling? You take him in. No question. You blame it on some weird infection from a wild animal. Because that’s also true, supernatural or not, bodies can still crash.” He let that sink in, then added, “But a steady 101, 102 with what he’s dealing with right now? That tracks. It sucks, but it tracks.”

Ilya’s shoulders eased another fraction. The clear parameters seemed to help. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. I can watch for that. I can… do that.”

“See?” Hayden said softly. “You’re already doing the right things. You cleaned the wound. You didn’t let him skate himself into the ground. You got him home. That’s more than a lot of guys get.”

A faint, self-deprecating smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth. “I nag him,” he corrected. “A lot.”

“Sometimes, nagging is simply love with a bit of bite,” Hayden responded.

Shane made a weak protesting noise, but the way he leaned into Ilya’s side said he didn’t actually mind.

“Can you walk?” Hayden asked gently.

Shane rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I can walk.” The room tilted for a heartbeat as he found his footing. Heat surged up his spine, and his pulse fluttered hard in his throat. With Ilya’s steady grip at his side and Hayden hovering a step away, one hand half-raised in case he stumbled, Shane managed to straighten. “See?” Shane said, breathless but standing. “Totally fine.”

Both of them gave him matching unimpressed looks.

“We are retiring that word,” Ilya repeated flatly.

“Right, right,” Shane muttered. “I’m… tolerably functional.”

“Better,” Hayden said dryly. “Bedroom?”

“Down the hall,” Shane said, nodding vaguely in that direction.

“I’ll grab the stuff,” Hayden said. “You two go slow."

Ilya guided Shane down the hall, their footsteps muffled on the hardwood. The movement helped bleed some of the jittery energy out of Shane’s limbs. When they reached the bedroom, Ilya eased him down onto the mattress with a care that made Shane’s chest ache.

“You’re being very gentle,” Shane murmured, blinking up at him.

Ilya brushed damp hair back from his forehead, the touch soft. “Do not get used to it,” he warned. “Next week I fuck you into mattress,” he teased lightly.

“Promise?” Shane whispered, wishing they could go back to some illusion of normalcy.

Something tender flashed across Ilya’s face. He bent and pressed his lips to Shane’s temple, lingering there for a moment. “Promise,” he murmured against his skin.

Shane sighed as he reached a hand up, pushing it through Ilya's curls. He breathed in deep, taking in his scent. Hayden appeared in the doorway a second later, a bottle of pills and a thermometer in one hand, a glass of water balanced in the other. He paused at the sight of the two of them on the bed, some of the tension around his eyes easing further.

“Okay,” he said quietly, interrupting the intimate moment. “Step one: let’s see where your temp is now. Step two: industrial-strength wolf-approved ibuprofen.” he said, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

“That’s not a brand,” Shane mumbled, but he let Hayden slip the thermometer under his tongue without protest.

Hayden sat on the edge of the bed, close but not crowding, his weight a careful presence. Ilya settled on Shane’s other side, one hand resting on his back, just above the scars, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over the uninjured skin. For the first time since the woods had gone silent, Shane let himself fully relax. The fever still burned, his senses still buzzed too bright, and the word werewolf still lurked at the edge of every thought. But two steady heartbeats were flanking him now, two sets of hands ready to catch him if he slipped, two voices promising, each in their own stubborn way, that he wasn’t going to go through this alone. The thermometer beeped.

“Okay,” Hayden murmured. “Let’s start here.”

And for the first time all day, the word here didn’t feel like a cliff edge. It felt like a place to stand.

 

Chapter Text

On the morning of the full moon, Shane woke up already prepared for something to happen. His body didn’t seem to wake up normally; it felt as if it had never truly fallen asleep. He paused for a moment, looking at the ceiling. The cottage was quiet in a heavy way, indicating other heartbeats were present in the house but not in the room. The heater hummed softly, and the wind brushed past the lake. A blue-gray glow seeped around the edges of the curtains.

Something was buzzing beneath his skin. It wasn’t a sharp pain, not yet anyway. More like he’d had six espresso shots and was told to stay perfectly still. Every nerve was an active wire waiting for a signal. He swung his legs out of bed, feeling the cold floor but barely noticing it. By the time he reached the bathroom, his jersey number was trending on Twitter. He knew because his phone kept buzzing on the vanity—buzz, flash, buzz—as if the outside world had any right to demand his attention today. The reason was clear: he hadn’t been appearing late lately. Shane was known for his busy schedule outside of hockey, but in recent weeks, he’d been totally radio silent.

He turned the phone face down with a bit more force than necessary. The person in the mirror appeared as if they'd survived thirty minutes of intense hockey, ready to vomit into a bucket afterward. Wide pupils, pale skin, and a high flush across his cheekbones suggested exhaustion beyond sleep. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth. His canines ached dulledly, as if they resented the human form they occupied. Behind him, in the hall, floorboards creaked. The smell reached him a second before the voice: coffee, detergent, and a faint trace of dog from last week's charity event, which still seemed to linger in Ilya’s favorite hoodie.

“Lyubov?”

“I’m in here,” Shane said.

The door opened halfway. Ilya leaned against the frame, one hand braced over his head, watching him in the mirror. “You look like you did twelve games in thirty‑six hours,” he observed.

Shane snorted. “Flattering.”

“Is accurate,” Ilya said. He tilted his head. “How bad, one to ten?”

“Five,” Shane lied. Then his right shoulder twitched, a quick, involuntary jerk that dragged fire along the scars on his back. He slapped a hand against the counter to steady himself.

“Six and a half,” Ilya corrected smoothly, like they were just adjusting a stat line.

Shane blew out a breath. “Fine. Six and a half.”

Ilya stepped in, gently nudging Shane aside and taking his place at the sink to brush his teeth. Shane instinctively moved to keep space between them, paying close attention to every point of contact and every spot where their skin didn’t sit perfectly. “Wiebe texted,” Ilya said, his mouth still full of toothpaste. “He said to take it easy, stay off socials, ‘we got this, blah blah.’” He spat out the toothpaste. “He is very proud of his little flu boy.”

“Stop calling it that,” Shane muttered. “I’m going to slip and actually say it to his face.”

“Then he will feel bad for you,” Ilya said. “Is good tactic.”

“Manipulating my coach with a fake lingering flu,” Shane said. “Real great leadership there, captain.”

“I take you to doctor later if you fall over,” Ilya said. “This is leadership.”

Shane grabbed for his toothbrush. His fingers misjudged the angle by half a centimeter. The brush bounced off the counter and clattered into the sink. Ilya saw his jaw clench and reached automatically, plucking the toothbrush up and rinsing it for him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Coordination still good on ice,” Ilya said. “You tap pass in warm‑up yesterday like magician.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I can do edgework. I can’t pick up a toothbrush. Totally fine.”

“You pick it up emotionally,” Ilya said, handing it back. “Is what matters.”

Shane gave him a flat look, but some of the tightness in his chest loosened.

 

    

 

By the time they reached the kitchen, Hayden was already present. He often appeared in the cottage in ways that made Shane uneasy, as if he had always been there. Today, he sat at the table wearing gray sweats and a Centaurs hoodie that wasn’t his, with sleeves rolled up and hands around a mug. He carried the scent of rain on concrete and inexpensive arena coffee.

“You’re early,” Shane said.

“You’re late,” Hayden answered.

Ilya moved past them, straight to the counter. “He had to argue with mirror,” he informed Hayden, reaching for the coffee pot. “Mirror won.”

Hayden’s eyes flicked over Shane, quick and sharp. “Scale?” he asked.

“We’re doing scales now?” Shane said.

“Humor me,” Hayden said thoughtfully. “Scale, Hollander.”

Shane dropped into the chair opposite him. The wood creaked. “Six and a half,” he muttered.

Hayden’s gaze dipped to his hands, then up to his shoulders, to his throat. “That’s about where I’d put you,” he said. “You look… lucid.”

“You say that like you weren’t sure that would be the case,” Shane said.

“First full moon is a roulette wheel,” Hayden said softly, eyes gentle.

The coffeemaker gurgled, releasing a smell that made Shane’s empty stomach both lurch and growl. Distantly, he was horrified to realize he could distinguish between the roast Ilya favored and the one Hayden brought from the city simply by how the steam hit his sinuses. He swallowed hard and directed his attention to the table.

Hayden smacked a folded piece of paper down in front of him.

“What’s this?” Shane asked.

“Your schedule,” Hayden said.

 

“Breakfast, hydration, light movement,” Shane read. “No heavy exertion.” He shot Hayden a look.

“Next,” Hayden prompted.

“TV okay. No adrenaline spikes if possible.” His mouth twisted. “So no watching the Centaurs blow a two‑goal lead in the third.”

“You’ll thank me,” Hayden said.

Ilya made a wounded sound in the vicinity of the coffee machine.

Shane kept reading. “Nap window,” he said. “Good luck with that.”

“It’s aspirational,” Hayden said. “Even lying down in the dark and pretending for half an hour helps. Close your eyes, let your brain idle.”

“Brain doesn’t idle anymore,” Shane said. “It’s like an arena PA stuck on loop.”

“You’d be surprised what your body will take if you give it the option,” Hayden said.

Shane’s eyes dropped to the last block. After dark had no notes. “You didn’t write that part down,” he said.

“Because we’re not doing it at the table,” Hayden said, voice softer. “This morning is about getting you to dark, not through it. One period at a time.”

“And overtime?” Shane asked.

“Ask me that tomorrow,” Hayden said. “When you’re sore and bitchy and alive.”

The word alive landed heavier than it should have. There was no joke under it.

Shane’s restless fingers repeatedly folded the paper in half, then again. The paper tore softly and unexpectedly between his fingers, ragged rather than neat, as if he had pulled too hard. Thin slivers of white flakes floated onto the table. All three watched his hand silently. Shane slowly uncurled his fingers. “Okay,” he said tightly. “Hate that.”

“Grip strength looks good,” Hayden said, too fast.

“Pike,” Shane warned.

“Sorry,” Hayden amended. “That was a twitch. Still within expectation.” He leaned forward. “Any warning?”

Shane shook his head. “Just… a jump. Like my muscles decided to do something and forgot to tell me first.”

Hayden’s jaw worked. “That’s the wiring finishing its job,” he said. “Your body’s mapping new routes.”

“Feels like betrayal,” Shane mumbled.

 

    

 

By nine, Hayden had him on the living room floor.

“Stretching,” Hayden said. “Not yoga. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not doing downward dog,” Shane said.

“You will be doing it later, maybe,” Ilya called from the kitchen. “Different context.”

“Not helpful,” Hayden said, fighting a smile.

He demonstrated a straightforward hip flexor stretch followed by a twist for Shane’s lower back. His movements were efficient and controlled; he gently guided Shane into each position with light hands on his shoulders or ribs, avoiding any force. “Why does this feel like prehab?” Shane asked gruffly. “Are you hiding resistance bands somewhere?”

“Because this is prehab,” Hayden explained. “Think of tonight as the worst bag skate of your life, but for your skeleton. We keep you as loose as possible beforehand, so you leave with fewer pulled muscles or injuries."

“Love that for me,” Shane muttered. He twisted, feeling a pop along his spine, and relief washed over him. While holding the stretch, he became aware of their positions in the room without needing to look. Hayden was in front of him, kneeling, breathing steady. Ilya was behind him, somewhere to the left, leaning against the doorway with his weight on one leg and his phone in hand. Though muted, Shane could hear the faint sound of Ilya’s thumb swiping across the screen. He also perceived the cottage’s wooden frame creaking with the wind, the buzz of the fridge motor turning on and off, and the distant click of claws from a squirrel crossing the deck outside. It felt like being in an arena where every sound was amplified and isolated.

“Headache?” Hayden asked quietly.

“Just… noisy,” Shane said. “Everything’s too… separate. I can hear the fridge and the squirrel and your lungs.”

“Hot,” Ilya said.

“Disturbing,” Shane said.

“Normal,” Hayden put in. “You’re not going crazy. Your brain just finally has access to a data plan it didn’t have before.”

“Can I go back to dial‑up?” Shane asked.

“Sorry,” Hayden said. “No cancellation policy.”

A notification buzzed faintly from the kitchen counter. One of the phones, cheerful little blip at odds with the oppressive weight in his chest. “Who is it?” Shane called.

“Wiebe,” Ilya answered. “Says, ‘How’s the bug?’ and then a puking emoji.”

Hayden snorted. “He really texted that?”

Ilya turned the screen so they could see. Sure enough: the little gray bubble, the exact words, the glaring emoji.

“God, I hate him,” Shane said, fondness threaded through the dread.

They progressed through a few more stretches. Occasionally, a muscle would jerk suddenly, a burst of excessive strength, as if his neuromuscular response had been turned up two additional notches. Each time, Hayden advised him to breathe through it, count, not fight the tension, and ride it out until it subsided. By the tenth stretch, Shane was sweating through his T-shirt, not from effort but from the constant low-level burning under his skin. He leaned back against the couch, forearms resting on his knees. His heart pounded too quickly, disproportionate to how little he had actually exerted.

Ilya dropped down beside him, thigh solid against his.“Water,” Ilya said, handing him a bottle.

“Captain,” Shane muttered, but he drank.

Hayden sank onto the armchair opposite, watching him.

“Still at six and a half?” he asked.

Shane considered. The buzzing was worse, but it had become its own baseline. “Seven,” he admitted.

Hayden nodded once, as if logging it somewhere. “Good. That’s… predictable.”

“Define good,” Shane said.

“Good is ‘no surprises before noon,’” Hayden said. “Bad would be you telling me you’re at a nine and seeing static around the edges of your vision.”

Shane blinked. “That’s… a thing?”

“Not for you,” Hayden said, a fraction too fast.

Ilya’s hand pressed harder against Shane’s knee. “He is fine,” Ilya said.

Shane didn’t challenge the word this time. He didn’t truly believe it, but he liked how it sounded coming from Ilya. He tilted his head back against the couch, closing his eyes briefly. The world remained, with Hayden’s steady, resting‑athlete heartbeat echoing softly. He still smelled coffee grounds on the kitchen sponge and felt the wind lift the hair on his arms through the crack under the door. Yet beneath it all, something else called to him—a pull. Out. Toward the trees. To the faint, invisible boundary where the property ended, and the woods began. It wasn’t a voice, exactly, more like gravity pulling him. He opened his eyes.

Hayden was watching him with alert attention. “You feel it?” Hayden asked.

Shane exhaled heavily, his chest aching and his skin feeling tight. His hands still had the urge to grip and squeeze something. Yet, the fear wasn’t sharp anymore; it felt duller, more diffused, throbbing in sync with three heartbeats rather than one. “Yeah,” he said, mainly to reassure himself that he could. “What’s the next plan?"

Hayden checked his watch. “Next?” he said. “You eat. One period at a time, Hollander.”

“One period at a time,” Shane echoed.

He dug his fingers into his knees, grounding himself in the feel of joggers, the familiar ache in overused quads, the weight of Ilya’s shoulder pressed against his. Outside, past the glass and wood and human smells, the pull of the trees didn’t let up. But for now, for this hour, it stayed exactly where it was.

 

    

The moon emerged above the treeline like a puck sliding across ice, triggering something in Shane’s body that felt like the starting gun. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, everything changed. He sensed it first in his spine, a hot, sharp line, low and relentless, burned along his back scars as if a wire had been pulled tight under his skin. His breath caught. His legs no longer felt like legs but more like wobbly stilts he barely balanced on.

 

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice, too close and too far at once.

“I’m—” Shane started, and the word shredded into a strangled sound as the first wave hit.

Heat ran down his spine, detonating along each vertebra. His back arched violently. For a second, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel his own bones trying to solve a puzzle they hadn’t been given all the pieces for. His knees buckled. Hands caught him before he hit the ground, one set at his shoulders, one banding around his ribs.

“I’ve got you,” Hayden grunted from behind, arms wrapping around like a harness. “Eyes on me,” he ordered sharply. Shane’s vision blurred into a tunnel, but he forced it to focus. Hayden’s eyes appeared strange now, golden, with pupils dilated, but they provided a steady point of focus, something to look at instead of the sky, trees, or the chaos inside his own mind.

“Listen,” Hayden said, voice low and urgent. “This part feels like it’s going to kill you. It won’t. You ride it out.”

Shane tried to nod, but his neck spasmed halfway through, muscles clenching. Another wave rolled through his spine. Pops cracked along it, tiny gunshots under his skin as vertebrae shifted, rotating a fraction here, sliding a fraction there. Not enough to break. Enough that his whole field of vision whited out at the edges. He heard himself make a noise that had never come out of his throat before, a half‑gasp, half‑snarl.

“Breathe,” Hayden barked. “In, out. I don’t care if you curse at me, just breathe.” His eyes flicker over toward Ilya. "Get back." He growled

Ilya lifted his hands and backed off, but his eyes ran over Shane worriedly. He recognized that Shane needed Hayden in this moment, another wolf that understood him.

He dragged air into lungs that suddenly felt too small. His chest strained against his T‑shirt, fabric biting into skin as his ribs tried to expand beyond the space they had.

“Too tight,” he ground out.

“Off,” Hayden said immediately. “Shirt, hoodie. Now.”

They struggled to pull his hoodie and T-shirt over his head, movements clumsy and desperate. Cold night air hit his sweaty back, scars flaring hot and almost numb. He would have fallen forward, bare-chested, into the dirt if Hayden hadn't held him by his shoulders.

The second wave hit from below, heat rising through his calves into his knees, causing a deep, grinding pain in his joints, like forcing a wrong-sized bolt into a socket. His knees locked up, then he attempted to bend unnaturally. Pain surged through his thighs. He cried out, raw and instinctive, and his entire body lurched forward, driven by the instinct to drop, get lower, fix it, or run.

Hayden’s hands clamped on his shoulders, shoving back just enough to keep him upright. “Easy,” he snapped. “Let it go where it wants without ripping yourself in half. Don’t force it straight.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Shane snarled, half‑sobbing.

“It means if your legs want to bend a different way, let them bend,” Hayden shot back.

Amidst the chaos, something deep inside Shane’s mind gently reminded him, 'Don’t skate it off,' and suddenly, he truly listened. Instead of keeping his knees stiff in their usual position or tensing up his hips as he would on skates, he allowed himself to lean forward naturally. His body welcomed the opportunity. His knees buckled under him, pulling him down suddenly. For a confusing moment, he felt his joints shift under the strain. His knee caps nudged slightly to the side, ligaments tightening, and then, almost like a door swinging back into place, they realigned. His hips rolled forward with a heavy pop, adjusting to a new stance. He ended up on the ground, hands and knees pressed against the cold, damp dirt, his breath coming rapidly. Every grain of dirt under his palms was a sharp, real reminder of where he was. His fingers dug in on their own.

“Good,” Hayden said, voice above him now. “Good. Down is fine. We like down. Keep breathing.”

Shane sucked in air, mouth open, drooling a little without caring. His heart felt too big for his chest, slamming against ribs that ticked and flexed with tiny, horrible thumps. Another wave slammed his back.

This wasn’t merely heat; it was movement. His hands now rested on his back. They were warm, large, broad, and belonged to Ilya. He wasn’t pressing on the scars but framing them, palms on the unmarked skin on either side, fingers spread out. “I am here,” Ilya said, his voice rough yet steady. “Feel me. Not… whatever that is.”

Shane fixated on that: the familiar warmth of Ilya’s hands, the calloused fingers, and the faint tremor he pretended not to notice. He gagged, dryly.

“You’re okay,” Hayden said, a mantra now. “It sucks. It passes.”

“You promised this wouldn’t—” Shane started, then broke off with a groan as his shoulders spasmed. His collarbones shifted. He felt it, a grinding scrape as the joints at the base of his neck realigned. His shoulders hunched involuntarily, rolling forward and back as if someone had grabbed his scapulae from the inside and tugged. His fingers clawed at the dirt, nails biting in deeper than they ever should have. His nails were thicker, darker at the tips. Not full claws yet, but their shape had changed.

“Hands,” Hayden said sharply. “Can you feel them?”

“Y-yeah,” Shane panted.

“Good. Dig in. Use them. The ground is not going to move.”

He dug in, soil pressing beneath his new nails, cool and damp against skin that burned. A wave of sensation swept up his arms, from forearms to biceps, as muscles contracted and relaxed in a pulsing rhythm. He could feel tendons slipping within their sheaths, bones thickening, the radius and ulna adjusting beneath his skin as if reinforcing a structure with steel bars. He whimpered, despising the sound, yet unable to stop.

“Shane.” Ilya’s hand left his back briefly and slid up into his hair, fingers tangling at the nape of his neck. “Look at me.”

He forced his head up.

Ilya knelt in front of him now, directly opposite Hayden, close enough that Shane’s next shuddered breath almost bumped their foreheads together. His eyes were wide, dark, reflecting too much moonlight, but they were steady.

“I am here,” Ilya said again, softer. “You can be monster. I still know you.”

Something in Shane’s chest faltered at that. Monster. The word should have intensified the panic. Instead, strangely, it clarified everything. No more pretending this was anything less than what it truly was.

“You’re doing great,” Hayden said, voice hoarse. “Worst of the spine’s done. You’re still with us. That’s the hard part.”

His body begged to argue. Every nerve screamed.

Then his jaw flared up suddenly. It began as a sharp ache in the hinge, like the worst TMJ flare he's ever experienced. His teeth involuntarily clenched, molars grinding, and canines digging into his tongue. “Fuck,” he gasped through his clenched teeth.

“Open,” Hayden ordered. “Mouth. Now.”

He attempted, his jaw resisting as muscles locked in place. Suddenly, with a loud pop, the joint moved, stretching and widening. Pain surged intensely up into his temples, causing him to yelp. Hayden's hands were on his face, fingers on his cheeks, thumbs at the hinge, offering support rather than forcing.

“Let it go,” Hayden said. “Don’t clench. Clenching makes it worse. You want space. Let it have space.”

His jaw opened with another series of clicks. His tongue lolled stupidly for a second, too big for the space it had.

His teeth pushed forward as he felt them gradually grow. It wasn't like special effects in a movie or an instant emergence; rather, a slow, relentless pressure from the roots caused a dull ache in his gums as his bones extended inch by inch. His canines lengthened first, their edges scraping his lower lip until it split. Blood, sharp and iron-like, coated his tongue, and something within him eagerly reached for it. He recoiled, yet simultaneously wished for more.

“Hey,” Hayden snapped, voice a whipcrack. “Stay on us. Not that. Look at him.” He jerked his chin toward Ilya.

“I am right here,” Ilya said, eyes fierce. “You are not biting me tonight, understood?”

His teeth finished, slots in his jaw adjusting to new lengths. They felt too big, heavy when his mouth closed, points resting against his tongue in a constellation that had never been there before.

He panted, open‑mouthed, drool and blood mixing at the corner of his lips.

“Better,” Hayden said quietly. “Your face is catching up with the rest of you.”

“I hate you,” Shane rasped.

“There he is,” Hayden said, satisfaction thin but real.

Another tremor coursed through Shane’s body, more widespread this time, from shoulders to ribs to hips, like a dog shaking off water in painfully slow motion. His torso tensed, and for a moment he experienced everything at once: ribs expanding, spine elongating, pelvis tilting, muscles moving over new bone. Then… something snapped. Literally. His weight shifted.

His arms, once his sole anchor, suddenly felt correct — solid and supportive. His shoulder slope shifted; his center of gravity lowered. Breath rushed into lungs that finally felt spacious enough. The pain didn’t vanish but retreated, like a tide pulling back from the shore. In its place, a new feeling washed over him.

Power.

He could now feel his muscles, no longer as individual fibers screaming but as a coordinated whole. His hands, still hands but no longer entirely, sank into the dirt, claws (which he had to admit now) digging in just enough to grant traction. His legs, longer and heavier with different joints, held him in a crouch that should have felt unfamiliar but instead felt balanced. He was breathing as if he’d just finished a long training session, chest heaving, yet each breath drew so much air that the world around him sharpened.

The smell struck him sharply. He had believed his senses were intense before, but that was nothing compared to now. The forest burst with layers of scent: damp earth beneath a thin frost, sweetly rotting leaves, the piercing crispness of pine, and a distant sour aroma of raccoon. The ghost of his own blood seemed to seep into the nearby roots, with old fear embedded in them like a stain.

Over all of it: them. Ilya was right beside him—soap, sweat, adrenaline, the familiar warmth of their bed, the faint rubbery whiff of tape and crisp ice baked into his skin from years of playing.

Hayden in front—coffee, city grit, rain on concrete, something wild and metallic and older threaded under it all.

The pull of the moon above, huge and hungry, pressed against the top of his skull like a hand. It wanted him to run.

Every cell screamed: Every cell screamed: MOVE. Run into the trees, teeth bared, let the strength in his new body tear across the ground. Chase. Hunt. His new joints ached to stretch, to see what they could do. He jerked forward half a step before he realized he’d moved. Two sets of hands tightened instantly.

“Uh‑uh,” Hayden said, a low growl under the word. “Not yet.”

Ilya’s arm banded across his chest, right below his collarbones, not choking, not pinning—just there. “Stay,” Ilya said, the word rumbling through both of them.

Something in Shane’s hindbrain responded instinctively to that command, ears ringing with the sound. He froze, every instinct screaming at him. His heart pounded, and his muscles trembled as he fought the urge to lunge forward. But the command penetrated deeper than fear. It was... trust. His breathing quickened for a few agonizing seconds, nearly to hyperventilation. The urge to run away peaked, then gradually subsided.

His brain came back online a sliver at a time. He was on all fours now, fully.

The moon's pull persisted. His body adapted to it, with new lines finding a form of stability. His vision became clearer. What was once dark between the trees was now a detailed landscape of shapes and shadows, with each leaf and stone outlined in silver.

He looked up.

Two figures in front of him.

The first was big, broad, and familiar. Human outline, yes, but his brain supplied more than that now. Scent, posture, heartbeat. The way this one’s hands were clenched at his sides, wrists flexed like he wanted to touch and was holding back.

Ilya. Pack, something in him said. Mine.

He stepped forward instinctively, catching Ilya’s breath. His hands lifted reflexively, then paused, hesitant, unsure whether to approach or hold back, trying not to startle the wild creature.

“Shane?” he whispered. The name sounded strange to his new ears. It was soft, wet, human consonants, but the intent behind it hit like a familiar chord.

He huffed, a snort of air, and closed the distance, pressing his head firmly into Ilya’s thigh.

Ilya let out a broken laugh, one hand dropping into the fur between his ears. “Oh,” he breathed, fingers trembling as they sank into the thick coat. “There you are.”

Shane’s new tail thumped once, traitorous and relieved. The second figure stepped closer. Hayden. Except not.

He shifted partially, or perhaps this was merely how Shane’s enhanced senses perceived him. Despite the human bones, there was an overlay of something else, with blurred edges, a sharp, untamed scent, and gold eyes in a face that was both a friend and something else. He crouched down to meet Shane’s gaze.

“Hey,” Hayden said softly.

Shane swung his head toward him.

Hayden lifted a hand, palm out, let Shane come to him.

He did. Nose first and inhaled deeply, feeling the notes beneath the city and coffee, resonating with the pull of the moon in his blood, yet tempered. It was a presence, not a command. His instincts told him he was a leader, but not like a coach shouting from the sidelines. More like a captain on the ice, skating through the same shifts, enduring the same hits, setting a pattern for everyone else to follow. The word 'Pack,' that quiet, unspoken feeling, echoed again in him. He gently bumped Hayden’s hand with his nose.

Hayden’s fingers curled, burying themselves gently in the fur along Shane’s jaw. “You did it,” Hayden said. His voice shook just a little. “You’re here.”

Heat warmed Shane’s chest, unrelated to the transformation. He turned his head, glancing between them. His husband and his… whatever Hayden was now in this new geometry. A deep, involuntary sound escaped him. A low, content, disbelieving whuff that vibrated through his lungs. Pack, the certainty etched itself along every new, rearranged nerve.

“Okay,” Hayden said, straightening, his own posture shifting fluid and sure in the moonlight. “We take a lap. Just feel your edges.”

And for the first time since claws had raked his back in the dark, the thing barreling through the trees was him.

Chapter Text

Shane tore through the clearing, a blur of fur and muscle. The sight punched the air from Ilya’s lungs. From the edge of the deck where he had escaped, he watched his husband. Shane’s paws hit the earth hard enough to kick up faint sprays of dirt. His body moved with the same terrifying efficiency Hayden had warned him about.

“Shane,” Ilya breathed, uselessly.

Beside him, Hayden stood barefoot on the cold planks. His eyes stayed on the wolf as it banked around the far pine and came back into view, breath steaming in white bursts.

“He’s fast,” Ilya said, the words stripped and shaky.

“Yeah,” Hayden said. His voice was flat.

On the third pass, Shane’s back legs skidded on frozen dirt at the turn. He caught himself, dug in, and pushed off harder.

“Okay,” Hayden said under his breath. Hayden dragged his eyes off the clearing and faced him fully for the first time since the change had started. Up close, he looked wrong in his own way. “I need to go down there,” Hayden said, jerking his chin toward the churned‑up ground, “and meet him on his side of it.”

“And I go with you,” Ilya said immediately.

“No,” Hayden replied, just as fast.

Ilya’s hands curled. “You don’t tell me-”

“Yes, I do,” Hayden cut in, sharper. “Because you love him and you’re human and that is a dangerous combination for the next few hours.”

The words landed like a slap. “Explain,” Ilya said softly, voice wavering nervously.

“Shane is all wolf right now,” Hayden said, each word measured. “Wolf brain, wolf body, wolf fear. He is not thinking straight. He is smelling everything. You are the loudest thing in his nose.”

“Good,” Ilya snapped. “He knows me.”

“That’s the problem,” Hayden said. “He sees you as safe, his pack, his mate, and his home. That’s a lot for a new wolf who’s never experienced this before. If he gets too close, he might cling or even bite.”

Ilya shook his head once, harshly. “He would never hurt me.”

Hayden’s jaw clenched. “He doesn’t want to,” he said. “Want has nothing to do with it right now.” He jerked his thumb toward the trees where Shane had disappeared again. “That thing? It’s driven by instinct, pain, and a new strength he doesn’t fully understand. If you get between him and whatever he's panicked about, he’ll go through you. Not because he chooses to, but because that’s how it works.”

“I will not just sit here,” Ilya said. “I am not-”

“Ilya.” Hayden’s tone changed to one of a gentle parent.

Ilya’s throat bobbed. “So what? I stay inside and let you-what?”

Hayden’s mouth curved into a subtle, almost smileless expression. “I will handle your husband, Ilya. He's my friend first and foremost.”

Something in Ilya’s face cracked. He looked past Hayden, out at the clearing again. Shane had slowed a fraction, head low, sides heaving. The moonlight caught on his fur in a way that made something ancient in Ilya’s bones want to run to him with a blanket and a bottle of water and drag him inside. His fingers dug into the deck rail instead.

“What do you need from me?” he asked, voice rough.

Hayden exhaled, some tightness leaving his shoulders. “You stay on the porch. You keep the door unlocked. You don’t turn off the lights. You don’t come down the stairs.”

Ilya’s mouth twisted. “You expect me to be good little Plainfolk husband.”

“For a few hours, yeah,” Hayden said. “You hold his human life together while I keep his wolf from shredding it.”

Ilya sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. “Fine,” he said. “You go. You do… whatever you do. You bring him back.”

They stood there for one brief, raw second, then Hayden stepped back from the rail.

“Okay,” he said, more to himself than anyone. He rolled his shoulders back. “My turn.”

He moved to the edge of the deck and dropped onto the frozen ground with a quiet, barefoot thump. The cold immediately stung his skin, but he paid it no mind. The night carried the scent of the lake, pine, and Shane’s new, sharp sense of fear. He removed his shirt, then his pants, and finally his underwear, tossing them on the patio before giving Ilya a wink. Unlike Shane, whose shift came slowly and in panic, Hayden was seasoned and composed. He slipped into it instinctively, like stepping onto the ice. His breath hissed out as his spine bent, bones cracking loudly in the chilly air, ugly and abrupt. His hands went to his knees and then to the dirt, his fingers warping, nails turning black and curling.

Ilya flinched once, instinctively, then forced himself to keep watching.

Hayden’s jaw popped sideways, then moved forward as his teeth slid and his canines grew longer. Fur erupted on his arms and shoulders like ink spilling onto paper. His torso shortened, his chest thickened, and his center of gravity shifted downward sharply. When the transformation ended, the man had vanished. In his place stood a wolf almost as tall as Shane, with dense, dark brown fur and breath steaming in the cold air. He shook himself once, then looked up at the porch. His eyes were Hayden’s, leaving no question.

Ilya’s hands tightened on the rail.

Hayden’s ears flicked.

He turned from the porch toward the clearing, where Shane had stopped at the far edge, sides heaving, claws dug into the dirt. As Hayden approached, the younger wolf’s head snapped up, gold‑brown eyes wide and blown with panic and too much of everything.

'Shane.'

His name dropped into Shane's thoughts, clean and unmistakable.

'Hayden.'

The answering thought came out of him clumsily, but it came.

'Good,' Hayden’s mind‑voice said, warm. 'You hear me.' He moved closer, slow but direct, until they were almost shoulder to shoulder.

Shane dragged his gaze off the porch and locked onto Hayden’s eyes. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to climb out. 'Scared,' he pushed, the thought raw and small.

'I know,' Hayden answered, then pressed his muzzle into the side of his neck soothingly.

Shane’s ears flicked. His paws remained pressed into the dirt, though not with a tight grip. The tension gradually eased.

'Good,' Hayden said, a small bright weight in Shane’s mind. 'That’s your job. You watch me.'

A fractured part of Shane’s mind insisted he’d never been anyone’s rookie like this before. The other part of him clung to Hayden’s solid presence as if it were a railing in a storm. Behind them, the porch wood creaked as Ilya shifted his weight, his heart pounding like a kick drum. Shane’s head instinctively twitched in that direction.

Hayden’s tail snapped sideways, hitting Shane before he turned his head toward the tree line. The woods lay ahead: dark, open, and overwhelming.

'Run,' he said quietly. Shane reacted before thinking, lunging forward on his paws, his spine arching as air rushed into his lungs. The clearing blurred past, a mix of dirt, frost, and old pine needles. The rhythm of Hayden’s stride became a metronome. Fore, hind, fore, hind. Shane forced his legs into the same beat. His joints still screamed, his spine still burned where the scars sat, but the chaos stopped flailing and began to cohere around something predictable.

'Better,' Hayden marked, approval warm and brief.

They traveled along the outer edge of the property. Shane’s paws traced a path his eyes couldn’t recall, but his body instinctively followed. With each step, the moon appeared before him like a tempting beacon. Now visible above the trees, it was large and luminous. Every time he glimpsed it through the branches, a rush of heat surged up his spine, like a new fever pulsing within him.

They had almost completed the first loop of the property when it hit. Something shifted in the air, subtly. The breeze changed direction. The cold bit deeper. New scent slammed into Shane’s nose like a fist: wild, musky, sharp. Deer.

Everything in him snapped to attention. He heard the snap of a twig far left, the fast, panicked thud of prey‑heart. The forest narrowed to a pinpoint. His body turned toward it before he realized he’d moved.

'Shane,' Hayden’s thought snapped like a twig under too much weight. Stay.

Instinct broke the leash. Shane poured his strength into a new line, paws digging in. The scene narrowed to a frantic chase. He barely noticed the dark figure crashing into his side. Contact jolted through his ribs. Hayden collided with him shoulder-to-shoulder, pushing him off course but not knocking him over. Shane skidded, paws slipping, a furious snarl erupting as he reacted to the disruption.

'Deer,' his thoughts skittered, wild. 'Have to-'

'No. Not tonight.'

Shane instinctively snapped his jaws at Hayden’s neck, but Hayden was quick to meet the attack. Their teeth clashed with a sharp sound just centimeters apart, signaling a warning rather than an actual bite. Hayden's body moved swiftly to block Shane’s view of the treeline.

'Look. At. Me,' Hayden hammered, each word a shove.

Shane’s chest rose rapidly as the deer’s scent lingered in his nostrils—hot, fragrant, and unsettling. His new body urged him to pursue, to test this newfound strength on something real rather than air and memories. He abruptly averted his gaze from the shadowy, enticing gaps between the trees to Hayden’s eyes instead. The gold in Hayden’s gaze was intense, not soft. It was burning.

'Don’t you dare,' Hayden said, the words low and clear. 'You rip some random deer tonight, the first thing your body learns is blood on a full moon. You don’t want that.'

The deer bolted through the underbrush, heart pounding like a fading drum. Its scent lingered briefly before fading away. Shane relaxed slightly, breath catching in his chest. The desire to run remained, overwhelmed by a mixture of fury, shame, and a primal urge to escape the pain until it ceased.

'This feels-' Shane started.

'Awful?' Hayden supplied. 'Yeah. First time sucks. But you just told your body ‘no’ once. Makes next one easier. You did good.'

Shane’s head jerked. 'I almost-'

'You 'You didn’t,' Hayden interrupted. "That’s the point.' A tense silence followed. 'Do you know what I did on my first moon?' he then asked.

Shane sniffed, ' Ran?' he guessed.

'Ran,' Hayden confirmed. 'Straight into a metal dumpster at full speed because I smelled a hot dog someone dropped. Woke up with a concussion and a twisted paw and no idea how I didn’t maul the janitor who came to check.'

Shane huffed, a startled sound half between a laugh and a sob. 'You’re an idiot,' he thought.

'Absolutely,' Hayden agreed.

Some of the tension in Shane’s chest from the rubber band eased. He took a moment to settle, then gently nudged Shane’s paw with his own.

As they returned to the cottage, the sky above the lake shifted from deep black to a dull, tired gray. Shane’s legs felt heavy, like soggy rope. Each step was slow and burdensome. His paws, once eager and biting into the ground with force, now dragged, their claws dull against the frozen dirt. The fiery sensation that had burned within him all night had diminished to a dull, smoldering ache.

On the porch, a shape changed. Ilya sat hunched on the top step, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, with red-rimmed eyes fixed on the tree line. As soon as the two wolves emerged through the last row of pines, his heart began pounding faster.

They crossed the final stretch of yard in a crooked line: Hayden leading, still steady even though his stride had lost its smooth rhythm; Shane behind, muscles humming with exhausted adrenaline and a deep, odd sense of achievement for having survived.

Ilya was already on his feet by the time they reached the bottom of the steps. “Shane,” he said out loud, voice cracking.

The wolf lifted his head at the sound. His ears flicked forward. His tail gave a single, slow wag.

'Hi,' he thought, the word small and dumb and perfect.

The sudden change occurred without warning. A heat shot up his spine, but it wasn’t the wild burst from the night before. Instead, it was a duller, persistent burn, like cramped muscles trying to stretch out. His legs gave way, and for a moment, he half-fell, claws scraping the dirt. His entire body trembled. Fur rippled on his skin, then itched, then disappeared. Bones shifted, shortening and rearranging. Paws spread out and flattened, toes separated; claws retracted into dull nails. His muzzle pulled back toward his skull as teeth ground against each other, reshaping. The world tilted. Cold air touched his bare skin. He collapsed onto his hands and knees. Gravel shards poked into his palms.

He stayed that way for a second, head hanging, hair sweat‑plastered to his forehead, whole body shaking. Everything smelled muted and too thin.

“Shane.” Ilya was there. Bare feet thumped down the steps; then he was on the ground beside him, knees in the dirt, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch.

“I’m naked,” he croaked, voice rough.

Ilya let out a short, broken laugh that sounded like it might snap in half. “Da,” he said. “You are very naked. Is okay. I have seen you.”

Shane tried to smirk and only got halfway there. Everything felt far away, like he was still a step out of phase with his body.

Hayden’s change hit his peripheral vision.

The dark wolf moved a few steps aside, staying out of reach, and exhaled slowly, fogging the air. Its shape then shifted: fur receded, limbs shortened, and hitched. In a few ungraceful seconds, the wolf transformed back into a man. Hayden leaned forward, supporting himself with one hand, dark hair falling into his face. Like Shane, he was completely naked, skin dotted with goosebumps, chest heaving with heavy breaths.

“You… good?” he rasped, looking up through his hair.

“Define,” Shane wheezed.

Hayden snorted once, a tired, almost‑laugh. “Alive,” he said.

Shane blinked, searching his mind for anger or sarcasm, but all he felt was a profound, empty hunger and the steady thump of Ilya’s heart beneath his hand. He realized his hand was resting on Ilya’s chest—when did that happen? Ilya’s hoodie carried an unfamiliar scent, harsh detergent, cold fabric. Beneath it, there was skin, sweat, and the faint aroma of yesterday’s cologne. Shane’s fingers clenched slightly, nails pressing just enough to sense. A quiet, instinctive feeling stirred in him, communicating in sensation rather than words.

Ilya’s hand came up and cupped the back of Shane’s neck, thumb rubbing the damp hair there. “Hey,” he said softly. “Wolf boy. You with me?”

Shane’s nose twitched. He leaned in without thinking, pressing his face against Ilya’s throat and inhaling. Scent slammed into him. Ilya again, without the forest static: warm, salty, the particular sharp‑sweet note of his shampoo. His teeth ached with it. He didn’t realize he’d bared them until Ilya’s fingers tightened at his neck.

“Shane,” Ilya warned, not quite fearful, but not joking either.

Hayden’s voice cut through the heat, hoarse but firm. “Easy.”

Shane blinked. His jaw had opened, just a fraction. He snapped it shut, startled. “Sorry,” he muttered into Ilya’s skin.

“It is okay,” Ilya said softly, though his pulse was up. “You are sniffing. Is weird, but okay.”

At the word sniffing, his newly human brain finally caught up with what his body was doing. He pulled back a little, heat searing up his face under the layer of exhaustion.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Sorry. Again.”

“Stop apologizing,” Ilya said, but there was no real bite in it.

“Clothes,” Hayden put in, still on one knee, arms wrapped loosely around himself against the cold. “Then food.”

Shane’s stomach cramped hard at the thought. Not just general hunger. Meat. His mouth flooded with saliva at the idea of something heavy, bloody, real between his teeth.

“Yeah,” Hayden said dryly, catching the flicker across his face. “There it is.”

Ilya glanced between them. “What?”

“Wolf comes down, appetite stays up,” Hayden said. “He’s going to want meat. So am I."

Ilya exhaled sharply before shuffling unsteadily, attempting to manage the logistics of carrying his naked husband inside without making prolonged eye contact with the similarly unclothed Hayden. Together, they managed to lift Shane up the steps and through the door. Crossing the threshold, they were greeted by the cottage’s warmth. Though it smelled faint compared to the forest outside, it was shelter. They guided Shane toward the couch, half-ushering, half-pulling him. Every fabric touch and draft made the hairs on his arms stand up.

“I have chicken,” Ilya said, already moving toward the dresser for sweats and T‑shirts. “And… eggs. steak?”

Hayden’s own stomach answered with an ugly, hollow clench at the word bacon. “Yeah,” he said. “That.”

“Make it all,” Shane muttered into the pillow. His voice sounded wrecked. “Like… all of it.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “I can do that,” he said. “You wear something before you eat, though. I am not feeding naked wolves in my house.”

“Rude,” Hayden said. “We’re housebroken.”

“Debatable,” Ilya shot back, but there was a little more air in his voice now.

He tossed a pair of soft old shorts and a T‑shirt onto the couch for Shane. Hayden grabbed his clothes from the desk with a huff. Shane struggled his way into the shorts, legs not quite cooperating.

“Here,” Hayden said, stepping in before Shane tied himself into a knot. He tugged the waistband up the last inch, then dropped the T‑shirt over his head.

“Thanks, Mom,” Shane rasped.

Hayden snorted, tugging his own borrowed sweatpants on. “Shut up and lie down before you fall down.”

Shane obeyed without argument, rolling onto his side again, knees drawing up. His nose twitched. The scent of Ilya on the couch, weeks of nights, sweat, skin, rolled over him in a thick wave.

Pack, his tired brain sighed.

He didn’t realize he’d burrowed his face into the pillow and taken a deep, hungry inhale until Hayden’s voice floated over from the side of the couch.

“Hey. Easy there, bloodhound.”

Shane peeled an eye open. “Can’t help it,” he mumbled. “Smells like him.”

"I understand," Hayden said warmly. "I'm not saying you shouldn't. I know how tough it can get after every full moon, but Jackie always finds a way to enjoy herself afterward," he said with a grin.

“Gross,” Shane said weakly.

In the kitchen, the fridge door opened. Meat hit a hot pan with a hiss that might as well have been a dinner bell. The smell slithered down to the living room, thick and salty and perfect.

Shane’s stomach growled so loudly it made his own ears ring.

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “There it is.”

The banter felt fragile, a little off‑kilter, but real. Under it, the wolf part of Shane’s brain still wanted to pace, to scent, to sink his teeth into something heavy and rich and bloody. Under that, tired human muscle wanted to melt into the couch and not move for twelve hours.

He inhaled once more, slower this time, allowing Ilya’s scent, the aroma of meat, and the faint, persistent trace of Hayden’s voice in his mind to settle within the same ribcage. Outside, the moon was waning into dawn, its influence weakening to a dull stain at the edge of his consciousness. Inside a cramped, overly warm cottage that reeked of meat and love, Shane relaxed into the pillows, feeling half human, half something else.

By the time Ilya carried the first plate in, the living room consisted of two cranky werewolves.

He deliberately overindulged: two thick slices of steak, a heap of scrambled eggs, and leftover roast chicken chopped into pieces. Everything was arranged on a large platter, steam still rising from the hot food.

“I bring more later,” he said, nudging Hayden’s leg with his knee. “This just to stop you from fainting on my floor.”

“Hero,” Hayden muttered, sitting up and reaching for the plate.

Shane pushed himself upright more slowly, muscles stiff and complaining. The smell of meat hit him, and his brain went blank for a moment. It was almost obscene how good it tasted. The salt, fat, crisp edges gave way to a chewy center. Some part of him wanted to lean over the plate and inhale the rest without stopping.

Hayden, beside him, was only marginally better, methodically shoveling eggs and chicken into his mouth like his body was a furnace and anything not nailed down was fuel.

Ilya sat on the recliner, watching them with the wary fascination. “You are both terrifying, yes?” he said finally.

“Compliment accepted,” Hayden said around a mouthful, then swallowed.

Shane slowed down a little, licking grease from his thumb. “Sorry,” he said again, out of sheer habit.

“Stop,” Ilya said, but softer this time. “You keep saying sorry like you did something wrong.”

Shane stared at the plate. “Kinda feels like it,” he mumbled. “I almost… I don’t know. Lost it.”

Ilya frowned. “So what now?” he asked, anxiety in his tone. “This happens every month?”

Shane flinched.

Hayden shook his head. “It’s not going to be like this every time,” he said. “You just did the worst one.”

Shane glanced up, skeptical. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true,” Hayden replied. He shifted so he was facing both of them, back against the headboard, long legs stretched out. “Your body just did the biggest adjustment. First shift is when all the wiring gets ripped out and put back in. Now? It’s mostly… maintenance.”

“It sounds like bullshit,” Ilya grumbled. “Explain.”

Hayden scrubbed a hand over his face, searching for simple words.

“Okay,” he said. “For the last month, you’re what we call a fresh scratch. Your body’s been fighting this since you got scratched. That was the change trying to finish itself.” He nodded toward Shane. “And it just did.”

Shane’s hand drifted unconsciously to his back, palm flattening over the scars.

“So what about… all the other stuff?” he asked quietly. “The panic, the noise, the… everything.”

Hayden’s gaze softened a fraction. “Your system’s been in open conflict,” he said. “Human immune response saying ‘what the hell is this,’ wolf side saying ‘hi, I live here now.’" He smiled awkwardly, "That’s why you felt like a live wire all the time. Now that you’ve gone all the way through, they’re on the same page.”

“Same page,” Shane echoed. “Which is what, exactly?”

Hayden shrugged one shoulder. “You’re built for this now,” he said. “The healing? That stays. The stronger senses? Those stay too, but they stop climbing every day. Your body has a target state again.”

Ilya frowned. “Target state?”

“You’ve trained with guys recovering from major surgery,” Hayden explained. "In the first week, they’re overwhelmed with swelling and pain. After a couple of months, their bodies learn to organize everything correctly. They still need to train, but they’re no longer battling themselves." He motioned vaguely at Shane. "The biggest struggle is done. Now it’s... small adjustments. Conditioning.”

“So I’m…” He swallowed. “I’m not going to feel like I’m crawling out of my skin 24/7?”

“Not 24/7,” Hayden said. “Full moons, yeah, you’re going to buzz. Nights leading up to it, some extra noise. But the day‑to‑day? Your brain stops screaming ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’ at every smell and sound.”

Shane sank back against the pillows, processing. “So this… sludge in my head?” he asked. “The stuff with Montreal, the panic, the-” he gestured vaguely at his chest “-all of that just… goes away?”

Hayden’s smile crooked, rueful. “I’m not going to tell you the wolf is a magic antidepressant,” he said. “That’s not how this works. But.” He leaned in a little, elbows braced on his knees. “But your body isn’t going to be fighting you on top of everything else anymore,” he said.

Shane was still. “You promise,” he said, in a quiet plea.

Hayden held his gaze. “I promise it gets better than this,” he said. “A lot better. You learn your triggers. Your hearing filters on its own. You get to use the good parts…speed, strength, focus.”

“So my game won’t tank,” Shane said quietly.

“Not unless you let fear do it,” Hayden replied. “You showed up to practice with a fever and a fresh curse. You think you’re going to fold now that you know what it is? Nah.”

Ilya shifted closer, resting a hand low on Shane’s ribs, over his racing heart. “If what he says is true,” he said, nodding toward Hayden, “then the body will not be fighting you so much. That is good.”

“So you’re just… okay with having a werewolf husband now?” he asked, half‑joking, half‑afraid.

Ilya snorted. “I always knew you were drama,” he said. “This is just… new level.” His expression softened. “You are still Shane. You just have extra fur.”

“Rude,” Shane croaked, but his eyes were wet.

Hayden exhaled, the tension in his own shoulders easing as the two of them bantered. “One more thing,” he said. “For both of you.”

They looked at him.

“We get you on a schedule. You know when to back off, when to push, how to eat, and how to sleep. Your body will do most of the heavy lifting. It was trying to anyway. Now it’s allowed to.”

“And you?” Ilya asked. “You are coming back next time.”

Hayden’s lips quirked. “You think I’m going to let him freestyle his second moon alone?” he said. “No chance. You’re stuck with me for a bit.”

“Good,” Ilya said simply.

Shane looked between them: his husband, stubborn and scared and steady, and his friend, exhausted and sharp‑edged and unexpectedly kind.

The wolf in his chest, finally sated with meat and movement and moonlight, curled up drowsy and warm around a single, simple certainty: Pack.

He let his head tip sideways onto Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s hand automatically went to his hair. On the other side of the couch, Hayden slouched down until his head thunked back against the back, eyes half‑closed but still tracking the room.

“How do you feel?” Hayden asked for one last check‑in.

Shane thought about it. Really thought. “Tired,” he said. “Hungry. Sore.” A beat. “But… less wrong. In my skin.”

“Good,” Hayden said. “That’s the new normal.”

Ilya pressed a kiss into Shane’s sweat‑damp hair.

Shane’s eyes drifted shut. For the first time in weeks, the hum under his skin wasn’t all fear. Some of it was just… life, buzzing steady.

His last coherent thought before he slid under was simple and startlingly calm:

It’s going to be okay.

His body would handle the rest.

Chapter Text

Shane woke up already hard.

It wasn’t subtle. Just a sharp, insistent need thrumming through his body like a held note, his skin too hot under the sheets and his nerves buzzing like they were plugged directly into a socket. The cottage was dim, just a smear of pale winter light pushing around the curtains. The clock said he technically had time before morning skate. His body disagreed. His pulse was pounding like he’d sprinted a shift.

Ilya was a warm, hefty presence on the mattress besidehim. He was on his stomach, one arm thrown over his head, mouth slightly open against the pillow, snoring softly. Shane paused for a moment, simply observing him. Everything about Ilya seemed to hit him more deeply now. His scent washed over Shane like a wave, making his fingers twitch. Shane could hear the steady, unwavering beat of Ilya’s heart.

“Ilya,” he whispered.

No response

Shane swallowed, his throat dry, and gave up on pretending this wasn’t happening. He slid closer across the sheets, fitting himself along the line of Ilya’s back. Heat soaked into him instantly; the restless hum under his skin eased the tiniest fraction. He tucked his nose into the curls at the nape of Ilya’s neck and inhaled.

He let his hand drift, slow, under the hem of Ilya’s T‑shirt. Warm skin met his palm. His fingers splayed over the familiar plane of his lower back, thumb brushing the ridge of his spine, then sliding down to the sharp angle of his hip.

Ilya twitched. “Mm?” he mumbled into the pillow.

“Morning,” Shane murmured, lips brushing the edge of his ear.

“Mmm. No.” Ilya’s voice was rough with sleep. “Is illegal time. Go back to bed.”

Shane huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Can’t,” he said honestly. “Too horny.”

He rolled his hips, just enough that his erection pressed against the curve of Ilya’s hip. Ilya went still.

“Oh,” he said. Awake, now.

Shane’s hand slid lower, across the front of Ilya’s joggers, fingers curving deliberately. “Thought you might help,” he said, trying for light, coming out breathless.

Under his palm, he felt the slow, answering swell of interest. Ilya exhaled, long and controlled.

“So pushy,” he muttered. “Full moon makes you greedy, da?”

“Maybe,” Shane said, not bothering to deny it. His hand squeezed a little. “Is that a problem?”

For a beat, Ilya didn’t move. Shane’s wolf itched under his skin, nerves crackling with the need to do something, to rut against anything, to bite. He was right on the edge of bratty enough to flip Ilya over and climb him like a tree.

Ilya caught his wrist. The grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, fingers closing around Shane’s hand, pinning it in place against his own cock.

“Careful,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane froze, pulse jumping. “Did I-? Does it hurt?”

Ilya rolled onto his side in one smooth motion, taking Shane’s arm with him, until he was on top of him. His eyes were open now, dark and sharp even in the half‑light. He searched Shane’s face for a moment, taking in blown pupils, flushed cheeks, the too‑fast rise and fall of his chest.

“You start something,” Ilya murmured, voice low, “you do not get to decide when it stops. Understand?”

A familiar thrill shot straight through Shane’s gut at the tone. His cock throbbed.

He swallowed. “Yes,” he said, a little too fast.

“Words, Shane,” Ilya said, tightening his hold just enough that Shane’s fingers twitched uselessly. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he breathed.

A tiny, satisfied flicker appeared at the corner of Ilya’s mouth.

“Good boy,” he said.

Shane’s brain short‑circuited for a second.

The hand around his wrist guided his own palm more firmly against the outline of Ilya’s cock, making him feel the full weight and heat of it through the joggers, but not letting him move yet.

“You wake me up,” Ilya went on, calm and patient in a way that made Shane’s toes curl, “you grind on me, you make little needy noises in my ear…” His free hand came up, cupping Shane’s jaw, thumb pressing lightly into the spot just under his bottom lip. “And you think you are in charge?”

Shane’s mouth parted on a shaky exhale. “No,” he admitted, voice gone thin.

“No what?”

“No, sir.”

“Better.”

The approval in that single word warmed him all the way through. One knee slid between Shane’s thighs, prying them apart. The sheet bunched around his hips. His wolf preened at the weight above him, at being pushed back into place.

“Hands,” Ilya said.

Shane automatically reached for him. Ilya caught both wrists and pressed them into the mattress above Shane’s head.

“Stay,” he ordered.

The word hit harder than it should have. Something deep and animal in Shane stilled, like someone had dropped a hand between his shoulder blades.

His fingers flexed against Ilya’s grip. “I—” He swallowed. “I’ll try.”

Ilya’s eyes softened, just for a beat. Then the edge was back. “You will do,” he corrected. “Trying is for practice. This is game.”

Shane huffed a broken laugh that turned into a gasp when Ilya rolled his hips down, grinding their bodies together properly. The friction was almost obscene now, thick and perfect, his cock dragging against Ilya’s through thin layers of cotton.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane breathed.

“Language,” Ilya chided, smug. “You are very eager this morning.”

“You’re the one-” Shane started, then cut himself off with a whimper as Ilya did it again, deliberately, slower.

“I am what?” Ilya prompted.

“You’re the one driving me insane,” Shane managed. His hips tried to chase the motion; Ilya’s hands on his wrists tightened, pinning him harder.

“Do not move unless I tell you,” Ilya said. “You wanted my help. You will take what I give you.”

Shane’s breath stuttered. His whole body burned with the urge to arch, to grind, to do something. Instead, he forced himself to stay still under the weight, every muscle trembling with held‑back motion.

“Good,” Ilya praised softly, and the word hit like a reward.

He leaned down, mouth finding Shane’s throat. Sharp teeth scraped along his pulse, just enough pressure to make his wolf rear up and bare for him. Shane swallowed a noise that sounded too much like a whine.

“You feel this?” Ilya murmured against his skin, accent thicker now, the way it got when he slipped. “All this energy, hm? All this.” He rolled his hips again, just once, making Shane gasp. “This is mine to use.”

He rocked down again, slow and deliberate, making sure Shane felt every second of it. Shane bit back a moan and failed; the sound spilled out of him, ragged and helpless.

“See?” Ilya hummed. “You do not need to move for this to feel good.”

It did. God, it did. His cock throbbed where it pressed against Ilya’s through thin cotton, every drag of fabric and muscle amplified by the raw edge of his new senses.

“Ilya,” he choked, voice cracking. “Please.”

“Please what?” Ilya asked, entirely too composed for a man currently grinding on his husband at stupid‑o’clock in the morning.

“Please- fuck me,” Shane begged. “Do something. Do more. I can’t-” He cut himself off on a strangled whine as Ilya stopped.

His hips went still, chest still pressed to Shane’s, breath steady. Only his hands moved, releasing Shane’s wrists so he could trail his fingers down the length of Shane’s arms, over his shoulders, resting them lightly on his ribs.

“Do not move them,” he ordered. “Not unless I tell you.”

The wolf inside him bristled at the command, instinctively wanting to test the boundary. The rest of him melted.

“Yes, sir,” Shane said, barely above a whisper.

“Louder.”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated, cheeks burning.

Ilya smiled like that was what he’d been waiting for. “There. Much better.”

He shifted back, sitting up on Shane’s thighs. The sudden view hit Shane like a punch: Ilya above him, hair mussed, T‑shirt rucked up to expose a strip of stomach, joggers hanging indecently low. His cock strained against the fabric, thick and obvious.

Shane’s mouth went dry.

Ilya noticed. Of course he did.

“You like?” he asked, lazy.

Shane nodded, words gone.

“Words, lyubov.”

“I- yes,” Shane managed. “I like. A lot.”

“Good.” Ilya tugged at the waistband of Shane’s briefs. “Then we take this off. Slowly.”

Shane’s fingers twitched against the headboard. He wanted to help, wanted to strip them both in one frantic motion, but he held still like he was supposed to. The restraint cost him.

Ilya eased Shane’s briefs and sleep pants down together, dragging them over his hips, down his thighs, smiling when Shane’s cock finally sprang free, flushed and heavy and already leaking.

“There he is,” Ilya murmured. “So impatient.”

“Whose fault is that?” Shane shot back, breathless.

“Mine,” Ilya agreed easily. “I am very talented.”

The first stroke was slow and steady, palm twisting just enough on the upstroke to drag over the sensitive head. The second came quicker, matching the rhythm of his thudding pulse. By the third, Shane couldn’t hold back the sounds tearing out of him.

“Look at you,” Ilya murmured, watching him with open, hungry fondness. “You are shaking already.”

“Can’t-” Shane tried, fingers flexing hard enough on the headboard that the wood creaked. “Feels too much. Everything-”

“Too much is okay,” Ilya said. “You can take it.”

The hand on his cock picked up pace, slicking easily with precum. Shane’s hips jerked, desperate to thrust up into the grip, to fuck into the tight heat of his hand. Shane dragged air into his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges. His body trembled with the effort of staying where he was, hands locked on the headboard, hips pinned by Ilya’s weight and his own obedience.

“Good,” Ilya praised. “Such a good boy.”

Shane whimpered, dignity dissolving.

“Color?” Ilya asked suddenly, voice dropping.

The question cut through the haze. Shane blinked up at him, chest heaving. “G‑green,” he said hoarsely.

“Eyes on me,” Ilya said.

Shane’s gaze snapped to his.

Ilya leaned down, close enough that their foreheads touched, his breath mingling with Shane’s. His hand never faltered.

"On your stomach," Ilya huffed, tapping Shane's hip firmly.

Shane suddenly moved off the bed, hurriedly crawling on his hands and knees. Ilya hummed in approval, running his hand along Shane's spine before pressing his shoulders into the mattress. Shane shivered, with his hips raised and his chest pressed into the bed.

The sound of a bottle snapping filled Shane's ears, then the scent of cherries filled his nose. He huffed a little, shoving his face into the pillows. "Is that the cherry-flavored lube?" he croaked.

Ilya snorted out a laugh, his Ilya chuckled, his dry hand slapping Shane's backside. "It was the first one I saw." He smirked as he gradually inserted a finger into Shane.

Stars flickered behind Shane's eyelids. He let out a deep whimper, fingers clutching the sheets. Soon, he had two fingers in, then three. By the third, Shane was writhing and begging desperately.

"Please, Ilya. Please, I need it." He groaned, his fists twisting in the sheets.

Ilya tightly pressed his lips, striving to keep his thoughts clear. Shane looked so beautiful beneath him, begging and moaning for his cock. It slightly inflated his ego, especially knowing it was his husband pleading so sweetly. Who was he to refuse him?

Ilya pressed against Shane, releasing a shaky moan. "Fuck, Shane," he breathed, his jaw going slack. He would never get accustomed to how tight Shane was.

Shane whined, glancing at Ilya as he pushed his hips backward. The facade of 'sir' and 'good boy' had faded. It was simply two husbands making love on a chilly morning. Ilya fell forward, planting wet kisses on Shane's neck as he moved his hips. Something clicked in Shane's mind, and he felt safe, secure in Ilya's embrace, with Ilya's heated body pressed against his back.

"Ilya, fuck," Shane gasped, feeling that familiar sensation building in his stomach. Ilya seemed to understand and sat up, gripping Shane's hips before driving into him at a speed that made Shane's toes curl.

The room echoed with the wet slapping of their hips and Shane's desperate babbling. "Please- Ilya, I need you- oh, right there, so good! Please, Ilya-" he whined.

Ilya could never grow accustomed to how beautifully Shane begged. His hips jerked as he held Shane's hips more tightly. The sounds of Shane's pleading echoed in his ears as he thrust forcefully, then finished inside Shane. Shane gasped, climaxing without being touched and collapsing onto the bedding. His thighs quivered as he pressed his face into his pillow. Ilya withdrew, inspecting the mess Shane left on the bed.

"Fuck, Shane. You have killed me. I am dead." He muttered, eyes raking over the beautiful form of Shane. "You look… wow."

Shane panted heavily, chest heaving as he peeked out at Ilya. He smiled weakly. "Sex is so much better as a werewolf. I have to tell Hayden."

Ilya groaned as he rubbed a hand over his face, "Moment is gone," he said forlornly, but still smiled down at his love.

Chapter Text

By the time they arrived at the practice facility, the sky over Ottawa was a clear winter blue. Usually, mornings like this would make Shane want to burrow into his hoodie and complain about early ice. Today, he had to remind himself not to bounce on his toes. Cold air hit him as he stepped out of the SUV, filled with familiar scents. His senses heightened, but instead of feeling overwhelmed, everything fell into place. He shrugged his shoulders and chuckled quietly.

“Stop smiling,” Ilya grumbled, rounding the hood to join him. “You look like you are about to eat someone.”

“Maybe I am,” Shane said. “Coach, for making us do bag skates.”

“In front of TV cameras?” Ilya said. “Please wait until playoffs for this.”

Inside, the lobby buzzed with staff and early media setting up. Every voice and footstep rang clearer than it ever had, but nothing stabbed. Shane kept his head up this time, letting the sounds wash over him and slide neatly into labeled boxes in the back of his mind.

At the players’ entrance, security nodded. “Morning, Rozanov. Hollander.”

“Morning,” Shane said, and realized his voice sounded relaxed. Confident.

In the hallway, Ilya caught his elbow, tugging him aside for a second. “If you feel weird-”

“I’ll step off,” Shane finished. “Text you. Not skate myself into the boards to prove I’m tough. I remember.”

Suspicion flickered again, but so did pride. “You listen,” Ilya said. “Miracles happen.”

Shane bumped his shoulder. “Get used to it.”

The locker room struck him like stepping into a long-cherished memory. He saw guys half-dressed, chatting, ripping tape, with coffee steaming in paper cups. Every sound was clearer: the rasp of Boodram’s laugh, the squeak of skates biting into the rubber mat, yet now, each sound had space around it, giving him room to breathe.

“Yo! Hollander!”

Zane Boodram waved a roll of tape from across the room. “You look a hell of a lot less like death today.”

“Upgraded,” Shane said, dropping his bag at his stall, right by his husband's.

Boodram grinned. “Wiebe said you’re cleared for full today.”

“Full‑ish,” Shane said, though his blood fizzed at the word. “Gotta remind you I can actually play hockey.”

“We’ve seen your highlights, man,” Boodram said. “About time we got the live show.”

The gear felt different, not necessarily easier, but correct. As he shrugged into his shoulder pads, his back pulled, and scars stretched over new muscle lines that no longer felt like fresh wounds. His body acknowledged the weight and pressure with a quiet, alert hum. When he pulled his jersey over his head, the scent of fabric hit him, settling rather than being sharp. In the hallway, blades clicked on the mat, and Ilya’s voice drifted in along with Wiebe’s softer hum.

“…says he feels good,” Wiebe was saying. “You sure he’s not just trying to prove something?”

“He is always trying to prove something,” Ilya replied. “But today he looks like himself again. You will see.”

That sent a small, fierce pulse through Shane’s chest. He grabbed his stick and followed the flow of bodies toward the exit. That sent a small, fierce pulse through Shane’s chest. He grabbed his stick and followed the flow of bodies toward the exit.

The second his blades hit the ice, his wolf sat up and grinned. Cold shot through the steel, up his ankles and into knees and hips that felt brand‑new. He pushed off, easy, letting the familiar glide carry him into the first warm‑up lap. The rink’s soundscape rose around him, loud and bright. The wolf inside stretched into the motion as if it had been waiting for this. Edges dug confidently into the ice as he carved crossovers at the blue line, pivoted at center, and accelerated just because he could.

“Look at Hollander go,” someone called from the bench.

Shane didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He let his body answer for him, turning it up half a notch. He cut a tight turn at the far circle, weight low, feeling every point of contact: steel to ice, core to balance, air to lungs. His back didn’t flare. His vision didn’t tunnel.

At the bench, Wiebe’s whistle trilled. “Laps!” he shouted. “Then flow drills. Let’s see what the new kid’s got.”

Shane slid into position in the line, shoulder to shoulder with Boodram.

“Showtime,” Zane muttered.

“Yeah,” Shane said, eyes on the far net, muscles coiled and sure. “It is.”

The puck dropped into the first drill, and Shane went. For the first time since claws had torn his back open in the dark, the ice felt exactly the way it used to: like his territory. Only now, he had just a little more bite. The first drill was simple: touch‑pass warm‑up down the ice, three lanes, no one trying to murder anyone yet.

The puck dropped for the first drill, and Shane went. For the first time since claws had torn his back open in the dark, the ice felt exactly as it used to: like his territory. Only now, he had just a little more bite. The first drill was simple: touch‑pass warm‑up down the ice, three lanes, no one trying to murder anyone yet.

The puck kissed his stick, and his brain mapped the weight, spin, and angle in a split second. He slid it off to Boodram without looking, already gliding into open space. The wolf hummed, pleased, as the puck zipped back.

Wiebe’s whistle chirped every few seconds, sharp and precise. Shane heard the difference in each tweet: one to start the next rep, one when someone flubbed a pass, one when the timing went off. He adjusted on the fly, shaving microseconds off his release to keep the rhythm clean.

“Not bad, Hollander!” Wiebe called as they regrouped at the far blue. “Try not to make the rest of us look like beer leaguers, yeah?”

Someone hooted. Someone else chirped, “Too late!”

Shane just grinned and set up for the next rep.

They moved on to flow drills: up-ice rushes, drop passes, and timing entries. Usually, by the fifth repetition, chaos would erupt as everyone’s legs became more awake and minds started experimenting. He could anticipate where the lanes would open just half a second before they did, and he could sense Boodram skating behind him before he heard the scrape of his skates. The wolf seemed to favor patterns; give it a system, and it would execute it flawlessly.

On their third rep, Zane called, “Middle!”

Shane didn’t look. He just nudged the puck left, pulled the defenseman’s weight with him, and backhanded a no‑look pass into the soft spot he knew would be there.

Zane’s stick met it with a satisfying crack. The puck snapped bar‑down.

A chorus of “Ohhh!” and stick taps rattled down the line.

“Okay, okay,” Wiebe said, trying and failing not to sound pleased. “Save something for the actual games, boys.”

Shane coasted around the net, lungs pulling in cold air that felt electric instead of icy. His back tugged once where the scars sat under his pads, like a reminder, not a threat.

He tapped Zane’s shin pad as they slid back into line. “Nice finish.”

“Nice feed,” Boodram shot back. “If you keep doing that, I’m buying you dinner.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t eat like a defenseman,” Shane said.

“Is because he is secretly small bear,” Ilya called from the other lane. “Do not feed or he will follow you home.”

Shane flashed him a look over his shoulder. Ilya’s eyes met his, bright and knowing.

Wiebe split them into special teams work after that. Power play units, penalty kill rotations. Shane took up his usual half‑wall spot on the second unit, right side, stick cocked and ready.

He caught the puck at the blue line, and the world narrowed: one defenseman stepping up too hard, one stick lane open for half a heartbeat, Hayes cheating a hair off his post. He feinted pass, toe‑dragged around the Dykstra's stick almost lazily, and snapped a shot far‑side through a screen.

The puck smacked the inside of the post.

“Jesus,” someone muttered.

By the time Wiebe finally blew the whistle for a water break, Shane’s lungs burned pleasantly, and sweat trickled down his spine. He coasted to the bench, flipped his helmet up, and took a long pull from his bottle.

“You’re buzzing,” Boodram said quietly, bumping his shoulder as he sat.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “In a good way.”

“Good.” Zane checked him with a sideways look. “Because I was gonna say, if you crash, I’m not carrying your ass to the locker room. You’re heavy.”

“Love you too,” Shane said dryly.

Across the ice, Ilya conversed with Wiebe and an assistant, using sharp, arc-shaped gestures with his stick. All three looked at Shane simultaneously. He lifted his chin, revealing a flicker of confidence. Wiebe’s mouth formed a slight smile, and he nodded once.

When Wiebe called them back in for battle drills, Shane pushed up from the bench, his legs already coiled. He wasn’t just surviving practice anymore. He was ready to hunt. Battle drills meant one thing: permission to be a little mean.

“Pairs!” Wiebe barked. “Low corners, then net‑front. Win the puck, win the battle. Lose, you go again.”

He coasted into the cluster at the center, tapping the toe of his stick against the ice. Wiebe started calling out names, firing off match‑ups like he was dealing cards.

“Dykstra, LaPointe.”

“Boodram, Hayes.”

“Hollander…” Wiebe scanned the group, eyes narrowing. “Barrett.”

A couple of guys let out soft, sympathetic oofs.

“Back still in one piece?” Barrett asked. His tone was light, but there was a testing edge under it.

The wolf inside tasted the challenge and bared its teeth. They lined up at the hash marks. A coach dumped a puck into the corner. It rattled into the boards and settled in the no-man ’s-land behind the goal line.

“Whistle,” Wiebe called. “Go!” Shane launched.

The world narrowed to a triangle of space: puck, boards, Barrett’s body. Edges bit as he drove his inside shoulder down, angling for body position. He felt the exact moment Barrett came in from behind, weight heavy, trying to ride him into the glass. Pressure hit his back, and something hot and electric flared through his spine. Muscles bunched on their own, power surging up from his legs.

Barrett grunted as Shane shoved off the boards, using them like a spring. The contact knocked the other man half a step off balance. Shane slipped inside. His hands felt too fast, like a live extension of bone. He hooked the puck with a tight little cut, popping it free. Barrett’s stick scraped against his, searching for purchase.

Mine, the wolf thought, clear as speech.

A growl buzzed in Shane’s chest. He drove out of the corner with a burst of speed that felt almost wrong. Shane shook him off like he weighed nothing.

“Win, Hollander!” the coach at the goal line called.

He circled back, lungs burning pleasantly.

Barrett coasted up, squinting at him. “You've been hiding legs like that this whole time?”

“Just pacing myself,” Shane said, mouth twitching. The wolf preened.

They reset. Next puck, other side. This time, Barrett came in harder.

The dump‑in caromed off the corner, bouncing unpredictably. They went shoulder‑to‑shoulder almost immediately. Barrett’s elbow dug into the seam of Shane’s pads, stick clattering dangerously close to his skates.

Shane could feel every inch of contact: the roughness of Barrett’s jersey against his gloves, the tiny give of rib pads under pressure, the barest hitch in his opponent’s breathing. His own heart kicked into a faster gear, vision edging brighter at the periphery.

Push, the wolf urged, fierce and bright. Take. Win.

He shoved off the ice with a power that bordered on reckless, using his whole body as a lever. Barrett’s skates squealed as he got driven back a step, then another. They slammed into the glass; it boomed dully.

“Careful,” someone warned from the slot.

Shane barely heard them.

The puck squeaked free between their skates. His wolf locked onto the sound before his eyes did; the faint thunk of rubber against the board, the scrape as it slid. His stick was already moving.

He hooked it, dragged it, spun.

For one terrifying, exhilarating heartbeat, it felt like flying.

Barrett’s stick caught his mid‑spin, blade tangling with his. The jolt punched up his arms. Shane’s teeth clicked together.

Mine, the wolf snarled.

The urge to rip the stick clean out of Barrett’s hands, to drive him back into the boards and make sure he stayed there, surged up so hot it blurred his vision.

“Hey.”

The word didn’t come from outside. It came from somewhere between his ribs- a ghost memory of Hayden’s voice, calm and steady. Shane’s edges wobbled for half a second under the weight of choice. He could lean into the rush, let the wolf take just a little more, feel the satisfaction of absolute dominance as Barrett crumpled under him, or he could skate the drill.

He inhaled deeply, cold air filling his lungs. The overwhelming sensory experience that once overwhelmed him now provided grounding. Shane eased his grip slightly, releasing tension from his shoulders through his skates rather than his hands. He rotated his upper wrist, smoothly disengaging from the stick struggle instead of forcing his way through it.

For a heartbeat, the animal thing in his chest fought him, teeth bared. A shimmer of heat crawled up his spine, itching for impact. Then, grudgingly, it settled, coiling that extra fury lower, into legs and core.

He burst out of the corner, edges chattering once, twice, as he rebalanced the borrowed strength. At the hash marks, he snapped a quick, ugly shot on net.

“Win, Hollander!” the coach called again. “Good battle, Barrett!”

Barrett coasted up behind him, giving his shoulder a hard, approving bump. “There you go,” he said through heavy breaths. “That’s more like it. Thought you were gonna try and put me through the glass for a second.”

Shane swallowed, throat dry. “Yeah,” he said.

He skated back to the line, breathing steadily as Hayden had instructed. Across the zone, Ilya moved closer to their corner, near the blue line, pretending to wait for his turn. His shoulders dipped slightly, but he still kept his gaze fixed away. The whistles grew quicker: win, lose, reset. Bodies slammed against the boards, sticks clashed. Shane completed two more reps: one a clean win, the other a clear loss where Barrett out‑waited him and lifted his stick perfectly.

The wolf hated that. Shane let it sulk.

It paced along the inside of his ribs, but the sharpness of that earlier snap had faded. He felt exhausted in a way that still made him human: his legs heavy with lactic acid, sweat stinging where old scars met the skin. When Wiebe finally blew the long whistle to signal the switch to net-front battles, Shane’s jersey pressed against his spine. He took another steadying breath.

“Ready?” Boodram asked, gliding up beside him.

“Always,” Shane said.

The wolf perked up again.

He suddenly realized with sharp clarity that he could dominate that crease if he chose to. He could position himself in front of the goalie and become an unstoppable force, absorbing cross-checks that would typically rattle him with little effect. He could leverage his increased leg strength to push past defensemen, creating room where none should appear. He was also aware that everyone would see the change. There would be no more dismissing it as just a good day or feeling finally healthy.

The wolf paced, annoyed. But beneath the irritation, there was a strange, growing recognition. Pack, it murmured.

Shane latched onto that. We don’t hurt them, he said. We beat them. We make them better. There’s a difference.

He stepped into the crease for the first rep. Boodram lined up beside him, a defenseman squaring his shoulders opposite. The whistle blew. Contact slammed into his back. Sticks tangled. The puck flew in from the point.

He rooted himself, absorbing the shove without returning it at full force, letting just enough power bleed out to keep his position. His hands stayed light on the stick instead of turning it into a weapon.

His reaction time went razor‑thin, the world slowing around him. He saw the puck, saw Boodram’s stick, saw the defenseman’s weight shift to his heels. He moved just enough to block the defender’s stick and let Zane whack it in.

Boodram whooped, gloved hand smacking the back of Shane’s helmet. “Hell yeah!”

The coach at the blue tapped his stick on the ice. “Good net‑front, Hollander. Keep that up.”

The wolf… preened. Good, it decided. Pack happy. The wild edge that had nearly sent him over the line in the corner smoothed, redirected.

By the end of the drill, his legs shook in that deep, satisfying way that promised a brutal nap later. His hands ached from battles, his shoulders throbbed dully where sticks had bit in.

But his head was clear.

He hadn’t blacked out.

He remembered every choice.

When Wiebe finally blew the whistle for the end of practice, Shane coasted to the circle with the rest of the guys, spine humming. As they circled up around the coach, Ilya slid in beside him, close enough that their elbows brushed.

“You have fun?” Ilya murmured under Wiebe’s end‑of‑practice speech.

Shane let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t eat anybody.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. His knuckles bumped lightly against Shane’s. “Is good start,” he said.

 

The water was almost too hot.

Shane stood beneath the spray, letting it pour over his head, his eyes closed, and his fingers pressed against the cool tile. Steam rose around him, blurring the surroundings into a faint white haze. The room echoed with the sounds of half a dozen showers, voices bouncing off the tile, someone singing off-key, and the wet slap of feet on the floor. He tipped his head forward, water running down the back of his neck, over the raised tracks of old scars. They didn’t throb anymore. They hadn’t since the shift.

“Yo, Hollander, you hogging all the hot water or what?” Dykstra’s voice drifted in from the next showerhead over, muffled by steam and tiled echoes.

“Yeah, rookie tax,” Shane called back automatically.

He could feel the shape of the room without looking: Zane a couple stalls down, humming tunelessly; Barrett farther out, grumbling about being “man‑handled”; someone cracking a joke about battle drills being illegal in three provinces.

The wolf stretched, pleased.

He didn’t notice the voices quieting a little until it was already happening.

“Jesus,” someone said, lower. “That from a hit?”

Shane’s eyes snapped open.

He reached for the soap with a hand that felt suddenly clumsy. “What?”

“Your back, man,” Dykstra said, closer now. “I’ve seen highlights, but I didn’t think it was… that bad.”

Shane’s stomach dropped.

He kept his shoulders relaxed on purpose and didn’t turn around. “It’s fine.”

The water pounded against his spine. For a heartbeat, the sensation blurred, hot tile and hotter stares.

He forced a laugh. “You guys really gonna body‑shame me right now?”

“Bro, no,” Dykstra said, horrified. “I just- like-"

Shane’s hand tightened around the slippery bar of soap.

“Looks like somebody let a bear use you as a scratch post,” Zane said, half‑joking, half‑uneasy.

“You saying I should file for assault?” he tried.

Zane didn’t laugh. He stepped one shower closer instead, just far enough that when Shane finally turned his head, he could see Zane out of the corner of his eye, his gaze was on his back.

“Looks like some animal took a swipe at you,” Zane said, quieter.

“Yeah, thanks for that image,” Shane said dryly.

Under his skin, the wolf bristled.

The room’s noise started to pick back up; guys losing interest, turning back to their own showers, someone starting an argument about whose turn it was to buy PowerAids, but a thread of attention still tethered itself to his spine.

“Medical cleared me,” Shane added, loud enough for anyone still listening. “Scans, stitches, the whole works. If I were secretly dying, they wouldn’t have let me sign here.”

“Guess you’re just built different,” Zane said after a beat, the words turning the mood gently back toward normal.

“Freak,” Dykstra said, but there was more joking than anything else in it.

“Jealous,” Shane shot back.

The conversation dissolved into a chirp‑storm about who had the worst surgery scars, someone shouting about a knee surgery scar, and another guy bragging that his appendix scar looked like a shark attack. Shane let it wash over him.

Only when the room felt noisy again in the usual way did he risk twisting enough to glance over his shoulder. Zane hadn’t moved. He was still facing his own tile, head tipped back under the water, but his eyes, when they slid sideways, were not casual. They flicked down Shane’s back, tracking the long, curved lines that cut from shoulder to hip.

For a moment, their eyes met. Shane offered a half-hearted shrug, attempting to appear casual. Zane’s lips pressed into a thin line, saying nothing. He simply nodded once and resumed his position under the spray. The fleeting doubt he had planted in the shower room lingered silently, unseen but still felt.

 

Shane yanked his T‑shirt on and let the fabric fall over the scars.

“Hey.” Zane’s voice came over his shoulder, lower than the general noise.

Shane glanced back. Zane Boodram was half‑dressed, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp. His eyes flicked, just once, to the outline of Shane’s back through the shirt, then up to his face.

“You okay?” Zane asked.

Shane swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “Been okay for a while.”

Zane held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than comfortable. “Those lines…” he started, then cut himself off. His jaw flexed. “They look like something else.”

Shane’s hand tightened around his towel.

“Whatever you did to come back from that… sickness you had?” Zane said. “Keep doing it. You were a beast out there."

He peeled off toward his own stall, leaving the words hanging.

Whatever you did.

Shane sat down, the bench hard and familiar under him, and toweled his hair in short, efficient motions.

Whatever you did.

They do not know.

Not yet, Shane answered it silently.

Just enough to make them wonder.

Chapter Text

By puck drop, Shane was already vibrating.

His stick felt both too light and too heavy. Even in the tunnel, before they stepped onto the ice, he could see every detail in crisp, unbearable clarity: the way the LEDs lining the entrance flickered one diode out of sync, the frayed seam on Dykstra’s left glove, the exact way sweat darkened the edge of Ilya’s collar where it met his neck.

And underneath it all, under the recycled arena air and the rubber mats and the sharp bite of cold leaking in from the rink, he smelled them.

Montreal.

His old team’s scent was a confusing mix of familiar smells: the specific detergent used by their laundry service workers, the pungent scent of liniment in their room, the overpowering cologne (specifically Comeau), and Drapeau’s gear that always seemed faintly like popcorn. He carefully picked each scent out of the air and hated that he could recognize all of them.

“Hey.” A gloved hand snapped into his field of vision. Ilya’s, of course.

“Head,” Ilya said, tapping his temple with his gloved finger. “Where is it?”

Shane swallowed as the tunnel's roar surrounded them. The crowd above, music pounding the concrete, and the announcer’s voice echoing through the building all felt close and intense.

“Here,” Shane said. His voice came out hoarse. “I’m good.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed. He scanned Shane’s face, then his shoulders, the set of his jaw. “Scale,” he said quietly.

Shane huffed an incredulous laugh. “We’re really doing this now?”

“Da,” Ilya said. “Scale.”

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the tight electric line of the moon running from the base of his skull down his spine. He could feel the moon even with the roof in the way; it was like a hand on the back of his neck, not shoving, just there.

“Seven,” he admitted. “Maybe… seven and a half.”

Ilya’s gloved hand cupped the side of his helmet briefly. “We play hockey,” he said. “Not Montreal. Not moon. Hockey.”

Hockey. Right.

The PA announcer’s voice boomed, and the Centaurs logo flashed across the back curtain. The tunnel filled with the metallic clatter of sticks hitting the wall, skates biting as guys shifted forward.

“Rozanov,” Wiebe’s voice cut through from the front. “Bring your girlfriend.”

The guys laughed. Ilya rolled his eyes, then jerked his chin. “Come, lyubov. Time to show your old boyfriends what they lost.”

The sound hit him first.

The roar of the home crowd felt alive, rushing at him as they stepped out of the tunnel onto the ice. Although he had entered this building several times as a Centaur, tonight every sound seemed too intense and specific: each shriek, the low rumble of boos when the Montreal logo appeared on the jumbotron, and the shrill whistle of a kid going wild in the lower bowl.

Under it, another sound: his own heartbeat, steady but a fraction too fast, and the thud of twenty‑odd other hearts, close enough to feel like static in his teeth. The cold of the ice punched through his blades and up his legs, seeping into bones that had learned, finally, how to wear this power without buckling under it.

Montreal’s bench sat opposite. The red and blue jerseys were a smear of color at first, then individual pieces clicked into focus: the familiar tilt of Drapeau’s helmet, the lazy slump of Boiziau’s shoulders, the way Comeau always leaned too far over the boards when he watched warm‑up.

And between them, leaning his forearms on the dasher, helmet still off, curls damp under his Voyageurs beanie during warm‑up skate, was Hayden. Even from across the ice, Shane felt the tug, something in his chest pinging like a locator beacon. Hayden looked up like he’d been called. His gaze found Shane in the flow of bodies immediately. Their eyes locked.

Hayden’s expression didn’t change much, but his shoulders eased the tiniest fraction.

Shane exhaled through his nose and let his next stride lengthen, the wolf inside him stretching with the motion. I’m here.

Warm‑up went by in a blur of pucks and patterns. Every pass off his stick had satisfying weight; every catch settled as it belonged there.

 

The teams circled up for the anthem, and that was when it got bad.

Two lines faced each other across center ice. Centaurs on one blue line, Voyageurs on the other. The anthem singer’s voice soared. The building stilled. Shane lined up between Ilya and Boodram, stick blade resting on the ice, helmet tipped back just enough to see the flags.

He could feel their eyes on him. It wasn’t paranoia. Montreal players kept glancing his way, quick little flicks of attention that scraped across his nerves. A few faces hardened when they landed on him. A couple, the ones who’d never given a shit either way, just looked curious. One, behind the front row, didn’t look away at all.

Comeau. Senior defenseman, alternate captain, now that a few guys have retired. He’d never used slurs to Shane’s face, never said anything that could be quoted. He hadn’t had to. Disgust didn’t always need words.

Shane’s wolf clocked him instantly.

Threat, it decided, simple and neutral.

His hands tightened imperceptibly on his stick. His pulse thudded in his throat.

“Breathe,” Ilya muttered out of the corner of his mouth, eyes still forward.

The anthem ended. Sticks tapped. The building roared back to life.

 

Puck drop.

Shane took his place on the second line for the game’s first shift. It was almost worse, sitting on the bench for the opening face-off. Every nerve screamed to be out there. The wolf paced, restless, claws ticking along the inside of his ribs.

Shane gripped the top of the boards and watched.

Montreal appeared both familiar and entirely different. The same systems were in place, with some positions filled by new players. The familiar blue jerseys chased the puck; however, a different kid was on the right wing, where Shane had played for five seasons before the trade. They carried out a precise, effective fore check, similar to what he remembered practicing tirelessly until he was exhausted. His jaw tightened. He could sense their bench from here and almost distinguish individual voices amid the crowd.

“Rozanov, Hollander, Boodram!” Wiebe barked. “Let’s go.”

He vaulted the boards.

The second his blades hit the ice, everything snapped into place. He lined up for the offensive zone draw on Ilya’s right. The Montreal center opposite them flicked a look at Shane, then leaned down to speak with Ilya as they faced off.

“Big game for you, huh?” he muttered, voice low, but Shane could still hear.

Ilya smiled without humor. “Every game’s big. Try to keep up.”

The ref dropped the puck.

Ilya won the draw cleanly, slinging it back toward Shane’s side. Shane’s stick was already there, blade open, cushioning it. The wolf thrilled at the familiar pattern. Edge, cut, shoulder check. Space. A Montreal winger came hard at him, angling to pinch. Shane saw the set of his shoulders and the weight transfer into his inside skate. His wolf tracked the shift the way it would track a prey animal stepping the wrong way.

He faked toward the boards, felt the winger bite, then snapped his hips and slid the puck under the guy’s stick, stepping inside.

He fed the puck down low to Boodram, took two strides, and got it back on his tape as it had never left.

Drapeau followed him closely. He quickly took a shot low on the blocker side, not necessarily aiming to score but to test the goalie. The goalie deflected it away. The rebound popped up into the space where, if this were a practice, the coach would be yelling for someone to be ready. Ilya was already in that spot. He knocked it in on the backhand before the defense could tie him up.

The horn blared. The building detonated.

Boodram slammed his helmet into Shane’s.

“Montreal who?” he crowed.

Shane laughed, breathless. Ilya grabbed the back of his neck, shaking him once in rough affection.

“There you go, flu boy,” Ilya shouted over the noise. “Good job on the assist.”

He lapped past the Montreal net on his way to the bench. Their goalie glared at him, chest heaving. Shane caught a flash of something in his eyes, frustration, maybe. Or just the fact that a guy they’d tossed out like garbage was already on the score sheet ten minutes into the game.

His wolf was smug.

On the Montreal bench, Hayden watched him go past, expression carefully blank. Underneath, his eyes were bright, proud.

The first period blurred into a series of pushes and pulls. Montreal adjusted quickly; they always had. They tightened their neutral-zone gap and tried to bottle him up. Each time they tried to close a lane, the wolf inside him found another. Everything felt like it was happening a half‑second slower for everyone else.

He read the play two passes ahead without fully understanding how he was doing it. He knew when a defenseman's heel would catch, when a stick would be a fraction late. He used it in small ways at first, poking pucks free in the neutral zone, jumping passing lanes for short‑handed clears, but the awareness built on itself.

Late in the second, Montreal drew a power play on a borderline trip. The crowd hated it. The refs pretended they couldn’t hear. Shane hopped the boards for the penalty kill.

He lined up high in the box as Montreal set up their umbrella. Puck moved point to half wall, half wall to goal line, then back out. The familiar pattern of their power play unfolded like muscle memory, and his stomach twisted in on itself. He’d run this system for years. He could still hear his old assistant coach swearing in French from the bench when they didn’t hit the right seam.

“Don’t chase,” Ilya snapped, low, as the puck swung to the right flank. “Hold middle.”

He gritted his teeth and held.

The high Montreal forward, one of the newer guys, floated toward the slot, stick cocked for a one‑timer. The puck slid to the point, then across. The wolf tracked it like a cat tracking a laser pointer.

Not yet. Not yet. Not—

Now.

He exploded.

One stride, two, and he was in the passing lane before the defenseman had fully committed the puck to the ice. His stick flashed out, blade angling just right. The pass hit his tape and stuck.

The building went from a roar to a sharp, sucked‑in breath.

He was gone.

The ice parted ahead of him, forming a clear lane, as footsteps echoed behind like thunder. The penalty-kill breakaway was hockey’s equivalent of suddenly being dropped into the center lane of an empty highway with a sports car and a green light. The goalie quickly came out to challenge, narrowing the angle. Shane observed every subtle move: the slight hitch in the goalie’s weight, the glove hand subtly raised higher. He faked the forehand, dipping his shoulder. The goalie reacted just enough, and Shane then pulled the puck across his body with a backhand, sliding it around the outstretched pad.

The red light came on.

The kill unit collided with him at the boards, shouting in his ear while sticks swung overhead. The bench erupted in excitement. Shane was barely aware of his teammates’ words. His wolf was howling loudly inside him, fueled by adrenaline, victory, and the metallic smell of an old pack watching from afar. Montreal’s bench flickered at the corner of his vision as he continued skating past.

He could feel it. The icy little spike of resentment from guys who’d smirked when he’d cleaned out his stall. And, under it, a single steady point of approval like a lighthouse beam.

Hayden.

 

By the third period, the moon had climbed higher over the city. He couldn’t see it, but his body knew.

The line under his skin tightened.

His legs should have been heavy. They weren’t. His hands should have been slower. They weren’t. He knew this part, knew from training with Hayden and enduring the cottage that somewhere, if he wasn’t careful, his brain would start to fray at the edges.

“Scale?” Ilya asked on the bench during a TV timeout, voice low.

Shane blew out a breath, staring at the Montreal logo at center ice.

“Eight,” he admitted. His knee bounced. “Maybe more.”

“Stay on leash,” Ilya said. “Understand?”

The wolf bristled at the phrasing.

Shane’s mouth twitched. “Yes, sir.”

Ilya’s eyes flickered with heat for half a second in a way that had nothing to do with hockey. “Later,” he warned.

The next shift, Montreal finally pushed.

They were down two with five minutes left. Pride and system snapped them tighter. Their fore check came hard, bodies finishing every hit, sticks digging into ribs and wrists any time the refs’ eyes drifted. Shane took a cross‑check in the lower back in front of the net that would have knocked him on his ass a year ago. Now it just shoved him forward a step.

The wolf wanted to whirl and drive the guy into the ice, to put teeth where there was only plastic and foam. He forced himself to plant his skates instead.

“Easy,” Ilya said, breath hot against his ear as they lined up for a D‑zone draw. “Deep breaths. They are desperate. You are not.”

Montreal scored one on a seeing‑eye shot through three screens with their goalie pulled. The building tightened. The old familiar script tried to write itself in his head: Montreal surges back.

The wolf snarled at that. No.

The final moments were chaotic. With twenty seconds remaining, the puck circled around the glass in their zone. It deflected off a stick—his stick. He instinctively swung at it, and the blade’s edge caught it gently, as if magnetically attracted.

With the net empty and forty feet away, he didn’t hesitate. He just shot. The puck flew straight down the ice and stopped right in the center. The horn blared.

The wolf howled.

The building detonated again.

“Hatty against your ex team,” Boodram yelled, thumping him between the shoulder blades. “You dramatic bitch.”

Shane laughed, breathless and high.

“Media’s gonna cream themselves,” someone else said. “Revenge game of the year.”

He filed off the ice with the rest of the team, the roar following them down the tunnel.

 

In the locker room, the atmosphere bordered on unhinged.

Music blared, guys shouted, water bottles became makeshift champagne sprays. Wiebe gave his post‑game breakdown with half a grin, trying and failing to act like this was just another regular-season win.

“…and Hollander,” Wiebe said finally, looking at him. “Try not to score all your milestone goals against the same team. They’re gonna get a complex.”

Laughter erupted.

Shane ducked his head, face hot.

He peeled out of his gear in a haze, muscles finally starting to register their complaints. His back ached pleasantly where hands and sticks had bounced off his pads. His legs hummed with that good, deep fatigue that promised he’d sleep tonight like the dead.

He made it as far as his T‑shirt and shorts before the room started emptying, guys heading to showers or to do media. Ilya pressed a quick, hard kiss into his hair as he passed.

“Proud of you,” he murmured. “Don’t punch any reporters.”

“No promises,” Shane said weakly.

 

He did his scrum on autopilot. The questions were predictable.

“How did it feel to play your old team?”

“Just another game. Obviously, lots of familiarity there, but I’m focused on what we’re doing in this room now.”

“Was there extra motivation?”

“We want two points every night. That doesn’t change based on the logo.”

He smiled, deflected, said nothing real.

He did not talk about being told to keep his ‘off‑ice distractions’ quiet. He did not talk about the way the room had gone icy overnight, the first time he’d shown up at an event with Ilya on his arm. He did not talk about the GM’s flat face when he’d said, That’s not the image we want for this organization.

He returned to the room, where most showers had already emptied, steam gradually dissipating. The crash from the adrenaline surged through him suddenly, leaving his legs feeling weak. He sank heavily onto the bench, leaning his elbows on his knees and letting his head drop briefly. The moon lingered in the sky, still present but less pressing. He longed for the cottage, for darkness, for a couch where he could collapse with Ilya beside him and Hayden’s dry voice reassuring him he hadn’t actually eaten anyone.

“Thought you’d be harder to corner.” The voice came from the doorway.

Shane’s head snapped up.

Hayden leaned against the frame, wearing a Montreal track suit now, hair damp from his post‑game shower.

He smelled like away‑team soap, bus exhaust from the bay, and under it all, that same wild, steady thing that had anchored Shane on a lake shore in the dark. “Security let you in here?” Shane asked, voice scraping a little.

Hayden lifted the cup in a shrug. “Told them I was here to congratulate the hat‑trick hero.”

Shane snorted. “What, didn’t want to do it on camera?”

“No one needs to see you ugly cry in HD,” Hayden said. “You were a freak out there.”

“Thanks,” Shane said. “I think.”

Hayden’s gaze flicked over him, lingering on the set of his shoulders, the way his knee bounced restlessly.

“You didn’t lose your mind out there,” he said. “You didn’t run anyone, you didn’t take a dumb penalty, and you only almost bit one guy’s head off in the corner, which, frankly, he deserved.”

Shane blinked. “You saw that?”

“I felt you,” Hayden said simply.

Heat crawled up Shane’s neck. “Gross.”

A ghost of a smile touched Hayden’s mouth. It faded quickly. “How do you feel, really?” he asked. “Wolf‑wise.”

He considered. He could lie; Hayden would smell it. “I feel…” He searched for the right word. “Too big. Like I’m still moving fast, but everything else has slowed down.”

Hayden nodded once. “That’s the moon talking,” he said. “You’re still riding the high. Good news is, you burned a lot of it off tonight.”

“You say that like I did a workout,” Shane said.

“Shane,” Hayden said, leaning his shoulder against the row of stalls, “you just played one of the best games of your career on a full moon against the team that screwed you over. If this is you melting down, the league’s fucked.”

Shane’s laugh came out shaky. “Don’t know if I should be flattered.”

“Yes,” Hayden said. He took a sip of his coffee, then added, quieter, “They’re talking, you know.”

“Montreal?”

“Media,” Hayden said. “Front office. The whole league. ‘Look at how well Hollander’s doing in Ottawa. Must be nice to play somewhere that actually values him.’”

There was an edge under the words Shane hadn’t heard from Hayden in a while. Old anger, banked but not gone.

Shane’s wolf stiffened, listening. “Does it bother you?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Playing for them?”

Hayden’s eyes flickered. “Yes,” he said. No hesitation. “Every day.”

Shane’s breath stuttered. “Then why stay?” he asked.

Hayden exhaled through his nose. “Because sometimes the best thing you can do is take their ice time and their money and use it to keep other guys alive,” he said. “Because there are kids in that room who need someone who knows what this is, looking out for them. Because contracts exist.”

The last part was dry. The rest wasn’t.

“Because of me,” Shane said quietly.

Hayden’s mouth curved. “Partly,” he admitted. “I wasn’t going to let you go through this without anyone in your corner, even if it meant sticking around a little longer than I’d like.”

A knot in Shane’s chest unclenched.“Thank you,” he said. It felt inadequate.

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Hayden muttered, but his eyes softened. “You did the hard part.”

He hesitated, then added, “You know they’re watching, right? Trying to figure out what changed. Why you look… like this.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t want me like this,” he said. “They wanted me quiet. Palatable. Straight.” The word came out like it tasted bad.

Hayden’s gaze flicked briefly to the ring on Shane’s finger, then back up. “They don’t get this version,” Hayden said. “We do.”

We. Pack. The wolf in his chest eased at that, circling down.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway; voices rose and fell. Someone laughed too loudly. A stick clacked against tile.

“Your bus leaves soon,” Shane said reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “Coach gets weird if we’re not all present to suffer through the highlight reel together.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, close enough now that Shane could make out the tiny scar by his jawline, the one that hadn’t been from anything supernatural at all—just a bad collision with a visor when he was nineteen.

Hayden’s hand lifted, hovered for a second as if asking permission, then settled briefly at the back of Shane’s neck, fingertips brushing damp hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly. “For the game. For… the rest of it.”

Shane’s throat went tight.

“Yeah?” he rasped.

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “You skated your game. You didn’t let them shrink you. You didn’t let the moon use you as a chew toy.”

“I almost did,” Shane said, thinking of the corner, the moment he’d nearly shoved Barrett through the glass.

“Almost doesn’t count,” Hayden said. “What counts is what you actually did.”

His thumb pressed, once, deliberately, into the knot at the base of Shane’s skull. The world seemed to sharpen and soften at the same time.

“Go home,” Hayden said. “Eat something. Let Ilya sit on you until the moon goes down.”

Shane huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That part’s already scheduled.”

“I figured,” Hayden said. He dropped his hand, stepping back. “Text me if anything feels… off.”

“Off how?”

“Can’t settle,” Hayden said. “Can’t sleep. Pain that’s not normal post‑game. intrusive… thoughts.”

“Thoughts about eating my ex‑teammates?” Shane said dryly.

“I’m not your therapist,” Hayden said. “But yes. That too.”

A voice echoed down the hall: “Pike! Bus in five!”

Hayden winced. “That’s my cue.”

He bent, grabbed his duffel, then straightened.

“Hey,” Shane said suddenly, before he could move. “Hayden.”

Hayden looked back.

“Thanks for coming,” Shane said. “I know it’s… complicated.”

Hayden’s smile this time was small, but real.

“You’re worth complicated,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then he disappeared, footsteps fading into the corridor leading to the visitor’s room. Shane lingered a moment longer, the restless buzz finally beginning to subside. He still sensed the moon, distant and luminous over the city, and the scent of Montreal lingering in the walls. Yet, louder and nearer than these was the sound of Ilya’s laugh drifting from the hallway as he debated with Boodram over who had messed up a coverage. The echo of Hayden’s words also resonated in the space between his ribs.

You didn’t let them shrink you.

For the first time, he wondered if the wolf had been more than a curse linking him to the worst night of his life. Maybe it was a body that intrinsically refused to shrink for anyone. This idea settled on him like a new form of armor.

He stood, joints protesting in a way that was blessedly, mundanely human, and went to find his husband.

Chapter Text

Shane half-dozed through the drive back to the cottage, forehead tipped against the cold passenger window. The city lights smeared into dull streaks. Each time the SUV hit a patch of rough pavement, his shoulders clenched, but the tension uncoiled faster now, never quite building into the buzzing static it had been before.

The full moon rode high over the highway, out of sight but impossible to ignore. It pressed against the back of his neck like a palm.

“You are quiet,” Ilya said at last, breaking the hum of the engine. “Too quiet. You usually talk about stats or something annoying.”

Shane huffed. “You hate it when I talk about stats.”

“Is true,” Ilya said. “But silence is worse.”

“I’m tired,” Shane said. “And wired. You know that feeling after a back-to-back when you can’t sleep, but if someone asked you to skate, you would die?”

“Yes. Every playoffs,” Ilya said. “Scale?”

Shane stared out at the dark ribbon of road. The wolf listened too, curious.

“Five,” he said finally. “Now that I’m not smelling twenty thousand people and my old team.”

“Good,” Ilya said. His hands stayed steady at ten and two. “We get home. You eat something. You shower. Then you come to bed and let me suck you.”

Shane’s mouth twitched. “That last part sounds less like medical advice and more like a threat.”

“Both,” Ilya said calmly.

The closer they got to the cottage, the darker the world became; city glow gave way to a thick, quiet dark broken only by the car’s headlights. The moon sat somewhere over the lake, high and watchful. The wolf under Shane’s ribs sat up, ears pricked, recognizing familiar trees, familiar turns.

He felt it as they turned down the last narrow road. The lake smell hit first: cold and mineral and deep, then the particular bite of their gravel driveway, the faint ghost of last week’s wood smoke clinging to the pines.

The SUV crunched to a stop. Ilya cut the engine. For a moment, they sat in the sudden, thick silence, the cottage a dim shape against the silvered water. Shane exhaled slowly. The wolf pushed against his ribs, restless but not panicked. It wanted out. It wanted motion. It wanted pack.

“Ilya?” he said quietly.

“Mm?”

“Don’t go far tonight,” Shane said, surprising himself.

Ilya turned his head. In the faint glow of the dashboard, his eyes were soft. “Was not planning to,” he said.

They got out. Cold bit at Shane’s cheeks, sharp and clean. Inside, the cottage embraced him in familiar warmth. The faint scents of coffee, old meals, laundry detergent, and their lives curled around him like a blanket. The wolf eased.

Shane toed off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door. His body had that dangerous, floating feeling—too light in some places, too heavy in others. Post-game adrenaline meant he could do anything. Full-moon buzz meant he might actually try.

Ilya watched him quietly as he shrugged out of his jacket and hoodie. “Food,” Ilya said, heading toward the kitchen. “Hayden said after big moon and big game, you eat or you crash.”

“Hayden says a lot of things,” Shane muttered, but he followed.

There was leftover steak in the fridge from the pre-game meal. Ilya sliced it cold, then threw it into a pan with a little butter and garlic until it sizzled and browned at the edges. He warmed a container of rice in the microwave and fried two eggs in another pan, yolks bright and runny.

The smells hit Shane like a freight train. His stomach growled so loudly it made Ilya huff.

“You are embarrassing,” Ilya informed him, but he slid the plate over.

Shane didn’t bother with a witty retort. He ate, fast but not quite feral, forcing himself to chew instead of inhale. Each bite settled the jittering under his skin, another inch. Protein, fat, salt. His body recognized all of it as fuel. His macrobiotic diet went out the window whenever the wolf was so close to the surface. By the time his plate was mostly clean, the wolf had curled up in his ribs, not sleeping, but watching with half-lidded eyes.

“Better?” Ilya asked, leaning his hip against the counter, arms folded.

“Yeah,” Shane said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then remembered he was a human being and reached for a napkin. “Five feels more like a three now.”

“See?” Ilya said. “My cooking heals all.”

Shane snorted. Then he looked down at his own hands, flexing them once. They still looked like his. No fur, no claws, just blunt nails.

“I keep thinking it’ll… wear off,” he admitted. “The control. The part where it’s not eating me alive.”

Ilya’s face softened. He pushed away from the counter and stepped in close, one hand finding its usual spot at the back of Shane’s neck, thumb rubbing small circles at his hairline.

“Maybe it does not wear off,” he said. “Maybe this is you now. Stronger. Still idiot, but… smarter idiot.”

“Rude,” Shane murmured, leaning into the touch.

“Shower,” Ilya said abruptly, tapping his jaw. “Then we go to bed."

Shane grimaced. “That’s fair.” He always liked to get a second shower after games, still feeling dirty from the grime and sweat.

He padded down the hall, every board creak familiar. In the bathroom, he stripped without really looking in the mirror. He knew what he’d see: damp hair, flushed skin, the long, pale scars across his back. Instead, he focused on the simple, mindless ritual: water on, steam rising, stepping under the hot spray.

Heat cascaded over him, working its way into sore shoulders, down tight quads. He closed his eyes and let the water pound between his shoulder blades where pads had bitten, and sticks had shoved. For a second, the roar of the crowd came back: the high, bright cheer after his third goal, the gut‑deep boo when Montreal took a cheap shot, the chaotic mess of sounds that had once threatened to unmake him.

Hat trick on a full moon.

He huffed, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Somewhere, someone’s sports astrologer was losing their mind. A familiar scent cut through the steam: soap, skin, Ilya.

“Need help?” Ilya asked from the doorway, voice light.

Shane peered around the curtain. “You just want an excuse to perv on me.”

The wolf purred in delight. Mate.

“Correct,” Ilya said. He stepped in, shedding his T-shirt in one efficient motion. “Also, you always miss back. It is tragic.”

Shane watched him strip, heat unrelated to the water curling low in his stomach. The wolf’s ears flicked up, interest sharpening. By the time Ilya stepped under the spray, his curls already beading with water, Shane’s body had perked up in ways that had nothing to do with recovery.

Ilya noticed. Of course he did. “Hello, Petite Hollander,” he asked, amused.

Shane glanced down. His cock was already half-hard, interested in the simple facts of a naked, wet husband in close proximity. “Blame the moon,” he muttered.

“I will blame you,” Ilya said fondly. “Come, turn around. I wash.”

He took the washcloth and soap, working up a lather. His hands moved with deliberate care over Shane’s back, circling around the scars without poking. The touch was firm enough to sedate, not stimulate, a slow scrub that grounded more than it teased.

“You played beautiful,” Ilya said quietly as he worked. “Smart. Mean, but not too mean.”

Shane snorted. “Want that on my stat line.”

“Is true,” Ilya said. “You did not let them get in your head.”

Something in Shane’s chest eased even further.

By the time they stepped out and toweled off, his scale felt closer to a solid two. His muscles were pleasantly heavy, not jumpy.

He pulled on an old pair of soft joggers and one of Ilya’s oversized hoodies that still smelled faintly like his cologne under the laundry soap. Ilya dressed in similar comfort clothes, then herded them both toward the bedroom with an efficient captain’s hand between his shoulder blades.

“You are herding me,” Shane pointed out as they walked.

“Da,” Ilya said. “You are dumb sheep. I am handsome border collie.”

Shane laughed. It came out easier than he expected.

In the bedroom, Ilya flicked on the small lamp by his side of the bed, leaving the room in soft, golden half-dark. The curtains were open just enough that a sliver of moonlight cut across the foot of the bed like a stripe.

Shane’s wolf noticed. It stirred, but not violently now. More like a dog lifting its head to check the door, then setting it back on its paws.

“Come,” Ilya said, sitting in the middle of the mattress and patting his thigh. “You said you want me close. So. I am close.”

Shane hesitated a heartbeat, embarrassment flickering. “I did say that.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “And I liked it.” His gaze softened. “Is not weakness, Shane. To want someone there when you shake.”

The words landed deep.

He crawled up onto the bed and, after a second’s awkwardness, let himself do what his body clearly preferred: he folded down against Ilya’s chest, whole weight sprawled, head tucked under his chin. Half on, half beside him. Close enough that he could feel every breath Ilya took.

Ilya grunted under the sudden weight, then adjusted, one arm wrapping around Shane’s back, the other hand finding its anchor at his nape. His fingers slid into damp hair, scratching lightly at the scalp in small, soothing motions.

Shane groaned, a low sound that might have been relief.

“Good?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” Shane mumbled into his hoodie. “You’re heavy furniture. I like it.”

“I am not furniture,” Ilya said, offended. “I am majestic wolf throne.”

Shane snorted. “You wish.”

Under the banter, something serious shifted. The wolf inside him settled fully now, recognizing the contact as right. This was its pack, its alpha, its mate. This was safe. He felt the moment when the moon tugged, a distant, invisible line pulling him toward the window. His muscles tensed on reflex, a ghost of the earlier urge to run.

Ilya’s arm tightened around his back, hand flattening between his shoulder blades. “Stay,” Ilya said softly.

The word hit deeper than it should have. Shane’s breath hitched once. Then he exhaled, a long, shuddery sigh, and let his weight drop the last millimeter into Ilya’s body.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Staying.”

They lay like that for a while, the room quiet except for the heater’s low hum and the occasional creak of settling wood. The moon moved, slow and indifferent, across its arc outside. Every so often, a twitch still ran through Shane’s muscles, an aftershock of the game, of the day. Each time, Ilya’s hand smoothed down his back, thumb pressing into the notch between his shoulders, bringing him back.

“Talk to me,” Ilya murmured at one point, voice rumbling against Shane’s cheek. “Tell me what is happening in there.” He tapped Shane’s temple gently.

Shane considered, then gave him the truth.

“It’s… loud,” he said quietly. “Lots of pictures. The game. The cottage. The trail. You in the tunnel. Hayden in the door. Montreal’s bench. The wolf.” He swallowed. “But it’s not… screaming,” he added. “It’s more like… a room with too many TVs on. I can turn some of them down.”

Ilya’s chest rose and fell under his ear. “Which one is loudest?” he asked.

Shane was quiet for a long moment.“Right now?” he said. “You.”

He could feel Ilya’s smile, brief and helpless, against his hair. “Good,” Ilya said. “I am best channel.”

“Idiot,” Shane mumbled, but the corners of his own mouth tugged up.

His eyelids fluttered.

“You can sleep,” Ilya said softly.

Shane jerked them open again. “What if—”

“If you spike?” Ilya said. “If you get weird dream, or wolf does weird thing?”

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “Or if I… shift in my sleep. I don’t know if that’s a thing.”

Ilya’s hand shifted from his neck to cradle the back of his head, thumb brushing his temple.

“Then I am here,” he said simply. “I wake you up. I call Hayden. I tackle you. I bite you back. Many options.”

“You’re not scared?” Shane asked, the question small.

Ilya exhaled. “Of you? No.”

Something in Shane’s chest cracked open at that. The wolf lifted its head once, startled, then curled around the admission like it was something to guard. “Okay,” Shane whispered.

He let his eyes fall closed. Outside the window, the moon slid further west. Inside, between his husband’s arms and the weight of the blankets and the residual exhaustion of ninety‑two minutes of ice time and one supernatural life adjustment, Shane finally tipped over the edge into sleep.

He dreamed of the lake, flat and glassy under a fat, low moon. Of trees that did not feel like teeth. Of running on four legs and not being chased but followed, and two scents at his back, rich and familiar.

He woke once, barely, to the murmur of voices down the hall: Hayden’s low rasp on speakerphone, Ilya’s soft, tired Russian.

“…yeah,” he heard Hayden say through a haze. “That’s normal. If he twitches, don’t panic. If he shifts, he’ll usually half‑wake first. Just talk to him. Call me if his temp spikes.”

“I will,” Ilya said. “Go to bed, Pike.”

“Love you too,” Hayden said dryly.

The call ended, and Ilya gently returned to the bedroom to find a big, fluffy wolf had taken Shane's spot. The wolf was twitching his paws, dreaming of darting through the woods just outside the window.

 

Ilya paused in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame. Despite months of drills and Hayden’s Power Points, his brain briefly stuttered at the sight. Shane’s hoodie was crumpled on the bed, still warm. Where Shane had been pressed against his chest fifteen minutes ago, an enormous wolf now stood.

“Of course,” Ilya muttered under his breath. “You say you will stay, and you do it with four legs.”

He moved slowly, as Hayden had taught him. No sudden movements or grabbing, just presence and being there. Up close, the wolf looked... ridiculous, terrifying, and painfully familiar, making Ilya’s chest ache.

The wolf had charcoal and gray fur, darker along the spine and lighter at the throat and belly. It had large paws, with one twitching as if chasing an unseen prey. Ears flick between pricked and relaxed, revealing a mix of attentiveness and relaxation. Though its body is built for speed, it's currently sprawled out like a lazy dog on a Sunday morning, with its muzzle pressed softly into Ilya’s pillow.

“Pes,” Ilya said softly.

One golden eye cracked open. It blinked blearily at him, unfocused in a way that made him think of Shane waking up from a nap on the team plane. The ear closest to him twitched.

“Da, da,” Ilya murmured. “Very scary. I am trembling.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, letting the mattress dip under his weight. The wolf’s gaze tracked the movement, but there was no flash of teeth, no flinging itself off the bed in panic. Just tired curiosity.

Ilya hovered his hand a moment above the thick ruff at Shane’s neck. The heat rolling off him was startling, too hot for a human. When he finally rested his palm there, spreading his fingers carefully into the fur, he could feel the heart pounding underneath.

“Hey,” Ilya said. His thumb rubbed tiny, instinctive circles at the base of Shane’s skull, the same way it did when he was human and spiraling. “You did it. You played. You did not kill anyone. My very successful monster.”

The wolf’s eye slid shut again. The muscles under Ilya’s hand loosened, a millimeter at a time. After a beat, the big body did something so on‑brand it almost made him laugh: it shuffled sideways, bumping clumsily against his thigh, as if remembering that his default sleeping position was glued to Ilya’s side.

“Mmhm,” Ilya said, mouth tugging up. “Clingy even with tail.”

He adjusted the bed so he could rest against the headboard, then gently coaxed the wolf to turn until its side pressed against his hip and leg. It required some guidance—a gentle touch on the shoulder and soothing words. The wolf sniffed and exhaled, finally flopping over in that direction with the relaxed surrender of a very exhausted athlete.

“Better,” Ilya decided. “Now I have my weighted blanket.”

His phone buzzed once on the nightstand. He reached over with his free hand, still not lifting the one buried in fur.

 

 

 

Ilya took a slow breath, eyeing the heavy rise and fall of the wolf’s ribs.

 

 

 

Ilya looked down at the very not‑stuck wolf, who was currently making a tiny, muffled grumbling noise into his pillow like he was arguing with a dream squirrel.

 

 

 

He set the phone face down and slid a little lower on the pillows. The lamp clicked off with a soft metallic sound. Moonlight spilled across the room, turning the wolf’s fur into a patchwork of gray and shadow. The heater hummed. The old wood of the cottage creaked in familiar places. Out on the lake, the ice shifted and popped with distant, hollow knocks.

Under his hand, the wolf twitched now and then, paws running, tail giving an occasional half thump. Each time, Ilya’s fingers moved in slow circles, his palm a steady weight.

“Stay,” he murmured when the muscle along the spine rippled with the beginning of a bolt. “You asked, remember? You said don’t go far. So I am here. And you stay.”

Stay, the wolf thought muzzily, not in words but in shapes: the press of a hand, the smell of mate, the safe den. Its body relaxed by degrees, rearranging itself until its head dropped with heavy trust onto Ilya’s thigh.

Ilya huffed. “Yes, good, crush my leg,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. He just adjusted the blanket over both of them as best he could around all that fur, then let his head tip back against the headboard. He dozed like that, surfacing and sinking.

Once, sometime in the muddled stretch of night that could have been two a.m. or four, he woke to a low, rising sound. Not quite a growl, not quite a whine. The wolf’s paws scrabbled at the sheets, its back legs kicking as if it were running. Its lip pulled back from sharp teeth, but its eyes were clamped shut, breath coming fast and shallow.

“Hey,” Ilya said immediately, voice low but firm. His hand slid up to cradle the big skull, thumb rubbing at the soft spot between ear and jaw. “Shane. Pes. It’s me. You are at home. You are in bed. No one is there.”

The wolf’s chest rose briefly, then a faint whine escaped. Gradually, its stiff spine relaxed, and its paws ceased their scratching. It took a deeper breath, exhaling more of its tension. Its golden eyes opened to a slit, finding him in the dark.

“There you are,” Ilya said, softer. “Hi.”

The wolf blinked at him, as if trying to focus across more than one layer of reality. Then, with aching, familiar stubbornness, it edged closer and shoved its muzzle under his hand, demanding more contact.

“Bossy,” Ilya told him.

He stayed awake a while after that, just to be sure. Just to count heartbeats and breaths, to mark each twitch and catalog it against all the terrible things he’d trained himself to expect. Nothing terrible happened.

Eventually, Ilya’s own eyes slid closed. One hand stayed knotted in the thick fur at Shane’s neck. If the wolf shifted even an inch, he would know.

 

Light woke Shane.

He tried to hide from it and rammed his nose into something soft that smelled of detergent, Ilya, and the faint metallic tang of his own dried sweat.

His nose—not his face, skin, cheekbones, or morning stubble- stood out with its long, sensitive bridge, revealing more in a single sniff than his human brain typically processes in an hour. It carried the scent of a quilt, wood smoke embedded in the fibers, the ghost of last night’s steak, Ilya’s skin, and the cold, distant lake seen through a cracked window.

Oh, he thought, or tried to. What came out was a low, confused whuff that puffed a small bloom of condensation against the blanket.

Fingers moved at his neck.

“Easy,” Ilya’s voice said, rough with sleep but steady as bedrock. “Spokojno, Pes. You are home. You are on bed. You are drooling.”

His hand, buried in his fur, tightened slightly to be noticeable before beginning that familiar slow stroke from skull to shoulder. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a low huff that caused Ilya’s T-shirt to flutter.

“Morning,” Ilya said.

Ilya was half-propped against the pillows, with curls flattened on one side and squinting against the light. His phone rested on his chest. A faint crease marked his cheek, indicating he had fallen asleep sitting up against the pillow mountain at the headboard. His free hand, hidden in Shane’s fur, lay relaxed on the blanket with fingers curled as if holding something. He looked at Shane’s wolf form like a man who had found an apex predator in his bed and decided that was, at worst, mildly inconvenient.

“You are still very handsome,” Ilya informed him gravely.

If Shane had had eyebrows in this body, one of them would have arched so hard it left orbit. Instead, his ears flattened in what felt like a clear annoyance.

“You are giving me face,” Ilya accused. “Do not give me face when you do not have one.”

The wolf snorted.

Ilya’s mouth tilted up. “Scale?”

The question pinged around the space where human‑Shane lived, filtered through the thick insulation of fur and instinct. His tail gave a small, decisive thump.

“Ah,” Ilya said smugly. “Yes. I see. That is very scientific answer. Thank you, Dr. Hollander.”

Shane let his head drop back onto the pillow with a put‑upon sigh that came out as a low rush of air.

The wolf turned its head, nose bumping along the inside of Ilya’s forearm. The scent there was pure comfort: soap, sleep, the faint salt of dried sweat. Mate.

Stay, it thought, simple and sure.

Shane floated somewhere between. The old, human panic whispered that he needed to be upright, on two legs. The wolf, meanwhile, was deeply invested in the concept of remaining exactly where it was, pressed along warm mate, soaking up the quiet morning.

Ilya scratched gently behind one ear, fingers digging into a spot that made Shane’s hind leg twitch in humiliating reflex.

“Oh, you like that,” Ilya crowed softly. “Look at this. So dignified.”

Shane jerked his leg back under control with a soft huff that he hoped conveyed shut up and die.

“Very scary,” Ilya agreed, unbothered. He bent to press his mouth briefly to the top of Shane’s head, lips warm against thick fur. “Here is what I think,” he said into the fur. “We have no practice today. Hayden told me to let you sleep and eat and not climb anything. There is no media until afternoon. So.”

He pulled back enough to meet the wolf’s eye again.

“You can change back when you want,” Ilya said simply. “When you feel it is right. No rush. If you want to be wolf this morning, then be wolf. I will make coffee and meat. You will not fit at table, but we will find solution.”

The wolf listened, head cocking. Want. Choice. Stay. His tail thumped slower.

“Is that yes?” Ilya asked. “Two tail wags for yes, one for no. This is scientific method.”

Shane managed two more deliberate swishes. Yes.

“Good,” Ilya said firmly, as if they had just settled on which movie to watch. “Then plan is: I go make coffee and meat. You stay here, do not eat pillows. When I call, you come. We see what you like. If you hate it, you switch back. If you like, you stay longer.”

He tapped gently at Shane’s nose. “Options,” he said. “You have them now.”

The word landed strange and bright in Shane’s chest. Options.

For so long, this thing had never been a choice. It had been happening to him, over and over, body hijacked by bad timing and worse luck. The idea that he could, even a little, decide what to do with it felt like someone had cracked a window in a room he hadn’t realized was stuffy.

His heart gave a single, disorienting lurch. The wolf huffed and leaned harder into Ilya’s hand like a dog into a good scratch.

“Da,” Ilya said softly. “There you are.” He slid off the bed with obvious reluctance, stretching arms over his head until his back popped.

“You stay,” he repeated, pointing a stern finger at the wolf. “If I hear you doing parkour in living room, I will turn hose on you.”

Shane bared his teeth in a lazy, toothy grin.

“Do not smile at me,” Ilya said, affronted. “You have too many teeth for smiling.”

He leaned in for one more quick kiss to Shane’s forehead, and then padded out toward the kitchen.

 

For a while, Shane lay where he was, listening.

He could hear everything.

The heater’s rattle. The soft tick of the clock on the dresser. The distant creak of a pine swaying against the siding. The tiny, almost inaudible drip of the bathroom faucet. The bubble and rush of water filling the coffee maker, the mechanical click as it started its cycle.

If he let his awareness stretch further, he could pick out the slow, sleepy heartbeat of a bird in the eaves, the skitter of something small under the porch, the faint, low groan of the lake shifting under its skin of ice.

He could put things in order now and prioritize. He set the outside noises at the edge of his mind like turning down the volume on distant channels. Closer in, he kept the shape of the cottage mapped. Closest, he held onto Ilya’s sounds: the heavy, familiar footfalls on creaky boards, the cupboard doors opening, the low, tuneless hum as he moved around the kitchen.

Pack, the wolf thought, satisfied.

His body yearned to move, testing how his weight settled on these limbs and feeling the floor beneath different pads. Curiosity surged now that fear was less overpowering. It was awkward- his paws ended up where his elbows should be, and he briefly pinned his tail under a thigh, wiggling to free it. Yet, he didn’t leap off the bed or crash through the window. He simply rearranged himself.

The mattress edge felt small yet fine under his new balance. He stretched, paws forward, arching, legs extending, feeling muscle protest, then relax. A groan escaped him, utterly uncontrolled.

From the kitchen, a laugh answered. “I heard that,” Ilya called. “Big stretch.”

Shane’s ears flattened in embarrassment. They popped back up a second later when the smell of frying meat hit him. Steak, again. And eggs, probably. And coffee, bitter and dark and useless to his current digestive system, but so rooted in normal mornings that his whole body eased another notch.

His front paws hit the rug with a muted thump, legs bending automatically to absorb the impact. His back end followed with a fraction less grace, back paws landing slightly wider apart than he would have liked.

“Oh, look at you,” Ilya said softly from the doorway.

Shane turned his head.

Ilya leaned against the frame, shoulder braced, mug of coffee in one hand, something meat‑scented in the other. His eyes were bright, soft corners crinkled, whole face doing that fond, overwhelmed thing he pretended not to do.

“Very majestic,” he said. “Look at these legs. Look at this tail. Look at this face. You are like… if Sportsnet and National Geographic had weird baby.”

Shane wanted to say something cutting. What came out was an indignant chuff.

“Da, da,” Ilya said agreeably. “Very scary. Come on.” He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Slowly. We do little parade.”

His claws tapped on the hardwood floor. His tail lightly brushed the doorframe once before swaying freely in the open living room. From this height, the cottage appeared both familiar and entirely new. The couch loomed large, and the coffee table seemed oddly exposed. The window to the lake was a bright, square opening of light at eye level. He could easily see outside: gray-blue water, a rim of ice, and the distant dark line of trees. His chest tightened as instinct drew him toward the door, toward the clean, cold scents waiting outside.

The wolf’s paws shifted, angling unconsciously toward the threshold.

“Hey,” Ilya said mildly.

He stepped sideways, putting himself between Shane and the door without fanfare, just a human body standing in the space. The wolf’s hackles did not rise. Shane stopped, surprise felling the urge like a blocked shot.

“We will go out,” Ilya said. “But not yet. Coffee first."

He lifted the hand not holding coffee.In it was a paper plate with a frankly illegal amount of steak cut into bite‑sized strips.

“This is for you,” he announced. “You have to stay inside to get it. House rules.”

The wolf hesitated, then Shane’s stomach lurched, and he moved slowly, careful with every step. Near the plate, the smell of seared meat hit him hard, and his mouth flooded.

“Sit,” Ilya said automatically, years of dog‑adjacent brain wiring kicking in.

Shane stared at him.

“Okay, no,” Ilya corrected himself, laughing quietly. He set the plate on the floor and backed up a step, giving space.

Shane lowered his head. The first bite was almost too much. Flavor, texture, the pure rightness of meat when his body was strung tight on moonlight and adrenaline. He wanted to inhale the whole plate in one gulp.

“There you go,” Ilya murmured. “Look at you. Not even feral. My very civilized monster."

Shane snuffed a laugh into the plate. The wolf’s tail swayed slowly. He ate until the plate was empty, then stepped back, licking his chops. His body felt heavy but good, muscles tired but not shredded, bones humming with calm energy instead of a shrieking buzz.

The lake still called. The trees still whispered run, run, run. But so did the couch, with its dent molded to his body. So did the soft thunk of Ilya’s mug on the counter. So did the patch of sunlight pooling on the rug where he could, if he wanted, curl up and watch dust motes spin while the day eased itself into being.

He padded over to the couch and, after one disastrous attempt to hop up that left his back feet scrabbling for purchase and his dignity in tatters, figured it out on the second try. He turned in a slow, awkward circle—once, twice—then finally flopped down, front paws hanging off the edge, chin resting between them.

From the kitchen, the smell of coffee deepened. The sound of a spoon clinking against a mug. Ilya’s phone buzzing with what was probably another round of texts from Hayden or the team group chat. The world was still sharp.

He lay there in fur and breath and borrowed calm, watching the lake catch the pale light of morning through the window, and thought—

Maybe I’ll stay like this a little while.

Just to see how it feels.

His tail thumped once against the cushion, quiet and sure.

Chapter Text

By the time Shane realized he’d been staring at the RSVP text for five full minutes, the oatmeal in his bowl had turned into cement.

 

He knew perfectly well Zane meant it in that big-hearted, golden-retriever way of his. That didn’t stop Shane’s stomach from twisting.

Across the table, Ilya clicked a carrot into place on his phone screen and made a small, pleased noise. The farm game’s cheerful jingle chimed again.

“Stop cultivating for two seconds,” Shane said. “I need advice.”

“I am managing agricultural empire,” Ilya corrected without looking up. “Beatrice manages herself. What problem?”

“Boodram invited us to a team BBQ,” Shane said. “Today.”

“Good,” Ilya said immediately. “You say yes.”

Shane stared into his bowl. “What if I say I have a previously scheduled appointment with the gym?”

Ilya finally glanced up, eyes narrowing. “Scale?”

Shane grimaced. “Uh… three? Four? It’s not a wolf thing, it’s a… brain thing.”

Ilya put his phone down face‑down, full attention landing on Shane. “You are nervous about seeing team outside rink.”

Ilya’s mouth softened. He reached across the table, settling his hand warm and solid over Shane’s. “They invited us,” he said. “To house. To family. Is good thing, lyubov.”

Shane looked at their joined hands for a beat, then exhaled. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

 

“Traitor,” Shane muttered.

“You see?” Ilya said. “Perfect. We bring dessert. We eat meat. We socialize.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You can be normal hockey boy.”

Shane snorted. “Ship sailed.”

 

The afternoon was too bright and too clear on the drive over.

Ottawa suburbs slid past the SUV windows in a blur of identical lawns and recycling bins. Shane sat in the passenger seat, thumbs pressed into his palms hard enough to leave half-moon marks.

They turned into a quieter street. Minivans dotted driveways. Zane’s place was easy to spot: extra cars, a battered net pushed to one side of the lawn, a plastic slide on the front yard, and a chalk drawing of something that might be a centaur or a very aggressive horse.

The front door flew open before they even reached the step.

“There they are!” Zane boomed. He was barefoot in gym shorts and a Centaurs T‑shirt, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. “The Hollanov husbands!”

Shane winced. “You’re going to make that stick, aren’t you,” he said as Zane pulled him into an easy one-armed hug.

“It’s already saved as your contact,” Zane replied cheerfully. He grabbed Ilya next, getting a solid clap on the back in return. “Come in before my kids eat the tablecloth.”

The house smelled like every hockey family house Shane had ever known: laundry detergent, kid shampoo, dog, something cheesy in a slow cooker, and the unmistakable tang of barbecue drifting in from the open back doors.

It cut through him sharply and with complexity, overwhelmed by a multitude of scents: fabric softener, ketchup, sunscreen, perfume, beer, and three types of deodorant. Beneath it all, the smell of a wet dog was prominent. His wolf sat upright.

The kitchen was already crowded. Hayes leaned against the counter in flip‑flops and a tank top, laughing at something Wiebe’s wife was saying. Kids ran through intermittently, trailing popsicle drips. At the sink, Troy’s boyfriend, Harris, stood rinsing a cutting board. Camera strap slung cross‑body, sleeves rolled up, glasses slightly fogged from the steam.

Harris glanced up and grinned. “The Hollanovs arrive!”

“Oh my God,” Shane groaned.

“It is good name,” Ilya said. “Brandable.”

Harris wiped his hands on a dish towel and stepped over to kiss Troy’s cheek in passing. “I told you they’d come,” he said.

Troy rolled his eyes, but his mouth softened. “You guilt‑texted them like twelve times,” he said, rummaging in the fridge. “Pretty sure that counts as harassment.”

“I brought pastries,” Shane said, lifting the white box like a defensive shield.

“Is that from La Brioche?” Harris asked, already reaching.

“Maybe,” Shane said.

“Marry me,” Harris said gravely.

“You’re married,” Troy reminded him.

“Details,” Harris murmured, tearing the box out of Shane’s hands. “Out back, lovebirds. I need to photograph these before the gremlin children destroy them.”

“Those are my nieces,” Ilya said in mock‑offense.

“Exactly,” Harris said. “Gremlins.”

 

The backyard was a riot.

The deck opened onto a small, well-trodden yard packed with people. A grill smoked steadily at one corner; someone had set up a cornhole board near the fence. A big pop‑up tent shaded a folding table covered in mismatched dishes.

Kids darted around with water guns. A Bluetooth speaker on the railing played something that had clearly started as a carefully curated playlist, but then devolved into something else.

Sprawled at the top of the deck steps like a furry bouncer was the dog. Duke was an enormous, Black lab‑mix, gray at the muzzle, head on his paws. His ears twitched as Shane stepped out.

His wolf went utterly, eerily still.

“Duke, don’t you dare jump,” Zane called automatically from the grill. “He’s in his nice clothes.”

Shane braced anyway.

Duke slowly got to his feet and moved closer. For a moment, he looked like any happy dog, with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging excitedly. Then he paused right in front of Shane. He lifted his head, sniffed the air once with sharp curiosity. His eyes sharpened, sending a little thrill down Shane’s spine. Everything in Shane’s instincts told him to stay alert. Duke let out a soft huff, then suddenly flopped down. He rolled onto his back, paws in the air, tail wagging furiously at the deck.

“Okay, what the hell,” Hayes said.

“He never does that,” Zane muttered. “Duke, buddy, have some self‑respect.”

Heat crept up Shane’s neck as he instinctively crouched, fingers sinking into Duke's thick fur. The steady thumping of the dog’s heartbeat was felt against his palm. His wolf pressed against his ribs, ears alert with sudden, puppy-like excitement. Without thinking, he scratched the spot that caused Duke’s back leg to kick uncontrollably.

From across the deck, Troy watched, brow furrowed.

“You do not see?” Ilya announced loudly, breaking the tension. “Even dog knows my husband is soft.”

“I’m literally giving him belly rubs,” Shane protested.

“Exactly.”

Laughter rippled through the knot of guys. Someone yelled at Zane about burning the burgers. The moment loosened.

Only Troy’s gaze lingered a heartbeat longer before he took a swig of his beer and looked away.

“You’re on kid duty now,” Harris said, shoving a neon water gun into Shane’s hand.

Ruby and Jade barreled into his knees a second later.

“Uncle Shane!” Jade yelled, already damp from the inflatable pool. She wore a centaur jersey five sizes too big over a glittery skirt.

“You came!” Ruby chimed, Anna braids askew.

“Ilya made me,” Shane said solemnly. "What are you two doing here? Where is dad?"

“Pike had shopping,” Ilya called from the grill, where he’d been conscripted to “help” Zane.

“Traitor,” Shane muttered, then bent down. “Okay, what’s the mission?”

“Zane said you have to play cornhole or you’re not allowed to eat,” Jade announced.

“That’s emotional manipulation,” Shane said.

The cornhole boards were set up at the far end of the yard. The kids took great delight in absolutely demolishing him for the first few rounds, shrieking with laughter whenever he missed.

Shane chuckled, releasing some of the built-up tension in his shoulders. The girls continued playing until they eventually lost interest and ran towards the sprinkler. Shane straightened up and rolled his shoulders again. A strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck.

He turned. Harris stood a few steps away, camera in hand, lens trained on him.

“Don’t move,” Harris said anxiously. “The light is perfect.” The shutter clicked in rapid little bursts. “Okay, turn your head a bit? Laugh at something Troy said.”

“Troy didn’t say anything funny,” Shane pointed out.

“Rude,” Troy said.

“Think about something that makes you happy,” Harris said. “Pretend Drapeau tripped over his own skate.”

Shane snorted helplessly. The shutter snapped again.

“Got it,” Harris said. He flipped his camera around to check the screen, mouth curving. “These are going to destroy the internet.”

“Can I see?” Jade asked, suddenly at his elbow again.

“Later,” Harris said, tucking the camera against his chest as if protecting state secrets. “Go ask Zane for more watermelon.”

“Zane said no more watermelon,” Ruby reported.

“Ask Hayes,” Troy suggested.

The girls tore off.

 

Dinner happened in a noisy, ridiculous blur.

They gathered around the long picnic table, with additional folding chairs pulled from the garage. Plates were heaped with burgers, ribs, potato salad, corn, and what seemed like Hayes’s version of coleslaw. Shane’s plate unintentionally became overly full. His instincts just saw meat and carbs and made him panic‑buy: a burger, a hot dog, three ribs, and a huge pile of potatoes.

“You good there, Hollander?” Hayes asked, squinting. “You bulking for a different sport?”

“Trying to catch up to you,” Shane said blandly.

“Even I don’t eat like that mid‑season,” Hayes said. “That’s a training camp plate.”

“He skates it off,” Ilya put in, sliding onto the bench at his side. “My husband is small but efficient furnace.”

“Hush,” Shane muttered, but he ate. His wolf purred at every bite, that strange, hot engine under his skin finally feeling like it was being properly fed.

Conversation flowed around them, the team telling junior stories, old coach impressions, chirps about Dykstra’s fashion sense, and Zane’s lawn. Someone asked Ilya how it was being married to a Centaur now instead of a Voyageur; Troy asked who did more of the dishes.

“Shane,” Ilya said immediately.

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“He is very domestic,” Ilya said, ignoring him. “He makes lists. Very cute.”

“Delete my contact,” Shane told Troy.

“Nope,” Troy said, typing something into his phone.

At one point, Troy leaned back slightly so their shoulders didn’t quite touch.

“You look good,” he said softly. “On the ice, I mean. Better than a month or two ago." Harris tried to recall how long ago Shane had fallen ill.

“Not hard,” Shane said. “I almost died of the flu; the doctor said I had some sort of weird complication. I dunno..."

Troy huffed. “That first practice, you looked like you were going to puke your lungs up,” he said. “Now you’re out skating them.” He toyed with the edge of his paper plate. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Shane forced a breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I plan to.”

When the plates were mostly empty, and the kids had descended to pick through the leftover brownies, Hayes clapped his hands.

“All right, team,” he announced. “Time for backyard games.”

Shane found himself down near the fence with Luca and Troy, the three of them half‑heartedly tossing a baseball back and forth.

“Zane’s gonna kill us if we break a window,” Luca said.

“Harris is gonna kill us if he has to do media about it,” Troy said.

“Don’t drag me into your crimes,” Harris called from the deck, where he’d perched with his camera again.

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first— a thread of cold, metallic air slipping under the heavier warmth of grill smoke and bodies. The hairs on Shane’s arms rose. A faint, sharp scent of rain, far off, but coming fast. He froze for half a heartbeat, nostrils flaring.

“We should bring the chips inside,” he heard himself say. “And the speaker.”

“Why?” Dykstra asked.

“Just…” Shane said. The second it was out of his mouth, it sounded stupid. “I’m from Ottowa. I know the weather.”

“Maybe you’re part weatherman now,” Troy said. “Zane, your favorite twink says it’s gonna rain.”

“Don’t call me—”

A fat, cold drop smacked the back of Shane’s neck.

Then the sky opened.

The yard dissolved into shrieks and scrambling as everyone lunged for plates, bowls, and the Bluetooth speaker. Rain hammered the deck in a sudden curtain.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dykstra yelped, already soaked.

“Secret weather magic?” Hayes demanded.

“Witch,” Troy said immediately.

“Did you know dogs can smell pressure changes?” Harris said absently, hauling the dessert tray inside with one hand while protecting his camera with the other.

Shane’s heart stuttered.

Most of the guys laughed, shoving past each other through the sliders into the kitchen.

Troy didn’t laugh. He looked from the rain back to Shane with a furrow between his brows, but said nothing.

 

Inside, the noise compressed.

The kitchen and living room were crowded with wet hockey players, damp children, and strong smells of food, rain, and people. The TV in the corner played a cartoon softly, with kids sitting on the rug in front, plates in their hands. Someone lowered the music to a background level. Shane sat on the couch armrest next to Ilya, holding a plastic cup of water that was sweating. Duke lounged at Shane's feet again, resting his head directly on Shane’s ankle like a weighted sock.

On the other side of the room, Harris moved around like a stealthy orbit. Camera up, camera down, catching candid snippets. At one point, Harris paused at the edge of the living room, frowning slightly at the back of his camera. He looked up, scanning. His gaze landed on Shane.

“Hey,” Harris called. “Hollanov husbands, Boodsy. Doorway.”

“What?” Shane asked.

“Content,” Harris said. “Go stand by the sliding door like you’re in a heartwarming documentary about family.”

“I hate you,” Shane said, but he let Ilya tug him to his feet anyway.

Zane joined them, plate in one hand, beer in the other. Harris fussed, shifting them half a step left, tilting the blinds to get better light.

“Okay,” Harris said, backing up until he almost hit the kitchen island. “Just… exist. Laugh at something. Look at each other. Do not look like you’re being held hostage.”

“That is big ask,” Ilya murmured.

Shane snorted and glanced sideways. The overhead LED in the kitchen emitted a faint buzz. The glass door reflected a ghostly image of them. Harris raised the camera, and the shutter clicked. Shane looked up just as Harris prepared for another shot. For a brief moment, something seemed off in the reflection. His eyes, normally brown, appeared bright, with a flash of light along the iris, forming a strange gold halo. Harris’s finger froze on the shutter.

“What?” Ilya said

“Nothing,” Harris said quickly. He blinked, then took the shot. “The light’s weird. Stupid LED. I’ll fix it in post.” He fiddled with his camera. “Okay, go,” Harris said, lowering the camera. “You’re free.”

They didn’t stay much longer.

Rain made the windows hum; the yard turned into a shallow pool. When Zane’s youngest started to edge into meltdown territory, the players began herding their respective people toward the door.

At the front hall, Zane pressed a plastic container into Shane’s hands. “For you and the other half,” he said. He dropped his voice as he stepped closer to Shane. "You good?” Zane asked quietly.

Shane’s fingers tightened on the Tupperware. “Yeah,” he said.

Zane didn’t look entirely convinced, but he clapped Shane’s shoulder, careful, lighter than he would have been two months ago.

“See you tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t bring the rain.”

Outside, the air felt cooler, washed clean by the downpour. Shane inhaled, the smell of wet pavement and damp earth cutting through the layered scents clinging to his clothes. A car door shut behind them.

“Hey,” Harris called, jogging down the path in flip‑flops. Troy followed, hoodie up against the rain.

“Just a heads‑up,” Harris said, pushing his glasses up. “I’m gonna post a couple photos tonight. Team‑BBQ vibes, you know. That one of you three by the door is adorable.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said shyly, blushing.

Troy nudged Harris with his shoulder. “He’s a great photographer,” Troy said. “I’m so proud.”

“Get in the car,” Harris said fondly.

Shane watched their taillights disappear around the bend, then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

The cottage felt like another world when they finally stumbled inside later that night.

Rain had been trailing them all the way home; behind the large windows, the lake looked like a dark, smooth mirror. Shane took off his shoes and set the leftovers down on the counter. His phone, which he had left earlier, rang twice, then again and again. He chose to ignore it, slowly changing into joggers and an old T-shirt before sinking onto the couch with his head resting in Ilya’s lap.

Ilya’s fingers automatically found his curls, combing through them. “You look like after back‑to‑back,” he observed.

“Socializing is cardio,” Shane muttered.

The phone buzzed again. And again.

“Popular,” Ilya said.

“Probably my mom,” Shane said, reaching for it.

It was not his mom.

His home screen was a mess of notifications: the team group chat, the forwards’ chat, DMs from Vancouver friends, and a stack of Instagram likes.

At the top of the Centaurs group chat, a familiar username.

Harris: summer vibes ☀️ #CentaursFamily

He’d dropped three photos.

The kids’ table, all sugar‑smeared grins and missing teeth.

A wide shot of the yard before the rain, grill smoking, guys scattered in easy clusters.

And the doorway photo.

Shane thumbed it open.

There they were: Zane in the middle, dish towel still slung over his shoulder, laughing. Ilya on one side, arm hooked loosely at Shane’s back, head tipped toward him in mid‑smile. Shane on the other, hoodie sleeves pushed up, plate in one hand.

He looked… relaxed. Happy, even. His shoulders weren’t up around his ears. His eyes were bright.

“Is nice,” Ilya said, peering over his shoulder. “Look at us. We are very cute.”

“Yeah,” Shane said faintly.

He scrolled down.

Harris had cross‑posted to Instagram. Same caption. Same three photos.

Someone had already screenshotted the third, zoomed and cropped until it was just Shane and Boodram's heads poking into frame.

The lighting in the kitchen made his eyes catch the light the wrong way. It wasn’t obvious in the original; under the photo filters of a fan account, it was impossible to miss.

Brown blew out to amber. A ring of gold around the pupil, too bright, too sharp, like an animal in a flashlight beam.

“Shane,” Ilya said quietly. “Breathe.”

“I’m breathing,” Shane said, grip tightening on the phone.

The forwards’ chat pinged.

 

Shane stared at the screen. The wolf inside him pricked its ears but did not panic. People see weird, it seemed to say. They joke. They do not know.

“You do not have to be brave,” Ilya said softly. “If you want him to take it down, we ask.”

Shane bit his lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could feel the line there, fine and bright—one more thing to hide, one more thing to scrub out of existence before anyone could look too closely.

And yet.

The photo was… nice. He looked like someone he wanted to be. Someone whose life was more than panic and practice.

He typed.

 

Some of the knot in Shane’s chest unwound.

Ilya’s fingers stroked through his hair, slow and certain. “They tease,” he said. “They do not see. Not really.”

“Not yet,” Shane said quietly.

“Not yet,” Ilya agreed. “And by time they do, you will know what to tell them.”

His phone buzzed once more.

 

Shane tipped his head back against Ilya’s thigh, letting the weight of the day press him into the cushions.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Ilya bent and pressed a kiss into his hair. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. They curled around each other.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The yogurt and granola had congealed into something that should probably be outlawed by the league. It sat in the bowl like a beige brick while Shane’s phone buzzed itself across the table. Every time he cleared a notification, three more took its place.

Mentions. Tags. DMs. Group chats.

Across from him, Ilya watched over the rim of his coffee mug, curls damp, bare feet tucked on the chair rung.

"You will break your thumb," he said. "Eat."

"Can’t," Shane muttered. His stomach was a fist.

He spun the phone around.

Harris’s Instagram post sat at the top of his feed. Three neat little dots, three photos.

Swipe: Zane heroic at the grill, smoke, and kids.

Swipe: Ruby and Jade annihilating cupcakes.

Swipe: the doorframe shot-

The three of them in the sliding door: Zane in the middle, dish towel over his shoulder. Ilya on one side, arm hooked around Shane’s waist. Shane, on the other hand, hoodie sleeves shoved up, paper plate in hand, smiling like he didn’t realize someone was taking the picture.

It made something in his chest ache.

"Is good," Ilya said. "We look very domestic. Internet will die."

"Scroll," Shane said.

Below Harris’s caption (Summer vibes ☀️ #CentaursFamily), someone had added a fourth image.

Zoom. Crop.

Just his face, grainy from enlargement. A red circle around his eyes.

In the original, the kitchen light hit him weirdly. Here, it looked like his eyes were lit from inside- dark brown blown out to a bright, uncanny ring of gold around each pupil.

 

@CentaursNation had slapped it in their story with three crying‑laughing emojis.

 

HOLLANDER GOING FULL CRYPTID AT THE BOODRAM BBQ???? 🐺😭

this man is POSSESSED by the hockey gods

it’s literally just LEDs y’all calm down

okay but his eyes are NEVER like that in other pics i’m scared

Team edward or team shane? discuss.

Y'all hes just got hazel eyes, it's the lighting or whatev

 

Shane’s thumb hovered. The more he stared, the less it looked like a trick. They didnt know how close those jokes were true.

Under his ribs, the wolf stretched, smug. 'They see us.'

He flipped the phone face down as if it had burned him.

"Is just bad lighting," Ilya said. His voice was gentler now. "And stupid editing."

"It doesn’t look like just lighting," Shane said. It came out too tight.

"Scale," Ilya said.

Shane did a quick, miserable check‑in. Heart too fast. Skin too hot. Everything too sharp.

"Four," he said. "Maybe five."

"We stay home," Ilya said instantly. "You text Wiebe: ‘Sorry, coach, i have panic attack, must nap.’"

"We can’t keep scratching me," Shane said. "If I call in one more time, he’s going to think I’m made of glass."

Ilya’s jaw ticked. "Better glass than werewolf on SportsCentre."

"I’ll be fine," Shane lied.

He tried to pick up his spoon; his hand shook. Ilya’s gaze flicked down and softened.

He reached across, covering Shane’s fingers with his own, stilling them.

"New rule," he said. "If you feel like this, you tell me before you hit eight. We do not wait until you glow-eye at warm ups."

Shane swallowed. "Okay," he said. "I'll tell you."

"Good," Ilya said. He squeezed once, then stood. "Come. Let’s go."

 

The rink smelled both familiar and headache-inducing, with a potent blend of stale air, sweat, tape, and rubber intensifying. Every sound echoed loudly in the hallway. As soon as they reached the players’ entrance, Hayes raised his phone.

"Ah, there he is," he announced. "Our local urban legend."

"I hate all of you," Shane said on instinct.

Hayes spun the screen. The cursed zoom of his eyes stared back.

"Didn’t know we had a cryptid on the roster," Hayes said. "Thought I was the only freak here."

"Is very hot," Ilya said calmly as he slid past. "Leave my monster alone."

"Teen Wolf wishes," Boodram added, leaning in the doorway. "Hurry up, Hollander, we gotta see if it works on the ice."

Inside, the locker room was a mess of half‑dressed bodies and too much energy.

"Yo, wolfman!" Dykstra called. "Do the eye thing. Scare the trainers."

Someone howled. Someone else made a cross with his fingers. Laughter bounced off the tile.

Shane managed a thin smirk. "It was vampire or werewolf," he said. "I don't sparkle, so…"

They laughed, but the noise brushed over his skin without truly reaching him. Every joke touched a raw nerve, and every mention of "wolf" made the real one in his chest perk up, pleased.

'They know,' it thought, bright. 'They smell us.'

"You good?" Troy’s voice cut through the noise.

Shane looked over. Troy sat a few stalls down, already in his base layer, tape cutting perfect spirals around his blade. His eyes did a quick inventory of Shane’s face.

"Fine," Shane said.

Troy’s mouth flattened. "You suck at lying," he said mildly.

"Duly noted," Shane said. His heart thudded.

The ice usually calmed him, but today it felt like skating on a live wire. As he entered, cool air hit his face, while the sharp sting of steel on ice shot up his legs. The rink's sounds were all present, each one clear and separate, precisely layered.

Warm‑up laps. Easy edges. Puck touches. His body felt too good, muscles eager, stride smooth, lungs drinking in cold like it was sugar. He could taste adrenaline in the air when the other team started to file in.

Barrett rode up his back in the corner and cross‑checked him exactly where his scars sat under the pads. The wolf snapped suddenly like a trap. In an instant, everything turned red and white, with an off-balance center of gravity. His hands trembled on the stick. If he made a move, Barrett would crash into the glass like a fly.

"Easy," Ilya barked from the high slot.

Shane choked off the urge to shove and slid out. When he caught Troy’s eye across the ice, there was a sharp, assessing look there that said he’d felt it too.

By the end of warm-ups, Shane’s legs buzzed, his head rang, and nothing felt settled.

 

In simple terms, Shane was a powerhouse during the game. The post-game locker room resembled a minor storm, the feeling of steam rising from the showers, music playing, laughter echoing, and Wiebe’s voice breaking through with a brief debrief.

"Good pace," Wiebe said. "Power play looked fantastic. Hollander, nice read on those PK lanes. Don’t overcook it; I like your mindfulness."

Shane nodded, but the praise didn't seem to affect him. As soon as the coach left, the noise levels increased. Shane remained seated in his gear and sweat-drenched shirt, staring blankly. His heart hadn’t slowed down like it normally did, and he ignored his phone buzzing in the locker.

"Everyone out?" Troy called.

"Mostly," Hayes answered from somewhere near the showers. "Why, you finally gonna fight him one‑on‑one?"

"Yeah, because that’d go great for me," Troy said.

There were a few half‑hearted oohs.

"Leave him decent," someone yelled. "Media still needs his pretty face."

The door closed softly. The outside noise faded. A few guys were still in the showers, their voices echoing briefly. However, the stalls near Shane were vacant. Troy approached, resting a hand on the stall divider above Shane’s head, with his shoulder against the wood.

"Didn’t know we were having a date," Shane said. His voice came out raw.

"You’re not my type," Troy said.

"I said I’m fine," Shane muttered.

"And I said you’re a bad liar," Troy said easily. He plucked Shane’s phone out of his open locker.

"You wanna hear what my sister sent me?" Troy asked. He flicked a thumb over the screen, then read in an obnoxious falsetto: "‘Tell your teammate to stop hexing the BBQ photos, I had a nightmare.’"

"It’s not a hex," Shane said. "It’s LEDs." He reached for the phone. Troy kept it just out of reach.

"You believe that?" Troy asked, eyes steady on his.

The wolf hummed, delighted that someone was finally saying the quiet part out loud.

"Look, man, I’m not trying to be a dick," Troy went on, softer. "But you get torn up, disappear for a bit, come back skating like someone stuck a rocket in you, and now your eyes are doing… that." He tipped the phone.

"You here on behalf of the noticing committee?" Shane asked. The sarcasm wobbled.

"I’m here because we share ice," Troy said. "If something’s wrong, I’d rather hear it from you."

"Nothing’s wrong," Shane said. He hated how thin it sounded.

"Barrett would disagree," Troy said. "You almost lost it today. Corner drill. You felt that." It wasn’t a question.

Heat crawled under Shane’s skin. The wolf bristled at being called out.

"I handled it," he said. "I pulled back."

"Barely," Troy said.

The words scraped. Shame and anger tangled in his ribs.

"I don’t need you to like… label it for me," Troy said. "You don’t have to give me a TED Talk. I just need to know you’re not going to snap on me in the third when we’re gassed and pinned in our own zone."

"I’m not," he said. Too loud. It bounced off the tile. "I am not going to hurt you."

"Then what is this?" Troy asked. He held the phone up, a tiny, stupid square of pixels showing the glowing ring in Shane’s eyes. "Because that’s not 'I had some long COVID, flu—whatever bullshit!'"

Shane’s pulse roared. He could smell his own sweat, the sting of disinfectant, damp tape, the trace of Troy’s soap.

"It’s—" He grabbed for a lie and found nothing that wouldn’t snap in his hands. "It’s… complicated." He let out a humorless laugh. "Doctor says I’m cleared."

The joke landed flat between them.

"You’re not okay," Troy said quietly. "Saying you are doesn’t make it true. And if this blows up, it’s not just your skull on the line. It’s everybody’s."

Everybody’s. Pack.

The word lit something raw and feral. The wolf pressed up hard against his ribs.

"I’ve got it under control," Shane bit out.

"Except for when you don’t," Troy said.

His hand tightened on the stall divider. Just a little. Just enough that his arm cast a shadow over Shane’s shoulder, that his body angle said 'cornered' more than 'concerned'.

The world tipped sideways.

Sound sharpened first, with the hiss of showers at the far end transforming into a roar. The hum of the lights pounded into his skull. Then came the smell: soap, wet concrete, and a faint trace of blood from someone’s poorly bandaged cut. Troy's adrenaline edged upward, just beginning to spike.

His jaw cracked, and a sharp pop shot pain into his temples. Shane instinctively covered his mouth with his hand. His teeth felt strange; his skull was expanding to accommodate them. Heat flooded his arms, and bones in his hands shifted with a grinding sensation, like gears slipping into a different groove. His nails darkened and thickened, pushing forward and biting into his palm as they curled.

"Shane?" Troy’s voice was a thin wire. "Hey—hey. Breathe."

He tried. What came out was not a breath. It was a sound that started in his gut and clawed its way up, vibrating the metal beneath him. A low, rolling growl that had nothing to do with human vocal cords burst through him.

The bench shrieked as he surged up. Wood cracked under his claws. Troy took one involuntary step back, eyes wide, hands up like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

"Okay," he said, too calmly. "Okay, that’s—"

The door slammed open.

"—and then he tells me if I try that drop pass again, he’s benching me—" Boodram barreled in, towel around his neck, laughing. Three guys spilled in behind him, noise and heat and normal.

They froze.

Six pairs of eyes landed on Shane.

For one brutal heartbeat, no one moved. The whole scene burned itself into the air.

Shane hunched half out of his stall, shoulders bowed in a predatory curve, undershirt stretched obscenely over the new shape of his back. His hands, which were claws now, long and dark, were sunk into the shredded stall divider. Splinters feathered around them.

His mouth was open on that unearthly growl, lips peeled all the way back. His teeth didn’t belong in a human jaw.

Shane's eyes met Zane’s.

No brown, no hazel. Just molten gold, pupils blown and bright, catching the fluorescent lights like an animal caught in headlights.

"Holy fuck," Dykstra whispered.

"What the actual—" Hayes’s voice cracked.

Shane saw all of it, the way Barrett’s sweat dried on his own jersey, the way Dykstra’s fingers twitched toward a stick, the faint tremor in Zane’s forearm.

The wolf howled under his skin. Threats.

It bunched to leap.

"Shane." Troy’s voice cracked like a stick on ice. "Look at me."

His head snapped toward Troy.

'Prey,' some old, ugly part of him thought. 'Throat. Soft. Take.'

No.

It wasn’t just a word but a powerful slam of everything that still defined Shane, pushed back into his mind. He gasped for air, feeling the burn. His lungs seemed too small, his chest too tight. He clenched his eyes shut. The heat within him flickered and then faded. Claws raked through wood again as his fingers cramped. The nails retracted, leaving his fingertips raw and throbbing. His jaw spasmed, teeth grinding as they shrank, molars clicking painfully.

He hit the bench hard, and the sound echoed loudly. His breathing came in ragged, ugly gasps. The growl ceased abruptly, as if a wire had been cut. He looked down at his hands, which were trembling fiercely with whitened knuckles. The holes his claws left in the stall now looked obscene, glaring back at him.

"What the actual fuck was that?" Dykstra said, not joking now.

"He’s—" Hayes couldn’t seem to find a word big enough. "You were—" He gestured vaguely at his own mouth. "Teeth."

"Your eyes," Zane said, voice rough. "Dude."

Shane couldn’t look at them. If he saw the horror on their faces, he would be sick.

"Did he touch you?" Hayes snapped, spinning on Troy, panic translating straight into anger. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," Troy said. Immediate, sharp. He pushed a hand through his hair, like he needed something to do with it. "He didn’t touch me."

"We all just watched—" Dykstra pointed with his whole arm because his hand was shaking. "He had fucking claws."

"He also stopped," Troy said. "You notice that part?"

"Because we walked in," Hayes shot back.

"Because I said his name," Troy countered.

Shane’s throat closed around whatever apology he’d been trying to choke out.

"I—" It came out in a rasp. He swallowed hard. "I’m sorry," he managed. "I didn’t mean—"

"Understatement of the year," Dykstra muttered.

Zane shot him a look. "Not helping."

"What are you?" Hayes asked. It wasn’t cruel, just stunned. "Because that," He shook his head. "That was not human."

Shane flinched like he’d been hit. The word he wanted sat on his tongue: werewolf. It felt stupid, too easy, and exactly right.

"He’s our winger," Troy said before Shane could open his mouth. "He’s the guy killing penalties so we don’t get lit up. He’s the one who walked Montreal last week." His gaze swept the group. "He’s also clearly dealing with some shit none of us has a playbook for."

"Yeah, no kidding," Hayes said. "We just watched him go full National Geographic."

"You done?" Troy asked.

Hayes shut his mouth. His hands were still clenched.

Zane blew out a long breath, then scrubbed his face. When he dropped his hands, he looked older and very tired. "Okay," he said. The third time he’d said it since he walked in, but it sounded like he meant it now. "Okay. So it’s not the flu, not drugs." He looked at Shane, who seemed a little offended. "It’s…something else."

"You think?" Dykstra muttered.

"Is it contagious?" somebody asked from the doorway.

All eyes snapped to Troy again.

"He did not touch me," Troy said, each word hammered. "I’m not foaming at the mouth, thanks."

"Not yet," Dykstra said.

"Dykstra," Zane snapped. "Shut it."

"I don’t want to hurt any of you," Shane said, small and raw. "I would rather sit than…" His voice broke. "Than that."

The wolf curled in on itself at the admission.

"Then you don’t do it alone," Troy said.

Shane stared. "Did you miss the part where I almost took your head off?"

"You almost did," Troy said. "Then you stopped."

"Barely," Shane whispered.

"Barely is better than not at all," Troy said. "Look, I’m not saying this is fine. It’s not. This is—" He gestured at the destroyed stall. "New. But if I thought you were just going to randomly eat me in the D‑zone, I’d be in Wiebe’s office already."

"You’re not going to him?" Hayes asked, incredulous.

"You want to march in there and say, 'Hey, coach, Hollander grew fangs, can we scratch him for shits and giggles,' and see how that goes?" Troy asked. "You think he goes, 'Oh no, our feelings'? No. He calls the GM. The GM calls Legal. And PR. And then Hollander never sees the ice again."

That landed like a puck to the ribs.

Shane swallowed bile.

"They protect the logo," Zane said quietly. He hooked his thumb toward the crest. "Not us. Not like that."

No one argued.

"So what, we just… keep this as some weird locker-room secret?" Dykstra said, incredulous.

"We make it a team thing," Zane said. "Like everything else."

He turned fully to Shane. "You tell us what you can, when you can," he said. "We figure out how to help so you don’t rip anybody’s throat out. We do not run straight to Wiebe unless or until we have no choice."

"You’re talking like this is just… another system tweak," Hayes said. "This is—"

"—still our room," Troy cut in. "Our guy. Our problem first."

He looked at Shane. "Do you want this decided by management who sees you as an asset, or by the idiots who muck around in the corners with you every night?"

Shane let out a jagged breath. "I don’t want any of you deciding I’m a freak and—"

"Too late," Hayes said dryly. The corner of his mouth twitched. "We already thought you were weird. This is just… new data."

A thin laugh flickered around the circle, shaky but there.

Zane’s expression softened, just a hair. "You’re ours," he said simply. "That doesn’t change because you sprout extra teeth on bad days."

The wolf in Shane’s chest lifted its head, startled.

Ours. Pack purred.

Footsteps approached the door. A trainer’s voice floated in. "Kids, you decent? Media in five."

"Two minutes," Zane called, eyes still on Shane.

The steps retreated.

"We’re not done," Troy said quietly to Shane.

Shane nodded, throat too tight for words.

Zane clapped him once on the shoulder. Not too hard. "Untense your face before you talk to cameras," he said. "If they ask about the eye thing, blame it on bad LEDs."

"What if they ask if I’m a werewolf?" Shane rasped.

"Say you’re a centaur," Hayes offered. "Brand synergy."

Someone actually snorted.

"This," Zane said, sweeping a hand around the circle, "does not leave this room. Stall, eyes, claws, all of it. We’re agreed?"

One by one, heads nodded. Some more reluctantly than others, but they nodded.

"Agreed," Hayes said.

"Yeah," Dykstra muttered.

"Good," Troy said. "Then be cool."

They started to drift toward the showers and the hall, the volume creeping back up to something like normal. Someone turned the music up a notch.

Troy added, "For what it’s worth, I don’t think you were actually going to hurt me."

"You don’t know that," Shane said.

"No," Troy agreed. "But you stopped. That’s all I’ve got right now." He left, towel over his shoulder, footsteps fading into the steam and music.

Shane sat for another long moment, hands still trembling over the ruin of the stall.

"Shanya?" Ilya's voice echoed down the hall as he spun his keys on his finger. He froze in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene. His eyes darkened slightly. "Let's go home, yes?"

 

The cottage smelled like safety the second he walked in.

"Lyubov?" Ilya murmured softly once they stepped inside, "Scale."

"Ten," Shane said.

It was half a joke, half a confession. His voice cracked.

"Sit," he ordered. "Before you fall down."

Shane’s knees chose that moment to try quitting. He let himself be steered to the couch, collapsing into the corner. Ilya dropped beside him, thigh pressed to his, one arm along the backrest behind his neck.

"What happened," Ilya said. It wasn’t a question so much as a demand.

Shane swallowed. Once he started, he didn’t stop.

He shared with him the jokes at the rink and how every "wolf" seemed to get under his skin. He described Barrett’s cross‑check, the corner, and the near-hit. He recalled Troy in the half-empty room, the hand on the stall, the questions, and the feeling of being cornered. He mentioned his jaw cracking, his claws, and the door opening, along with the expressions on their faces. His voice wavered when he reached that part.

"They saw everything," he finished. "Eyes, teeth, the whole horror show."

Ilya’s hand tightened convulsively on his shoulder, then gentled. "Anyone hurt?" he asked.

"No," Shane said. "I almost—"

"You stopped," Ilya said.

"Because Troy said my name like I’m a badly trained dog," Shane said bitterly.

"Then we buy him nice bottle of vodka," Ilya said. "What did they do?"

Shane let his head thump back against the couch.

"Panicked," he said. "Yelled. Asked if I bit Troy. Asked what the fuck I am." His laugh came out mangled. "Fair question."

"And then?" Ilya pressed.

"And then… they didn’t run," Shane said. The disbelief in his own voice surprised him. "Zane shut down the panic. Troy backed me. They…" He swallowed. "They want to keep it in the room. For now. No Wiebe."

Ilya’s shoulders dropped a millimeter.

"Idiots," he said softly. Fond. "Good idiots."

He was quiet for a long beat, thumb rubbing back and forth on Shane’s knee.

"Do you trust them?" he asked.

Shane thought of Zane’s face, Troy’s posture between him and a panicking Hayes.

"Yeah," he said. It felt like stepping off a ledge. "I do."

"Then we work with that," Ilya said. He picked up Shane’s phone from the coffee table and shoved it into his hand. "Call him."

"It’s late," Shane protested weakly.

"He is werewolf," Ilya said. "Call."

Shane huffed out a laugh despite himself and hit Hayden’s contact.

The call barely rang twice.

"You’re alive," Hayden said by way of greeting.

"Define alive," Shane said.

"You blew up on my radar like a goddamn earthquake," Hayden said. "What happened?"

Shane stared at the ceiling.

"They saw," he said. "In the room." His throat tightened. "I shifted."

There was a stretch of silence. He could hear Hayden breathe.

"How much?" Hayden asked. Calm, but the calm he used when he was about to block a shot with his teeth.

"Claws. Teeth. Eyes. Hunched like a Buffy villain," Shane said, because if he didn’t joke, he was going to cry. "Not full fur. Enough."

"Anyone hurt?" Hayden asked.

"No," Shane said. "Almost."

"But not," Hayden said. "You pulled it back."

"After Troy said my name like a command," Shane said.

"That’s called a pattern interrupt," Hayden said. "Congratulations, he’s accidentally good at werewolf handling."

Shane huffed out a weak laugh.

"Who knows?" Hayden asked. "Names."

"Troy, Boodsy, Hayes, Dykstra," Shane said.

"Wiebe?" Hayden asked.

"No," Shane and Ilya said together.

"Keep it that way," Hayden said immediately. "As long as you can."

"They want to," Shane said. "Zane pretty much made them swear locker-room oath. He said I’m…" His voice caught. "He said I’m theirs."

There was a startled huff on the other end. "Yeah," Hayden said after a beat. "That tracks. Hockey."

"They’re scared," Shane said. "But they didn’t bail."

"That’s the whole game," Hayden said quietly. "Scared and staying."

The room tilted, just a little.

"What now?" Shane asked. The question came out small.

Hayden blew out a breath. "Now we stop pretending this is a weird case of lingering flu," he said. "We get ahead of it. You, me, and Rozanov sit down with whoever’s actually going to keep their heads, and we explain what we can before they make up worse stories."

"When?" Shane asked.

"Weekend," Hayden said. "I’ll come up. Pack meeting."

The word sat differently now, weighted with Zane’s you’re ours.

"They’re not… pack," Shane said slowly. "They don’t know what this is. They’re just—"

"They’re yours," Hayden said. "That’s close enough."

Shane swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"What if I can’t do this?" he asked. "What if next time I don’t stop?"

"Then we adjust," Hayden said. "We pull you from situations that are going to push you too hard until you’ve got more control. We build cues. We figure out who you listen to when you’re half‑gone."

"Today it was Troy," Shane said.

"Great," Hayden said. "We weaponize him."

Shane laughed, wet and surprised.

"You didn’t hurt anyone," Hayden said, softer. "You scared the shit out of them. You scared yourself. But you didn’t cross that line. Don’t throw that away like it doesn’t matter."

"Feels like it doesn’t," Shane said.

"I’ve seen changes where the guy woke up in a holding cell," Hayden said. "Or covered in blood that wasn’t his. You? You had a room full of idiots who love you and a captain and a line‑mate who talked you down." A beat. "You’re already ahead of where I was."

That lodged somewhere deep and aching.

"Text me if you spike," Hayden said. "Rozanov, you’re on duty."

"Always," Ilya called.

"Good," Hayden said. "Try to sleep. You’re going to need your brain for the team meeting from hell."

"Can’t wait," Shane said weakly.

"Yeah, you can," Hayden said. "Goodnight, Hollander."

The line clicked off.

The cottage felt very small and very quiet.

Ilya took the phone, set it aside, then tugged on Shane’s arm until he toppled sideways, head landing on Ilya’s chest. Ilya wrapped both arms around him and held on like he meant it.

"You are not monster," he said into his hair. "You are my idiot husband who sometimes growls at coworkers. We fix."

Shane let out a cracked laugh that turned into something wetter. He pressed his face into Ilya’s shirt, breathing him in.

Under his ribs, the wolf curled around that simple 'mine' and settled, just a little.

Tomorrow, there’d be explanations and pacts and a room full of men deciding what to do about the thing they’d seen.

Tonight, there was this sofa, this chest, these hands on his back, rubbing slow circles as Shane nosed into Ilya's chest.

He clung to that until his eyes finally slid closed and the buzzing in his blood faded to something he could almost sleep through.

 

 

The next day, the locker room door was closed. That, in itself, wasn’t weird. Staff closed it for equipment checks, for cleaning, for Wiebe’s terrible pregame speeches. He stopped just shy of the threshold, duffel strap biting into his shoulder.

"If you hover any harder, you will float away," Ilya said. He bumped into Shane’s back, chest a warm wall between his shoulder blades. "Move."

"What if they locked it because they don’t want me in there?" Shane said before he could stop himself. There was an away game in two days in New York. Would he be allowed on the bus?

"Then they picked wrong husband," Ilya said, and shouldered past him like the door had personally offended him.

He continued without hesitation, gripping the handle, twisting it, and pushing. The room fell silent as every head turned toward him, no music, no tape tearing, just the low hum of the lights, the faint fridge buzz in the corner, and the distant compressor under the ice. Most stalls were occupied, with the team sitting in hoodies and sweats, half-dressed, clutching coffee cups and water bottles.

"Wow," Hayes said finally. He was in the corner, balanced precariously on his gear bag, hands around a Styrofoam cup. "That was an entrance."

"Shut up," Zane told him without taking his eyes off Shane.

The door thumped shut behind them. The sound seemed to echo.

"Okay," Zane said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We’re all here?"

He glanced around. Heads nodded.

"We trust that if you are talking, you are here," Ilya said.

He gave the door an extra push, as if daring it to try closing on its own, then steered Shane toward their usual stalls. His hand stayed flat and firm between Shane’s shoulder blades like a second spine. Shane’s legs tried to lock. Ilya kept him moving.

He sat because gravity and Ilya gave him no other option. Ilya sat too, close enough that their knees brushed, his arm stretching along the back of the bench until his fingertips rested in the hollow at the base of Shane’s neck.

"Why does this feel like an intervention?" Shane muttered.

"Because it is," Hayes said.

"This is not intervention," Ilya said. "This is team meeting.'"

"Can we—" Zane started, then stopped and tried again. "Look, yesterday was…" He exhaled in a rush. "A lot."

A low, uneasy chuckle rippled through the room.

"We saw something none of us expected to see outside the SyFy channel," he said. "And before we all go off and decide our own versions of what that means, I figured we should maybe let the guy in question talk." His chin tipped toward Shane. "If he wants to."

Shane’s throat suddenly felt dry as all eyes returned to him. His heartbeat echoed behind his eyes. The wolf raised itself, seeking attention. It enjoyed being watched and understood. He, on the other hand, wished he could crawl into his bag and zip it shut.

"Hi," he said. The word came out rough. "In case you missed it, I’m Shane. I do, in fact, turn into a monster sometimes. Zero out of ten, do not recommend."

Hayes snorted his coffee up his nose. Dykstra thumped his back.

"You could have led with 'this is a safe space,'" Troy said under his breath.

"It’s a hockey locker room," Shane said.

That got the first real laugh, quick and jagged.

"Start at cottage," Ilya murmured. "Go from there."

"Okay," Shane said. He laced his fingers together so they wouldn’t shake. "So. You know Ilya and I went up to the cottage before camp. You know I came back with some cool new back scratches and a weird case of the flu." He forced his mouth into a half‑smile. No one laughed this time, but a few nodded.

"What I didn’t tell you is that the 'back scratches' were from something that followed me out of the woods," he said, the humor bleeding out of his tone. "Not a regular wolf. Not a bear. Not… anything I’d seen before." He picked his way through it. The forest going unnaturally quiet. The wrong shape between the trees. The run. The claws. The fever that felt like it was boiling his brain. The way his back had scarred over almost overnight.

He left out the worst parts: the blind terror, the way delirium had blurred with something that felt like hunger, but he didn’t sand the edges off as much as he would have, once. These guys had already seen his teeth. They could handle the story.

"After that," he said, "my body stopped behaving like my body. Senses all over the place. Noise too loud, smell too much. Healed faster than I should. And." He flexed his fingers. They felt normal now, but he could still feel a phantom ache where claws had pushed through skin. "On the full moon… You saw the trailer yesterday. The full show is… more."

"Fur and everything?" Hayes asked, curiosity winning over fear.

Shane nodded. "Fur and everything."

Silence settled for a long beat.

"So when we say 'werewolf,'" Hayes said slowly, "we’re not being dramatic. This is… full Teen Wolf."

"We are not calling him Teen Wolf," Dykstra said automatically.

"Yeah," Hayes said. "Shane actually scores."

"Fuck you," Shane said, heat pricking his ears.

"See?" Hayes said. "It’s still him."

"We’re not doing nickname brainstorm yet," Zane cut in. "Stay on topic for five seconds."

"Five seconds is a lot to ask," Hayes muttered into his coffee.

"Is it…" One of the rookies cleared his throat. "Uh. Is it only the full moon? Like… once a month you go four‑leg?"

"More or less," Shane said. "The full moon is the big one. First couple days on either side are… rougher. I get more wired. Everything’s louder. But I’m not turning into a golden retriever every night."

"Disappointing," Hayes said. "Would be nice to have someone fetch pucks."

"Fetch them yourself," Shane said. "You’re already halfway there."

"How," Dykstra cut in, "did this not come up in your medical?"

"The team doctor is not exactly up on supernatural medicine."

"He had flu," Ilya said. "Fever. Infection. He got after. That is all doctor sees." He shrugged, as if the limits of human medicine bored him.

"You’re…" one of the defense men started, then trailed off. "I don’t… how is this real?"

"I don’t know," Shane said. "I’m just as mad about it as you are. I didn’t exactly sign up for the subscription."

"You said 'healed faster'," Zane said. "Is that just your back or…?"

"Everything," Shane said. "Cuts close quicker. Bruises don’t last as long. Soreness fades faster. Which sounds nice until your body response goes, 'We can push harder all the time,' and you almost forget you’re still made of bones and ligaments like everyone else."

"Do you feel hits less?" Hayes asked.

"I feel them more," Shane said. "Just… differently. I know exactly where they land, how deep. And then it… reorganizes."

"Gross," Hayes said. "Also, kinda sick."

"We are not using him like rental car," Ilya said. "We use brain too."

"Hey, I have a brain," Shane protested.

"Sometimes," Ilya said fondly.

The tension in the room eased another notch.

"Okay," Zane said slowly. "So we’ve got…" He ticked off on his fingers. "Not contagious unless bite or claw. Tied to moon. Heals fast. Senses cranked. Temper… touchy when he’s fried."

"I have a friend," Shane said. "He got hit with it a few years ago. He found me. Helped me not, you know, die."

"So he knows what’s what," Zane said. "You’re not free styling this?"

"Correct," Shane said. "He has turned this into some kind of horrible Werewolf 101 boot camp. He’s got schedules. Breathwork. Yoga."

"You do yoga?" Hayes said, delighted.

"He is very bendy," Ilya said before Shane could answer.

"Ilya," Shane said. His face was hot.

"All right," Zane said, rubbing his forehead. "Questions, then. Get them out."

That was apparently all the permission Hayes needed.

"Can you smell us right now?" he asked immediately. "Like. Individually."

"Yes," Shane said. "Unfortunately."

"Okay, what do I smell like?" Hayes asked, weirdly hopeful.

"This is not Bath & Body Works," Ilya muttered.

Shane sighed. "Fine. You smell like citrus body wash, cheap cologne, stale arena popcorn, your dog, and anxiety."

Hayes considered that, then nodded. "Okay."

"Me next," Dykstra said, morbidly curious.

Shane sniffed in his direction, the wolf happy for the data.

"Tape, eucalyptus rub, laundry soap," he said. "And whatever mystery meat you ate in the players’ lounge."

"Ah, the taco bar," Dykstra said. "Yeah, that tracks."

"He is superhero of smell," Ilya said, sounding both proud and annoyed.

"Do you ever get… overwhelmed?" one of the younger guys asked. "Like, do you just want to tap out?"

"Sometimes," Shane admitted. "Crowds are… a lot. Rinks more than usual. The first few weeks, I wanted to crawl out of my own skin every time we walked into a building. It’s better now. But if I look like I’m about to pass out at a random smell, that’s why."

"What about sound?" Zane asked. "Can you hear us, like… breathing right now?"

"Yes," Shane said. "Please don’t all try to breathe quietly; it’s worse."

"So if I whisper from over there—" Hayes started.

"I will throw a skate at you," Shane said, laughing with the group.

"Serious one," Dykstra said after the laughter died. He shifted, looking suddenly nervous. "That thing I said yesterday about… You're going Cujo in the D‑zone. That was an asshole way to put it."

The admission knocked something loose in Shane’s chest. "You were scared," he said. "It’s fine."

"Still," Dykstra said, looking at his hands. "For the record, if you ever do go Cujo, please don’t make it on my side."

"That’s the apology?" Hayes said.

"I accept your terms," Shane said solemnly.

A quick grin flashed across Dykstra’s face and then was gone.

"Okay, sex questions now," Hayes said brightly.

"No," three voices said at once: Zane, Troy, and Shane.

"Absolutely not," Troy added.

"You were all thinking it," Hayes protested.

"We were not," Zane said.

"I was a little," Boodram said.

"Thank you," Hayes said.

"It's none of your business," Shane said, which was not a denial, and unfortunately, everyone in the room knew it.

"Enhanced stamina?" Hayes pressed.

Troy dropped his head into his hands. "I hate this team."

"Stop encouraging him," Zane said.

"It’s scientific curiosity," Hayes said. "How often does a locker room get access to real data on supernatural cardio?"

"You want data?" Ilya said, dry. "He is fine."

The room exploded.

"Oh my God," Shane groaned. If he could have crawled into the drain in the floor, he would have.

"Ilya, no," Troy said, half‑laughing, half‑appalled.

"Ilya, yes," Hayes countered. "You just did more for my mental health than my last three therapists."

"Please go to real therapist," Ilya said.

"So you’re saying—" Hayes started.

"Conversation over," Shane cut in. His face felt like it was actively on fire. "Next question that is not about my dick."

"Coward," Hayes muttered, grinning like Christmas.

"Okay, I have a game question," one of the defensemen said, rescuing him a little. "When you’re… wolfed out, or close to it. Can you still see the ice? Or is it just… tunnel vision?"

"It depends," Shane said, ignoring him. "Corner yesterday? It was… tunnel. I saw the hit, the target, the out. Not the whole play. That’s why it scared me so much. On the PK against Montreal? It felt… almost good. Everything slowed down. I could see the lanes before they opened."

"So it’s not all bad," Zane said.

"No," Shane said. "It’s not. That’s the messed‑up part. Some of it feels… amazing. Strong. Clear. Like all the noise finally lines up into one song."

"And some of it feels like your brain is going to leak out your ears," Troy added.

"That too," Shane said.

"We can work with that," Zane said, more to himself than anyone. "We’ve played with guys on weird meds, guys coming back from concussions, guys with anxiety. We adapt." He shrugged one shoulder.

"So what do we do?" Hayes asked.

"You watch me," Shane said. Saying it out loud hurt and helped at the same time. "If I start snapping at you for nothing, if my eyes do the thing, if I look like I want to crawl out of my own skin, you say something. If I say I need to sit, you let me sit. No chirps. Please."

"And if you don’t say it?" Troy asked quietly.

Shane looked up and met his gaze. "Then you pull me," he said. "I’d rather hate you for a benching than hate myself for…"

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

"We are not letting you get to that," Ilya said, voice steel. "Not if I am breathing."

"Same," Zane said.

"If I ever think it’s not safe," Zane added, "I am going to Wiebe. You understand that?"

Shane’s stomach clenched. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

"But," Zane said, "before that, I go to you. And I’d rather you come to us first."

"This isn’t a one‑way thing," Troy added. "You don’t just get to martyr yourself in the name of 'compete.'"

Shane let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the stall cracked.

"Okay," he said. "Deal."

The meeting nearly concluded at that point. The serious discussion had been completed, and boundaries had been set. However, nobody moved to leave. There was an unusual, shared hesitation to revert to normalcy as if nothing had occurred.

"I have follow‑up questions," Hayes said eventually.

"Of course you do," Troy said.

"Do dogs freak out around you?" Hayes asked.

"Duke rolled over for me," Shane said. "So..."

"He never does that," Zane said. "He hates everyone." He frowned, then brightened. "You’re the Duke whisperer."

"Add it to the Skills section on Elite Prospects," Hayes said. "Skating, shooting, dog‑whispering."

"Do you want to come to my house and see what my cat does?" one of the guys asked.

"No," Shane and Ilya said in unison.

"She is demon already," Ilya added. "No need to introduce wolf."

"It would be unstoppable force, immovable object," Hayes mused.

"She would win," Ilya said.

"Do you get random 'wolf urges'?" Hayes asked, waggling his brows.

"Please define 'wolf urges' before I answer," Shane said.

"Like… chasing cars, howling at sirens, sniffing people’s butts," Hayes said.

The room groaned.

"We are trading you," Zane informed him.

"Only sniff Ilya," Shane said. "Thank you for your concern."

"Do you actually howl?" Dykstra asked.

Ilya covered his face with one hand.

"We are not—" Shane started.

"He does," Ilya muttered through his fingers.

Shane’s head snapped around. "Ilya."

"What?" Ilya said, shameless. "Is cute."

"I’m going to walk into traffic," Shane said.

"We need you," Zane said.

"Can we hear it?" Hayes asked.

"Absolutely not," Shane said.

"Maybe one day," Zane said, hopeful.

"He will howl if we win Cup," Ilya said.

"You people are unwell," Shane said.

"Takes one to know one," Hayes said.

The knock at the door made all of them jump.

"Everyone decent?" a trainer’s voice called. "Wiebe wants bodies on the ice in fifteen."

Zane glanced at the clock. "Yeah," he called back. "Two minutes."

Footsteps retreated down the hall. The spell broke a little. Guys shifted, stretching, grabbing socks and tape.

Zane pushed to his feet."This stays with us," he said, scanning the room one more time. "No leaks. No texting your buddies on other teams like 'you won’t believe what my Shane is.'" He paused, "If this gets out, it gets out on his terms or because we had no choice."

One by one, heads nodded.

"Understood," Troy said.

"Got it," Hayes said.

"Yeah," Dykstra said, quieter but sure.

Something in Shane’s ribs eased. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been braced for someone to say no.

Boodram hopped off his bench and crossed the room in three strides. Before Shane could flinch, he looped an arm around his neck and hauled him into a half‑hug, knocking their helmets together lightly. "Welcome to the circus," Zane said into his hair. "You’re not getting out now."

Shane let himself lean into it for a second.

The wolf inside him listened to all of it: the jokes, the promises, the casual touch, and settled

Pack, it thought, satisfied. Ours.

"Come on, wolf boy," Hayes said, flicking his tape roll at him. "We got drills to screw up."

"Call me that again, I’ll bite you," Shane said.

"Promises, promises," Hayes sang.

"He will bite," Ilya said.

They laughed all the way to the ice.

Chapter Text

The airport smelled of burnt coffee, floor cleaner, and too many sweaty people who didn’t want to be there.

Shane’s wolf hated it.

His human side didn’t love it either, but at least he had a lifetime of airports behind him, enough memories to stack on top of each other until they blurred. The wolf only had this moment. It crawled under his skin now, prickling at the back of his neck as the doors whooshed open and hot, stale air rolled over them. Automatic glass, dull grey sky beyond the overhang, a clogged line of taxis and buses. The hum of voices bounced off tile and glass, layered over squeaking wheels and the rough bark of announcements.

Underneath all that, anchoring him, was Ilya. Laundry detergent, the slightly musky scent of his cologne, tea on his breath from the travel mug he’d insisted on finishing. The heat of him, standing just in front of Shane in the check‑in line, backpack strap stretched over one broad shoulder.

Shane fixed his eyes between Ilya’s shoulder blades, inhaled, and made himself count.

One: Ilya, right in front of him, weight balanced evenly on both feet, relaxed. Good.

Two: Troy, three people ahead, talking with his hands while Harris filmed something on his phone, the camera pointed back at them; Troy kept reaching out to tug the brim of Harris’s hat lower. Okay.

Three: Hayes, behind Troy, already chirping someone about Zane's choice of neck pillow.

Four: Zane, flat expression, rolling his own carry‑on and Troy's, because Troy was carrying all of Harris's equipment.

Five, six, seven, he ticked through the roster in his head, matching each number with a scent, a shape, a sound of laughter.

Pack. His shoulders loosened a fraction. The wolf still pressed against his ribs, restless, but it stopped scratching to get out. For now.

“Zolotse, stop looming,” Ilya murmured in Russian without looking back.

“I’m not looming,” Shane muttered. He was. He’d left an extra half‑step between himself and the stranger behind him so he could be closer to Ilya instead, angled so his body took up more of the space at Ilya’s back.

Ilya’s mouth curled, like he could feel the shape of Shane’s thoughts. “You are doing…how you say…” He wiggled his fingers vaguely, the light catching on the gold band around his finger. “Wolf thing.”

“That’s not a thing,” Shane said, even as his hand came up to straighten the strap on Ilya’s backpack just to have an excuse to touch it. His fingers brushed the side of Ilya’s neck in the process, warm skin under a soft fuzz of hair, and his wolf snapped to attention.

He swallowed down the urge to bury his face there and breathe until nothing else existed.

“Sure, sure,” Hayes said from behind them. “Not a thing. That's why you’re body‑blocking the TSA line, bud?”

“Shut up,” Shane said mildly.

Hayes only grinned and bumped his duffel into the back of Shane’s legs. Shane shifted just enough to let the bag hit him instead of Ilya. He heard the click and little electronic chime of Harris’s phone as he stopped recording.

“Okay,” Harris said, cheerful and already sliding his phone into his hoodie pocket. “That’s some good ‘boys‑on‑the‑road’ content. No one let Hayes talk on camera until we’ve cleared security, I’m begging you.”

“Rude,” Hayes said. “I’m great on camera.”

“You’re chaos on camera,” Troy corrected, glancing back at Harris with a soft, private smile that smoothed his whole face. “And we’re not getting you ratio’d before we even land.”

Harris’s answering grin punched something fond and stupid right through Shane’s chest. Another piece of his pack, even if he didn’t have a jersey. The line shuffled forward. The air conditioning gusted on their right, sending a fresh wave of human musk and perfume over them. He focused instead on the steady thump of Ilya’s heartbeat, the familiar sound of Troy’s low laugh, and Hayes’s sneakers squeaking as he bounced heel‑toe, heel‑toe.

He could handle this.

 

Security was worse.

Shoes off, belts off, laptops out, everyone funneled through in bare‑socked single file while strangers peered at them and barked instructions. Shane did fine on autopilot until the bin with Ilya’s bag disappeared down the conveyor belt.

The wolf lunged, a full‑body jolt of possessive panic:

Pack. Mine. Where.

He locked his knees and dug his fingers into the plastic edge of his own bin hard enough that the corner bit into his palms. 'It’s fine,' he told himself. 'It’s a scanner, not a black hole. You can still see it.'

Ilya stepped through the body scanner in front of him, hands above his head, expression blandly cooperative. He caught Shane’s eye on the other side and quirked an eyebrow. Shane forced his hands to unclench from the bin and did the same. For one stupid second inside the scanner, with his arms up and nothing to touch, the wolf tried to surge again, all teeth and offense at being penned and watched and unable to get between anything and his alpha.

His alpha?

Breathe. In: Ilya’s scent, lingering even here. Out: the burnt coffee and stranger sweat.

The machine hummed, the guard waved him through, and the world didn’t end. On the other side, he beelined for Ilya’s bag before his own, grabbing it off the belt and planting it solidly on the table.

“Hey,” Ilya said, amused. “That one is mine.”

“I know.” Shane shoved it a little closer to him. “Here.”

Behind them, Harris’s voice floated over the general clatter. “Okay, everybody still has all their limbs?” Some quiet chuckling followed, but it did nothing to ease the pacing beast in Shane's chest.

 

They gathered around the gate, a mix of track pants and team hoodies over overly bright carpet. The overhead speakers crackled, a baby cried nearby, and someone’s phone played a loud, tinny video. Shane chose an aisle seat with a good view of almost everyone, facing the gate, and with a clear view of the large glass windows where the plane was stationed. Ilya sat down beside him, knees relaxed and wide, his thigh pressing warmly and firmly against Shane’s.

“Is wolf still doing wolf thing?” he asked under his breath.

Shane’s mouth twitched. “He just likes to know where everyone is.”

“Mm.” Ilya tilted his head, studying him. There was affection in the look, and something like pride. “He is not only one.”

Across from them, Troy and Harris were leaning back against each other on the opposite row of seats, heads bent over Harris’s phone as he edited a clip. Troy’s hand rested on Harris’s knee, thumb stroking absently.

Hayes was sprawled on the floor, using his backpack as a pillow, talking to Zane about which New York pizza place they had to hit first. Every few minutes, Shane’s gaze flicked automatically from one to the other. Count, check, breathe. His wolf scented the air with each passing, cataloging.

“Stop glaring at civilians,” Hayes said without opening his eyes. “You’re freaking the mortals out.”

“I’m not glaring,” Shane said.

“He is doing smolder,” Ilya said gravely. “Very sexy.”

Harris snorted. “The comments are gonna eat up this look on Instagram, just saying. Can you scowl into the middle distance for me later, Shaney? Give ‘em that full cursed‑wolf‑at‑dawn aesthetic?”

The wolf didn’t know what a cursed‑wolf‑at‑dawn aesthetic was, but it didn't like the way Harris said ‘comments’ and ‘Shaney’ like both were normal.

“We’ll see,” Shane said. His knee pressed a little harder into Ilya’s.

 

Boarding was a whole new test.

Narrow jet bridge, stale air that smelled like hot metal, the line inching forward.

Shane took the spot directly behind Ilya again, one hand on the strap of his carry‑on, the other hovering just short of Ilya’s back. When the line jolted, and a businessman with too much cologne tried to squeeze past on the side, Shane shifted a half‑step, shoulder bumping the guy just enough to reassert the line.

“Easy,” Ilya murmured, amused.

“He tried to cut,” Shane said.

“He tried to die,” Hayes whispered behind them in delighted horror.

Harris coughed, clearly biting back a laugh as he pretended to scroll.

By the time they stepped onto the plane, his wolf was vibrating with nerves. Metal box with nowhere to go and too many scents at once: recycled air, fuel, coffee, cheap leather, perfume. But as soon as he found their row, the panic eased slightly. Ilya sat by the window, Shane in the aisle, with a narrow buffer between the pack and everything else. Across the aisle, Troy and Harris had nabbed seats together. Harris took the window to record takeoff, while Troy, with his long legs, already invaded the space in front of him.

“Seatbelts, children,” Zane said dryly from the row behind, snapping his own shut with a click.

Shane dropped into his seat, stowed his bag, and immediately let his knee knock into Ilya’s.

“Mm, hello,” Ilya said, turning his head to look at him properly. “You are vibrating.”

“Plane smells,” Shane said, which was…technically true. He let his breath out slowly and focused on the pack‑smells.

“Hey,” Harris said across the aisle, leaning out so his head poked into their space. “You two okay with being in the B‑roll for the pregame vlog? Just like, half‑asleep on the plane, nothing crazy.”

“Do I have to be awake?” Shane asked.

“Preferably not,” Harris said. “The more tragic and jet‑lagged, the better. Comments love a sad boy.”

“Is okay,” Ilya said, patting Shane’s forearm. “He is very good sad boy.”

“Thanks,” Shane said dryly, but his lips twitched.

The engines whined louder, flight attendants did their safety routine, and the plane began to trundle toward the runway. His wolf pressed hard against his skin, wanting something solid to dig into, somewhere to brace. Shane curled his hand around the armrest, then changed his mind and slid it instead onto Ilya’s thigh.

Ilya’s hand dropped on top of his without missing a beat, fingers lacing through his. “Breathe, zolotse,” he murmured.

In: Ilya, warm and close, heartbeat steady where their shoulders touched. The faint hint of Troy’s soap over Harris’s worn cotton hoodie across the aisle. Hayes’s candy. Out: everything else.

The plane roared as the front wheels lifted, pressing them back into their seats. For a second, the wolf panicked: the sky is wrong, the ground is gone, the pack is trapped. His nails bit into Ilya’s palm.

Ilya squeezed back, firm. Here.

Shane sucked in a sharp breath, chest tight, and forced his eyes open. Out the window, the world tilted, runway dropping away. Inside, the aisle lights glowed a soft yellow, his teammates’ voices muffled and familiar.

Pack is here, he told the wolf. We’re together. The wolf didn’t like the plane, but it liked that.

Mid‑flight, the cabin lights dimmed. Shades went down across half the windows. The white noise of engines, air vents, and low conversation turned into a kind of blanket over everything.

Ilya had drifted off, head tipped sideways, cheek resting briefly against Shane’s shoulder before gravity pulled it back toward the window. His hand stayed tangled with Shane’s, slack and warm.

Across the aisle, Troy and Harris were watching something on Harris’s phone, with a single headset shared between them. Every so often, Troy would huff a laugh directly into Harris’s hair, and Harris would elbow him without looking away.

“You’re making that face again,” Zane said quietly from the row behind, voice pitched so only Shane could hear.

“What face,” Shane whispered back.

“That one where you’re counting us like we’re about to fall off the back of the sled.”

Shane shifted, resisting the urge to glance back. “Just making sure nobody opens the emergency exit mid‑flight.”

“Pretty sure it’s locked,” Zane said dryly, but there was no mockery in it. “We’re good.”

The wolf didn’t trust airplane doors, but it trusted Zane’s word more than a stranger’s reassurance, so it let that go.

A soft ding sounded overhead. The seatbelt sign pinged on.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice crackled. “We’re expecting a little turbulence up ahead, so please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

Shane’s spine went taut.

Troy immediately reached across the aisle and flicked Hayes’s hood. “Sit,” he said. “Down, boy.”

“Screw you,” Hayes said, but he slid back into his seat and snapped his belt on.

The initial bump was minor, a slight dip as if the plane had skipped a step, making Shane’s stomach lurch. The second bump was more pronounced. His wolf instinctively reacted, alert and tense. The pack shifted and wobbled. There was no solid ground or barrier between them and whatever was causing the metal container to shake. Shane’s fingers grasped Ilya’s instinctively, while his other hand shot across the aisle to hold onto Troy’s seat, knuckles tight.

Ilya stirred, blinking awake, and turned his head toward him. “Zolotse,” he said quietly, that coach‑voice he’d stolen from Hayden kicking in. “Look at me.”

Shane did. Dark eyes, familiar crinkles at the corners, absolute calm.

“We are okay,” Ilya said. “Little bump. Like bad ice. You skate, yes?”

The plane jolted once more. Shane inhaled air tinged with nerves, stale coffee, and... packing material. Hayes’s fear‑scent suddenly intensified behind him, a sharp, cold spike in the air. Instinctively, Shane pivoted slightly to look. Hayes remained focused forward, jaw clenched and hands gripping the armrests tightly.

“Hey,” Shane said, forcing his own voice steady. “You’re not allowed to freak out. It’s my turn.”

Hayes huffed shakily. “Bite me.”

“That’s threats of cannibalism on a federal flight,” Harris said, clutching his chest theatrically. “We’re all going to jail.”

Laughter rippled through the rows around them, small but enough to pierce the tension. The plane shuddered once more, then smoothed out into a gentler hum. Shane let his hand slide off the back of Troy’s seat, flexing his fingers slowly.

Ilya’s thumb traced a slow circle over the back of his other hand. “See?” he murmured. “Bad ice.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. His heart was still too fast, but the wolf had backed down from the edge, ears lowered instead of pinned.

Pack fine, it told him. All here.

He let his head tip sideways, just enough that his temple brushed Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya shifted to make it easier, smoothing his fingers through Shane’s hair once before settling their joined hands back on his thigh.

Across the aisle, Harris had his phone half‑raised again, then hesitated. “You good if I use some of that?” he asked softly.

Shane opened one eye. “Me white‑knuckling turbulence?”

“You gripping both seats like you’re literally holding the plane together while comforting Hayes?” Harris said. “People are gonna eat that up.”

Shane snorted once, surprised. The wolf perked up at ‘comforting pack’ like it was a compliment. “Fine,” he said.

Harris’s mouth twitched. “Thanks."

Troy reached over to squeeze Shane’s forearm once, quick and wordless. Thank you, it said. He squeezed back. Anytime.

 

New York hit him in the face the second they stepped outside.

Not the postcard version. Not skyline and lights. This was airport‑adjacent New York: diesel exhaust and hot asphalt, the thick reek of jet fuel riding heat waves off the tarmac, car horns blaring in little angry bursts.

And there were so many people. Voices bounced off concrete and glass as someone shouted at a taxi three lanes over, and rolling suitcases clacked and rattled.

His wolf’s hackles went up so fast he almost swayed. Too loud. Too many. Too open, but with walls of metal and glass on either side, nowhere to run.

He closed the gap between himself and Ilya without even thinking, shoulder pressed against his, one hand hovering close to his lower back. If anyone barreled into them, they’d hit him first.

“Jesus,” Hayes said, squinting at the chaos of the pickup lanes. “It’s like a beehive out here.”

“Bees fly in patterns,” Zane said. “These people don’t.”

“Our bus is over there,” Harris said, pointing toward a logoed coach wedged in among others. “C’mon, if we move like a unit, I can get a cool time‑lapse of us loading up.”

“Move like a unit,” Shane echoed under his breath, and his wolf practically wagged its tail.

He fell into step slightly behind and to the side of the main cluster, a rear guard without consciously deciding to be one. Eyes tracking movement, nose cataloging scents as they crossed the lanes.

A man with a rolling suitcase cut diagonally toward them, not looking up from his phone. Shane stepped forward just enough that the corner of the suitcase clipped his shin instead of slamming into Hayes’s ankle.

“Sorry, sorry,” the guy mumbled, finally glancing up, and froze for a microsecond, eyes widening in that way that said he recognized at least one of their faces.

Shane stared back until the man veered off.

“Easy, Cujo,” Hayes muttered.

“Watch where you’re going next time,” Shane said without heat, steering him a half‑step closer to Zane with a tap of his bag. “Stay with the group.”

Hayes made a face but didn’t argue.

He did that two more times before they reached the bus—nudged Troy’s bag when he drifted toward the curb, put a palm on the rookie D‑man’s backpack to keep him from lagging at a crosswalk.

Herding, his wolf noted with deep satisfaction.

By the time he was the last one climbing onto the bus, his heartbeat was finally slowing now that there was a single door and four solid walls between his pack and the outside chaos, and sweat had stuck his shirt to his back.

He quickly scanned the aisle visually. Hayes was sprawled across two seats with headphones on, already narrating into his phone. Zane and two other defense men were in the middle of the bus, talking quietly. Troy and Harris sat in the front-right seat, with Harris turned to film through the windshield while Troy adjusted his bags. Ilya sat in the second row on the left, turned sideways with one leg up on the seat, as if it were his own.

Shane let himself sit next to Ilya, dropping his bag at his feet.

“Last in,” Ilya observed. “You work as security now?”

“Maybe,” Shane said.

Ilya’s hand landed briefly on the back of his neck, warm and grounding, thumb brushing along the edge of his hairline. Shane fought not to close his eyes and lean into it like a cat. “You do good,” Ilya said simply.

The wolf smoothed all its hackles at once.

 

The drive into the city was a slow crawl through traffic.

From the bus window, New York rose up in steel and glass, layers of overpasses and billboards, the skyline jagged against a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be gray or blue.

Inside, the bus smelled of tape, sweat, and a vague blend of detergent and cologne that signified team. He could handle that. As everyone remained more or less in their seats, his wolf calmed even more, the terminal's restless circuits replaced by a softer hum of surveillance.

He sat sideways in his seat, shoulder pressed to the backrest, giving himself a diagonal line of sight down the aisle. Harris had propped his phone up on the dashboard with some improvised contraption and was talking softly to it; even his narrator voice had a smile baked in.

He panned the camera down the aisle. “Wave if you wanna be in the vlog.”

Hayes threw up devil horns. Zane lifted a hand in the world’s laziest salute. The rookie D‑man hid behind his hat. Harris’s lens swept past Shane. Shane lifted two fingers in a half‑peace sign, half‑salute, face flat.

“That’s our resident emo,” Harris narrated fondly. “Say hi, Shaney.”

“Hi, Shaney,” Shane said.

The bus laughed.

Ilya chuckled softly and nudged his knee. “You are ridiculous.”

“You like it,” Shane said.

“Da,” Ilya agreed, unapologetic.

They passed under another overpass. The city smell shifted. Grease, dough, a hint of hot dog water, something sweet and fried. His stomach grumbled. His wolf took that as a sign that the danger level had dipped from immediate threat to annoying background noise.

He let himself lean into Ilya’s side until their shoulders and hips were pressed along the length of each other.

 

The hotel lobby was marble and brass, expensive, and the air smelled faintly of citrus. Check‑in blurred by a wash of keycards and room assignments, staff smiles, and the drummer‑beat sound of the revolving door spinning every few seconds. He stuck close to Ilya as they crammed into the elevator, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, someone’s backpack in his ribs.

He felt his shoulders drop.

“You are worse than Wiebe,” Hayes said, squashed somewhere near the front, watching Shane wedge himself instinctively between Ilya and the doors.

“Wiebe can’t smell you from two floors away,” Shane said.

“Can you?” Hayes demanded, eyebrows up.

“Yeah,” he said.

Hayes blinked, then grinned, devilish. “Do I smell awesome?”

“You smell like gummy worms,” Shane said.

The elevator erupted in laughter.

“Traitor,” Hayes gasped, clutching his chest.

The doors opened on their floor to the sound of everyone still chuckling. Their room was at the far end of the hallway, away from the ice machine. As soon as the door shut behind them, shutting out the sounds of teammates’ doors pounding open and closed and the murmur of voices in the hall, Shane finally let himself sag back against it.

The scent of the room rushed at him: fresh laundry, generic hotel soap, the faint chemical tang of cleaning products. Under it, already starting to curl through the air like a thread of smoke, was Ilya. He wanted more.

Ilya tossed his bag onto the nearest bed, rolled his shoulders, and turned to look at him.

“Come here,” Shane said, voice coming out rougher than he meant.

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up, amused. “Bossy.”

Shane reached for him as soon as he was within arm’s reach, hands finding his hips, and hauled him in close. Ilya’s body slotted against his along the full length of him with a soft huff of air. Shane ducked his head, burying his nose in the warm place where Ilya’s neck met his shoulder and inhaled.

Soap. Skin. The familiar salt‑musk of sweat dried and re-dampened on travel. A hint of tea and whatever sugar bomb he’d grabbed in the concourse when Shane wasn’t looking.

Home, the wolf sighed, enormous and pleased.

He stayed there for a long moment, just breathing, until he felt Ilya’s fingers slide into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You are going to bruise my ego,” Ilya murmured, fond. “Every time we go somewhere new, first thing you do is stick your nose in my neck like scared puppy.”

“I’m not scared,” Shane said, muffled.

He was. A little. Not of the city, exactly. Of everything he couldn’t control in it.

“You are careful,” Ilya corrected. “There is difference.”

Shane huffed a laugh and finally lifted his head. “You noticed?”

“I noticed when you almost fought man with suitcase,” Ilya said dryly.

“He hit Hayes,” Shane said.

“He tapped Hayes,” Ilya said. “Very gently. If you had growled, we would never get on plane again.”

Shane thought about it and had to smile. “Guess that would be bad.”

“Mmm.” Ilya’s thumb traced his cheekbone. “New York is…much. Even for humans. Is more for you, I think.”

Shane swallowed, the words rising in his throat before he could second‑guess them.

“It’s—” He broke off, searching. “There’s just a lot. Of people. Of smells. Of…” He gestured vaguely at the window, where the city hummed behind blackout curtains. “Everything. The wolf doesn’t like it. It keeps…counting.”

“Counting what?”

“You,” he said without thinking. “Them.”

He jerked his chin toward the wall they shared with the next room. He could hear muffled TV chatter and someone laughing. If he concentrated, he could pick up the faint edges of familiar scents bleeding through.

“My pack,” he said, very quietly.

Ilya’s breath caught.

“There it is,” he said softly. “Pack.”

Shane’s ears felt hot. “You’re gonna make fun of me.”

“I am going to frame it,” Ilya said. “Lubov, that is…” He shook his head, at a rare loss. “Is good. You know this.”

Shane looked away, embarrassed and oddly shy. “Feels stupid, getting all—” He flicked a hand. “Growly.”

Ilya caught his chin and turned his face back.

“Wolf job is to worry,” Ilya said simply. “Alpha job is to let him.”

His heart did a weird, slow tumble. “You’re not—you’re not a wolf.”

“No,” Ilya agreed easily. “But I am yours. That is enough.”

The wolf's rumble escaped Shane's lips before he was consciously aware. He pressed his nose into Ilya's neck with a groan, muttering, "Ilya..." in a needy tone as he ran his hands over Ilya's chest. His hands then moved downward, pressing beneath his shirt to rub against his bare skin.

Ilya's lips quirk into a smirk, "Oh, like old times? I fuck you into a hotel mattress to calm that pretty head?" He purred flirtatiously.

Shane flushed as he pressed his face into Ilya's jaw. He snuffled his jaw needily, "Nngh," Shane mumbled intelligently.

Ilya chuckled softly, "Use words, lyubov." He gently murmured, petting Shane's hair as he was growing it out. His fingers tenderly brushed through the strands, then his grip tightened in the black locks. He gently pulled Shane's head back, making sure their eyes met.

Shane breathed heavily, gazing up at Ilya with hooded eyes. His look was wild, and a glimpse of sharp canines showed as he bit his bottom lip. "Need... you," he whined, the wolf pressing eagerly against his chest. A glimmer of gold shone in his eyes.

The Russian's breath hitched as he looked into Shane's eyes. "Fuck, Shane," he groaned, guiding him toward the bed. "Lay down, let me-" He hurriedly searched his backpack. However, the wolf had different plans, pressing Shane against Ilya's back and nuzzling at his neck.

Hip's pressed against Ilya's ass, incessant. "Ilya," Shane whined as the other freed the lube from the pocket it was stuck in.

Ilya grinned and turned around before playfully shoving Shane onto the bed. A strange feeling settled in Shane's chest as he lay back, exposing his neck toward Ilya, with his eyes closed and breathing heavily. It felt right.

Ilya stood at the foot of the bed, observing his husband. He tilted his head, examining him. Did Shane want him to sniff his neck? Ilya shrugged internally and excitedly kicked off his pants, then pounced on Shane, pressing his face into his neck. "Mhh, so perfect," he groaned.

Shane sounded inhuman. He purred contentedly as he pushed his hand inside Ilya's shirt. The focus shifted to the sensation of Ilya's heart beneath his fingertips. Ilya bent down to unbutton Shane's pants and pushed them down to his hips. "Take them off, let me see you."

His hindbrain snapped to attention, promptly removing his pants. He then pulled his shirt over his head. By the time he was completely naked and flushed, Ilya's muscular body was covering him.

"Look at you, so pretty," Ilya murmured, his eyes eagerly admiring Shane beneath him. His large hands traveled up Shane's legs, then curved under a leg to lift it, allowing Ilya to settle between them. He reached around the blankets, finally grasping the bottle of lubricant. Opening it, he coated his fingers with the slick substance.

When Shane felt fingers pressed against his entrance, he emitted a soft whine. He reached up, wrapping an arm around Ilya and pulling him into a kiss. His lips parted as Ilya leaned in, capturing Shane’s mouth in a slow, eager kiss. The initial taste of tongue cleared the remaining static in his mind. Shane’s fingers flexed against Ilya’s shoulder, then slid up into his hair, gripping tight when the first slick press of fingers circled him. He broke the kiss on a gasp, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Ilya,” he panted.

“I know,” Ilya murmured against his jaw, mouth tracing a line down the column of his throat. “I have you. Breathe.”

The first fingertip eased inside, careful, familiar. His teeth scraped lightly over Shane’s pulse. “Mine,” Ilya said quietly, so soft it was almost a thought more than a word.

The wolf stilled.

Shane exhaled deeply, releasing his tension. The room felt tight: dim light filtering through the curtains, the hum of the AC, and the lingering scent of fabric softener on hotel sheets, now mixed with sweat. Beneath everything, Ilya’s warm skin and the steady beat of his heart against theirs could be felt.

Another finger joined the first, stretching him in a way that was almost too much and exactly what he wanted. He let the noise in his throat spill out, a low, broken sound, hand coming down to clutch at Ilya’s wrist.

“Good,” Ilya said, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the delicate skin just below his ear. “You are doing so good for me, zolotse.”

He curled his fingers just right and Shane’s back arched, a helpless ripple of pleasure burning through the leftover adrenaline. The wolf surged up again, not in panic this time but in a fierce, dizzy rush of want. It shoved at him, not to run but to get closer, to get inside Ilya’s skin, to mark him with scent and teeth.

Shane reached for his shoulder again, pulling him into another kiss filled with teeth, breath, and desperation. Ilya responded calmly, kissing him back as if he could swallow the wolf entirely and keep it safe inside himself.

“Easy,” he breathed against Shane’s lips. “I am right here. I am not going anywhere.”

When Ilya finally pulled his hand away, Shane made a small, protesting sound that he would deny to his dying day. Ilya chuckled, kissing the wrinkle between his brows.

“Patience,” he said. “You want me to do this right, da?”

Shane forced his eyes open. Gold still glowed faintly at the edges of his vision, but he managed a rough, “Yeah. Yeah.”

He observed, foggy and eager, as Ilya smoothly and efficiently prepared himself. Watching Ilya, strong, confident, and unmistakably, openly desiring him, always affected him deeply. The wolf let out a soft, satisfied sound from his chest, resembling another gentle purr.

Ilya’s gaze met his as he shifted forward, guiding Shane’s hips up, the head of his cock nudging against him. “Tell me,” he said softly. “Last chance if you want slow, or if you want me to stop.”

Shane’s laugh came out shredded. “If you stop, I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“Third floor only,” Ilya pointed out, mouth twitching. “You would live.”

“Then I’ll come back up and bite you,” Shane said, voice gone rough again as he rolled his hips, chasing the pressure. “Please, baba.”

Something in Ilya’s expression went molten at the name. His hands tightened on Shane’s hips, holding him steady. “Okay,” he murmured. “Hold me.”

Shane did. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and let the wolf rise fully to the surface as Ilya pushed in, slow and careful, inch by inch. The stretch burned in the exact way he craved, a bright ache that turned into relief as his body gave around him. Shane sucked in a ragged breath and let his teeth press against Ilya’s shoulder, not quite biting, just anchoring.

“That’s it,” Ilya whispered, voice fraying at the edges as he bottomed out and held there, trembling faintly with the effort of not moving. “That’s it. Breathe for me.”

When Ilya finally started to move, it was a slow, rolling thrust that rubbed against every place Shane wanted, dragging a low, helpless sound from his throat. His nails dug into Ilya’s back.

Each slide in and out pushed the day's remaining clutter further away. TSA lines, turbulence, honking cars, everything blurred at the edges, fading under the much simpler, sharper litany of sensation: the creak of the mattress, the slap of skin, the rasp of Ilya’s breath in his ear.

“Ilya,” he said again, because it was the only word left that meant anything.

“I know,” Ilya answered, voice gone low and reverent. “I know, lyubov. I have you. We are okay.”

Shane let go of the last bit of control he’d been white‑knuckling since the airport and fell into it, into him, trusting that when he hit the bottom, Ilya would still be there.

He always was.

Chapter Text

Shane woke up to the smell of New York.

It wasn’t even coming from the open window. The glass was shut tight, the blackout curtain mostly drawn, but the city still found a way in. It slid under the frame and around the cheap seals: hot asphalt, exhaust, river water gone a little sour, old grease from the diner on the corner. Underneath it all, a pulsing layer of human: coffee, perfume, sweat, too many heartbeats stacked on top of each other.

His wolf hated it.

His human body just felt…over caffeinated. He lay still on his back for a second, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and did a quiet check‑in. Scale.

Three, he decided. Maybe a four. His skin buzzed with leftover plane and hotel sex and city, but it wasn’t the frantic, live‑wire panic of the first moons. The bed shifted beside him. A heavy arm came across his stomach, dragging him a few inches sideways until his shoulder bumped a warm, bare chest.

“Stop thinking,” Ilya mumbled into his pillow. His voice was a worn rasp, thick with sleep and accent. “You make room noisy.”

Shane huffed out a breath. “Room was noisy before I woke up,” he said, but he rolled anyway, turning onto his side, tucking himself along Ilya like it was contractually obligated.

Ilya made a pleased noise and hauled him closer, nose immediately finding the spot under Shane’s ear. He inhaled, then hummed, smug. “Better,” he declared. The wolf pushed up against his chest, greedy, wanting to crawl under Ilya’s skin and stay there for the rest of the road trip. “What time is it?”

Ilya made an unhappy noise and reached blindly over Shane to fumble for his phone on the nightstand. “Too early,” he said, squinting at the screen. “But not early enough to miss bus. Morning skate in ninety minutes.”

Shane groaned into his throat.

Ilya pressed a quick kiss to his jaw and then, traitorously, rolled away. “Come. Shower. Coffee. You go sniff Madison Square Garden like weird dog.”

“I am not sniffing Madison Square Garden,” Shane protested, even as his wolf perked up like he’d just thrown a ball.

 

It hit him the second they stepped off the bus and into the bowels of the building. Concrete, cold and damp. The layered ghost of a thousand games: sweat and rubber and blood baked into cinderblock and steel. The Admirals’ detergent lived here too, some sharp, ocean‑fresh thing that tried and failed to cover the permanent funk. Under it, brighter and sharper than everything else, was the city pressing in from above: wet metal, street food, subway heat rising through grates.

His wolf paced under his ribs, uneasy but fascinated. Pack first, he reminded it.

He automatically counted them as they walked down the hallway in their tracksuits, sticks over their shoulders, duffels bumping at their knees. Ilya led the way, stride relaxed, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, as if taking a casual walk rather than a march into enemy territory. Boodram followed just behind, rolling his shoulders and teasing Hayes about his opinions on New York pizza. Troy and Harris, a few steps ahead, Harris turned slightly to film the narrow corridor, while Troy’s hand gently guided him around a Gatorade cart. Everyone was present, moving together, no one falling behind. His shoulders loosened slightly.

“You are doing it again,” Ilya said from the front, not bothering to look back.

“Doing what?” Shane said.

“Herding,” Ilya said. “You walk like border collie. Very sexy.”

Hayes snorted. “Yeah, nothing says ‘sexy’ like being glared at through security by a guy who looks like he wants to eat the metal detector.”

“You stepped out of line,” Shane said mildly. “Consequences.”

The hallway opened into the away locker room. Smaller than a home, colder, painted a neutral gray that felt more like a holding cell than a room. The scent hit him in a wave: visiting‑team detergent, rubber mats laid down for a hundred teams before them, and—

His wolf stopped dead.

Under all that, cutting through the chemical and sweat like a blade, was a scent that didn’t belong here. Not Admirals. Not Centaurs. Wild, sharp, familiar in a way that made the scars on his back twinge. Shane pointed his nose in the air, taking in quick sniffs.

Wolf, it said, clear as a bell. Shane’s feet locked for half a second. Someone bumped his shoulder from behind.

“Move, man,” Dykstra muttered. “You’re blocking the door.”

“Sorry,” Shane said automatically, forcing his legs to keep going. He followed the rest inside, heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.

The scent thread wound through the room, faint but deliberate, as if someone had scented it. He tracked it without meaning to, nose flaring, gaze skating over the empty stalls, the whiteboard, the trainer’s table.

“Shane?” Zane murmured as he passed, low enough that only Shane’s ears caught it.

“I smell something,” Shane paused. “…weird.”

“Weird how?” Troy asked from the next stall over, tugging his hoodie off.

Shane swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “Someone like me has been in here,” he said quietly.

Troy’s eyebrow raised a fraction, “Well, yeah? It's a locker room.”

“Recently,” Shane added. The scent still tickled at the back of his throat like static. “Different.”

“Shut up and get dressed,” Zane cut in, rolling his eyes at them, "Focus."

Shane closed his eyes for a second and inhaled carefully. Not Hayden…This was colder. Cleaner. Something like steel and winter air and the faint, bitter tang of burned sugar. It scraped down his spine in a way that felt unpleasantly like recognition.

He sat down at his assigned stall, heart thudding, hands suddenly eager as he reached for his base layer. Somewhere in this building, another wolf was lacing up skates, and his wolf wanted to know their name.

The scent intensified as Shane left the locker room and stepped into the tunnel. He detected it in the cold air drifting from the rink. His wolf instinctively reacted, with claws tingling with anticipation. A group of people gathered at the tunnel's entrance, including some arena staff, a few Admirals wrapping up media interviews, and a camera operator adjusting his equipment. The Centaurs moved through in a relaxed, coordinated line, with the tap-tap of blade guards on the linoleum and the gentle clatter of sticks.

Shane felt it when he crossed an invisible line.

Wolf.

Scott Hunter leaned against the concrete wall, one shoulder pressed to it with his arms crossed. Up close, he appeared less like a model in a cologne ad and more like someone who had stayed up late watching game tape. His dark hair tucked under an Admiral's beanie, jaw shadowed, and a warm-up jacket half-zipped. His eyes followed each Centaur passing by, giving a quick, courteous nod to each player. Then his gaze passed over Shane.

For a breath, everything in Scott’s face went still. Not blank. Focused. Like a centre reading a play before the puck dropped.

Shane’s wolf went very, very quiet.

“There he is,” Hayes stage‑whispered from behind, oblivious. “King of the Admirals himself."

“Shut up, Hayes,” Zane said automatically, snorting.

The group headed toward the light, the cold from the rink seeping over their shoulders. Shane followed with them instinctively until gentle fingers softly clasped his elbow cuff.

“Hey, sorry,” Scott said quietly. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

Shane’s head snapped around, breath catching.

“Sorry,” Scott repeated, lower. “Didn’t mean to grab. Just— one minute?”

“Rozanov,” Zane called from the tunnel mouth, “Fuck, don’t body the mascot! Hollander, you coming?”

“In a sec,” Shane said. His voice, somehow, came out level. “Think I left something in the locker room.”

The rest of the team flowed onto the ice, blades hissing. The music from the bowl swelled, then dulled as the door swung shut.

Up close, Scott smelled exactly like what had been haunting the room: cold sweat, clean detergent, a faint edge of citrusy cologne, and underneath, deep and unmistakable, that animal note that made Shane’s jaw ache. Scott’s nostrils flared once. His pupils widened, then steadied.

“Okay,” he murmured. “So I’m not losing my mind.”

Shane’s fingers flexed in his gloves. “You’re—”

Scott’s mouth tugged in something like a wince. “Maybe don’t say the word in here,” he said, tilting his head the tiniest bit toward the black domes in the ceiling. “Cameras. Mics. This place hears a lot.” He smiled apologetically, then pulled Shane into the men's bathroom. He closed, then locked the door.

For a second, they just looked at each other in the flat bathroom light. This close, Shane could read the lines around Scott’s eyes, the faint stress‑grooves from years of captaining this team, this city. He didn’t look afraid. He looked concerned.

“You’re new,” Scott said at last. His voice stayed gentle. “Right?”

Shane swallowed. “A couple of months.”

Scott exhaled through his nose, quiet and sharp, like that hurt. “Jesus.” His gaze flicked down and up again, taking inventory without feeling invasive. “They’ve already got you doing road trips?”

“It’s the schedule,” Shane said, trying for a shrug. “League doesn’t exactly reschedule for…for this.”

Scott huffed a tiny laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he said. “They don’t.”

He glanced toward the sliver of bright light, then back. “You have people who know?”

“Some,” Shane said. “My husband. The team. Hayden.”

Scott’s expression changed into something old and fond. “Of course, he found you,” Scott said under his breath. “He’s…good at that.”

“You know him?” Shane asked.

“Yeah.” The word was soft, weighted. “Long time.”

They stood there with that between them for a beat: Hayden, like a thread through both their lives.

“How bad is it?” Scott asked finally.

Shane’s throat went dry. Lying felt pointless; Scott looked like he’d spot it a mile away. “Depends,” he said. “Full moons are rough. Certain hits…ring the bell harder. Sometimes I feel it picking targets.” He forced a breath. “Haven’t hurt anyone,” Shane mumbled.

Scott’s mouth tightened. “That voice?” he asked softly, his steady, kind gaze hurting Shane’s chest. “That’s not the wolf. That’s fear.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, “Look, I’m not trying to—” he gestured vaguely, “—big speech you before morning skate. I just…”

He trailed off, searching for words, then settled on honesty.

“I remember the first time I walked into this rink after,” Scott said. “Before I told anyone. I thought I was going to crawl out of my own skin." He met Shane’s gaze again. “You’ve at least got Hayden. That’s good. That’s…really good. But if you’re here and I’m here, you don’t have to pretend you’re the only one in the building.”

Something in Shane loosened, just a fraction. “I’m not exactly pretending,” he said, a little rough. “Mostly I’m just trying not to freak out on national TV.” He laughed awkwardly.

“Fair,” Scott said, mouth twitching.

From outside, someone yelled, “Hunter?”

Scott rolled his eyes in the direction of the voice, then looked back at Shane. “I should… ” He gestured toward the rink. “We both should.” He hesitated, nerves flickering over his face, the same expression Shane had seen on a hundred highlight reels right before Scott put a microphone in front of his mouth and changed hockey forever.

“If you want to talk after,” Scott said, softer now, “I’m around. We’ve got post‑skate stuff, but—” He fumbled one hand into the pocket of his jacket, came up with a pen, then glanced at Shane’s glove and huffed a quiet laugh. “Right. Can’t exactly give you my number on your hand.”

“Hayden has it,” Shane said, before he’d fully decided to. “He can…connect us?”

Relief flashed quick and bright through Scott’s scent. “Yeah,” he said. “Great. Do that. He’ll vet me, make sure I’m not giving you terrible advice.”

“Pretty sure you’re the one who trained him,” Shane said, raising an eyebrow with a soft smile.

Scott’s ears went a little pink. “He did most of the work,” he said. “I just…didn’t let him die.”

In the washed‑out bathroom light, Shane caught the faintest, quick flash of gold at the rim of his pupils. “See you out there, Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, “See you.” Shane drew a breath, filling his lungs with cold air. Then he pushed off toward the light. The rink roared to life under his skates.

The warmup blurred together. Later, when he attempted to recall it, Shane remembered fragments as vivid flashes: Scott’s relaxed loops at the blue line, the Garden lights turning every skate into a streak of white, Hayes joking around by the glass for a kid in a Centaurs jersey. Mostly, though, it was just sounds, coldness, and the steady, comforting rhythm of not being alone.

The game itself came on them fast.

New York started like they always did at home: hard and loud. First shift, the Admiral’s top line came off flying, the building rising with them on instinct. Shane felt the surge hit his chest, the wolf lurching toward the noise like a riptide.

An Admiral defenseman rode Ilya into the boards a second late, and the whole bench leaned forward as one. Heat crawled up his spine, teeth pressing behind his gums, but he heard Zane’s low, even, “Easy,” and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Scott peel away from the scrum instead of diving into it.

Shane mirrored him.

They traded chances through the first: Admirals buzzing, Centaurs punching back on the rush. Scott was everywhere, quiet and efficient, always between the puck and danger, never quite where Shane’s wolf expected him to be. Every time they crossed paths, a faceoff, a jostle in front of the net, there was a quick, wordless exchange. A glance. A fractional nod.

Midway through the second, Shane got his chance.

A loose puck in the slot has Garden holding his breath. He just edged past the defenseman, his stick ready, perceived the wolf's rise, eager for the roar that would follow. For a brief moment, he desired everything: the goal, the crowd's noise, and the crack as the opponent hit the ice. Shane took a straightforward, low shot, textbook in style, but the goalie managed to kick it away.

By the time the buzzer finally sounded, his lungs were burning, and his legs were sore in a satisfying way. The Centaurs lost by one on a bizarre bounce off a shin pad. It was one of those silly, forgettable goals that would haunt the video room but remain unnoticed by everyone else.

In the handshake line, Scott’s glove closed around his for a beat longer than necessary.

“Good game,” Scott said, standard script, voice low enough that it barely carried past them.

“Yeah,” Shane said, "You too."

The noise followed them off the ice.

It bled down the tunnel in a muffled roar, but it was already fading into something flatter. Just another loss, filed under twenty-four.

Shane’s legs felt hollowed out. The wolf paced in slow, irritated circles under his ribs, more restless than raging. Pack first, he told it again, out of habit. The answer came back as a grumpy huff rather than a snarl. Progress.

They clattered into the away room in a loose wave of steel, rubber, and damp fabric. Sticks in the rack, helmets thunking onto shelves, velcro ripping as guys peeled off gear. Someone swore about the bounce in front of the net. Someone else swore at the Gatorade cooler when the tap stuck.

The scent hit him a second time, softer now, ghosting at the edges of all the fresh sweat and wet polyester. Cold air, clean detergent, that faint, bitter‑sweet burn like caramel taken a second too far.

Scott Hunter.

He went still, nose up, listening for something that wasn’t there.

“Jesus, that last goal,” Hayes muttered, dropping onto the stall bench next to him with a groan. He yanked at his gloves, then flung them toward his bag. “Off a shin pad. A shin pad.”

“Better than off your face,” Dykstra said from across the aisle, peeling his jersey off like it had offended him personally. “At least this way you’re still pretty.”

Hayes flipped him off without heat. “I don’t get paid to be pretty. That’s Rozanov’s job.”

“Is true,” Ilya said from his stall, already halfway out of his pads, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. “I am beautiful like Russian ballet dancer. You are like… sad potato.”

A ripple of tired laughter went around the room. It was thin, but it was something. The loss hadn’t gutted them, just…needled.

Shane’s fingers fumbled at the strap of his chest protector. He forced them to slow down, to work the buckle instead of just tearing it. The plastic dug into his shoulder where he’d taken a weird angle in the second. His body cataloged every bruise as data.

Ilya’s gaze slid over to him once, quick and sharp. Then twice.

“You are very quiet,” he said finally, in the tone that meant this wasn’t casual chirping. “More than usual, even for moody Canadian.”

“I’m fine,” Shane said. The words came out automatically, flat. He pushed his gear off the rest of the way and leaned forward, elbows on his knees for a second. His heartbeat still hadn’t decided if this was over.

“Mm,” Ilya said, unconvinced. “You play good game. Wolf not happy?”

The word thudded in his chest like a puck off the boards. Shane’s eyes flicked around the room on instinct, toward the open doorway where a staffer walked by. No one was close enough to hear, but his skin crawled anyway.

“Hey,” Zane said quietly from two stalls down, where he was unwinding the tape from his socks with precise, restless hands. “Use your inside voice, yeah?”

Ilya rolled his eyes, but his volume dropped. “Fine. Dog. Monster. Inner beast. Whatever.” He wiggled his fingers vaguely in the air. “He is not happy?”

Shane swallowed. His mouth tasted like rubber mouthguard and the metallic tang of adrenaline going stale. “He’s…loud,” he admitted, under his breath.

Zane’s head tipped a fraction, acknowledgment without pity. “Loud how?”

“Not—” Shane’s throat closed on the word hungry. He cleared it. Tried again. “Not like before. Just…pacing.”

Coach’s voice carried down the hall, closer now, along with the sharper scents of coffee and whatever cologne the assistant wore. The room did that subtle, instinctive shift: guys straightening a little, pulling shirts on, tucking stray gear out of the walking lane.

Shane dragged his base layer over his head. The fabric clung for a second, muffling the world in dark and sweat and the faint echo of Scott’s scent clinging to the back of his throat. When he came out the other side, blinking, Ilya was still watching him.

“You were weird in tunnel,” Ilya said, but now it was just for Shane, voice barely more than a breath. “When Hunter stop you.”

Shane’s stomach did an undignified flip. “You saw that?”

“Hard to miss,” Hayes said from the other side, lowering his voice to match theirs. “A Captain grabbing our new golden boy and dragging him into the bathroom before warmup? That’s, like, tabloid material.”

Zane snorted. “Relax, TMZ. Nobody’s writing about Hollander’s secret rendezvous.” His eyes cut to Shane, sharpened. “What did he want?”

For a half‑second, the urge to deflect rose up. Lying felt like trying to skate on a blade that had lost its edge. He could probably stay upright, but he’d feel every wobble. “He…knows,” Shane said instead, the words small but heavy. “About me. About this.”

Zane went still. Hayes’s brows shot up. Ilya’s eyes widened the tiniest bit, catching the rattle in Shane’s scent before Shane even realized it was there.

"How? Who told him?" Ilya demanded

Shane shook his head once. “Himself.” He swallowed. “He’s like me.”

The three of them held that for a moment. The clatter and chatter of the room went on around them, guys joking about a blown shot, the slap of a towel, the thunk of a stick falling down on the far side, but in their little pocket, everything narrowed.

“Of course he is,” Hayes breathed, after a beat. “Because this league wasn’t weird enough already.”

Ilya’s mouth pressed into a line that wasn’t quite a frown. “He is good?” he asked quietly. “In your…nose?”

Shane hadn’t thought about it that way yet. He replayed the bathroom in his head. The Scott’s steady voice, the way his gaze had gone soft instead of sharp when he’d realized how new Shane was. The clean, cold steadiness of his scent under the edge.

“He’s…” Shane exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Normal. Feels like—” He searched for the word. “Like someone who’s been doing this a long time.”

“High bar,” Zane muttered, but some of the tension in his jaw eased.

“That’s good,” Ilya said firmly, as if that settled it. “You have Hayden. You have Captain Wolf of Wall Street.” His hand brushed, casual and warm, against the back of Shane’s neck for half a second, grounding. “You are not special snowflake anymore. Congratulations.”

Shane huffed out something that was almost a laugh. Coach stepped into the room then, clapping his hands once. The chatter dipped automatically.

“All right, boys,” he said, voice brisk but not harsh. “Tough one. We’ll look at the tape tomorrow, but off the top—”

Shane let the words wash over him: forecheck details, neutral‑zone gaps, the usual. He listened enough to catch his name when it came up, a nod from the D coach about a good stick in the second, a reminder about his positioning on the PK. His mind kept flicking back to a pair of gold‑flecked eyes in bathroom light.

He curled his fingers into the edge of the bench, feeling the scuffed wood bite his palm, and breathed slowly through his nose. The room smelled like his team, like work and effort and irritation and the kind of affection that lived in chirps.

Pack, his wolf said, a little sulky but clear.

Yeah, Shane thought back, letting his shoulders unlock another notch. Pack.

When the coaches filed out, and the noise rose again, showers hissing to life, music flicking back on low from someone’s speaker, Ilya bumped his knee against Shane’s.

“After shower, we go for food,” he announced. “You need pancake. Maybe two pancakes. Wolf can also have one.”

Shane allowed himself a quick smile. “You’re just using my existential crisis as an excuse to eat diner waffles at midnight.”

“Is called supporting spouse,” Ilya said, grave.

“Shut up and get naked,” Zane said, pushing to his feet. “Bus leaves in forty."

The room moved around him again. Somewhere, across the stadium, another wolf was doing his own version of this, pulling off gear, listening to a different speech, breathing the same city in.

Shane stood, his legs aching in a way that promised good sleep and worse soreness tomorrow, and followed his team toward the showers.For the first time since he’d changed, the loss didn’t sit in his chest like a personal failing. It sat like what it was: one game in a long season, played in a building where he wasn’t the only monster anymore.

The tile resonated with the typical post-game sounds: water hammering on porcelain, off-key singing, the wet slap of towels, and Hayes debating with Dykstra over who was responsible for the shin-pad goal. Shane tilted his head under the spray, feeling the water hit the back of his neck. His surroundings blurred into a mix of heat and noise. His wolf paced, irritated yet calm, burdened by the loss like an uncomfortable collar rather than a fatal wound.

A hand landed on his hip, warm and unapologetic.“You are brooding,” Ilya announced over the water, as if it were a crime. “Very tragic. Move over.”

Shane huffed, but he shuffled sideways on the slick rubber mat, making room under the dual showerhead in their corner stall. The old pipes whined in protest as another body stepped into the spray.

Ilya fit in beside him like he always did, shoulder to shoulder. Shane felt more than saw the way Ilya tipped his face up into the water, blond hair plastering to his forehead, eyes closing in theatrical bliss.

“Ah,” Ilya sighed. “American water. Taste like chlorine, da?”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to drink it,” Shane said, wiping water out of his own eyes.

“I am hydrating,” Ilya said loftily, then cracked one eye open to look at him. Whatever he saw there made his mouth soften. His hand slid from Shane’s hip to his lower back, palm firm and steady.

He reached past Shane for the body wash, arm brushing across Shane’s chest. The casual contact sent a small, stupid spark down Shane’s nerves. His wolf leaned toward the warmth automatically, greedy for touch now that the game adrenaline was bleeding off.

Ilya squeezed too much soap into his hand on purpose, then held his palm up. “You missed a spot,” he said solemnly.

Shane snorted. “Which one?”

“This one,” Ilya said, and flattened his soapy hand over Shane’s sternum.

The first drag of his fingers was almost clinical. Then his touch went lazier, more deliberate, tracing the edge of a bruise, the curve of a rib. He stepped closer to keep the lather from rinsing away too fast, chest pressing to Shane’s arm, hip bumping his.

“We’re supposed to be showering, not feeling me up,” Shane said, but it came out thin around the edges.

“This is hygiene,” Ilya said. “I am very serious.” His hand slid lower, skimming over Shane’s stomach, thumb catching in the dip above his hipbone. “Turn.”

Shane’s mouth twitched. “Bossy.”

“Captain in shower also,” Ilya said, tapping his own chest. “C, for ‘clean.’ Move, Hollander.”

Shane let himself be manhandled a quarter‑turn, facing the wall so his shoulder shielded them from most of the room. From here, the laughter and bickering blurred into a general roar, like distant surf. Someone snapped a towel. Someone else cursed the water temperature.

Behind him, Ilya stepped in close enough that their bodies lined up. Soapy hands found his shoulders, then his neck, thumbs digging in at the tight muscle bands. “Relax,” Ilya said quietly, the humor gone from his voice for a moment. “Is over. You did good game." He pressed a kiss to Shane's shoulder, then said. “Also, your ass in those terrible team shorts is doing things to me. But I am very deep, complex man. I notice both.”

Shane laughed, the sound startling out of him, shaking some of the tightness loose. The wolf, soothed by his mate and praise, settled more fully, attention shifting from the ghost of Scott’s scent to the very real, very present man at his back.

“Rozanov, stop making out with Shane and hurry it up,” Hayes called from across the room. “Some of us want to beat the traffic.”

“I am providing emotional support,” Ilya shot back without moving away. “Union rules.”

“Gonna file a grievance,” Dykstra added.

Ilya’s breath puffed against Shane’s neck in a barely contained laugh. He straightened a fraction, hands smoothing once more down Shane’s arms in something that could pass for normal teammate contact if anyone bothered to look too closely.

“You hear that?” he murmured. “They are jealous. You must tip me well.”

“Pretty sure that’s my job,” Shane said, glancing back over his shoulder, meeting Ilya’s eyes in the mist. They were bright and amused.

He reached back, fingers finding Ilya’s thigh, squeezing once in silent thanks. “Room service?” he asked. “After we get back?”

Ilya’s answering grin was pure, greedy delight. “Yes. Pancakes. Waffles. Hash browns. You need real diner food. We make fake diner in room.”

“Nothing says romance like syrup packets,” Shane deadpanned.

Ilya gave his hip one last, private squeeze. “Exactly. Now hurry. Bus leaves in…” He craned his head up, listening to the flow of the room like he could hear time. “Twelve minutes.”

“Bus in ten!” a staffer yelled, confirming it.

“See? I am genius,” Ilya said smugly, already reaching for the faucet to cut the water. “Come, wolf husband. We go put on suits and pretend we are respectable.”

The bus ride back to the hotel blurred into the familiar rhythm of road life. Night pressed against the windows. Guys argued quietly about the out‑of‑town scores on someone’s phone. A movie played on the overhead screens with the sound off, subtitles marching across explosions.

Shane sat in his usual seat, tie loosened. Ilya dropped down beside him instead of across the aisle, thigh pressed against Shane’s the whole time as if the shared shower stall had fused them.

“Food plan,” Ilya said, matter-of-factly, pulling out his phone. “We have maybe…” He peered down the aisle. “One hour window before rookies get to hotel pool and do something that makes coach ban fun forever. We must order fast.”

“You realize there’s a literal restaurant in the lobby,” Hayes said from across the aisle, leaning over the back of his seat. “And also a city full of actual food?”

Ilya bumped his shoulder against Shane’s, screen already pulled up to the hotel’s room service menu. “Look,” he said, conspiratorially. “They have ‘New York Tower Pancake Experience.’” He pronounced each capital letter like a separate concept. “This sounds like tourist trap. We must get it.”

Shane squinted. “That’s just three pancakes stacked on top of each other with whipped cream.”

“Yes. Tower,” Ilya said. “For you. And I get…” He scrolled. "Belgian waffles with strawberries. And hash browns. And bacon. And…”

“That’s way too much food,” Shane said, even as his stomach growled.

“Good thing we are two people, then,” Ilya said. “One of us is very hungry wolf. Do not argue.”

Shane leaned his shoulder more firmly against Ilya’s, feeling the hum of the bus and the low murmur of his teammates around him. His wolf instinctively followed the scents, remaining calm and alert, without any urge to act.

“Fine,” Shane said. “Order your ridiculous tower experience.”

“Our ridiculous tower experience,” Ilya corrected. “We share.”

“Generous,” Shane said.

“I know,” Ilya agreed, smug.

Shane pictured it: the hotel room, the city humming beyond the blackout curtains, a tray crowding the foot of the bed with too much food. Ilya stretched out beside him in one of the soft hotel robes, feet tangled with his under the covers, grease on their fingers, game replaying on mute in the background while they argued about whose slapshot had been better.

By the time they made it up to their room, the worst of the game had been scraped off. Their door clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound that made Shane’s shoulders drop.

Ilya immediately peeled out of his suit jacket and let it flop onto the nearest chair. “Pants,” he declared, already popping his belt. “Hate. Will burn in sink.”

“Please don’t set off the sprinklers,” Shane said, toeing off his dress shoes.

“Fine, I will only fantasize,” Ilya said. “You call room service. I shower again.”

“You literally just—” Shane started, then gave up. “Okay.”

Ordering took two minutes. The woman on the other end of the line didn’t even flinch at his request for an obscene amount of breakfast food at nearly midnight.

When he hung up, the shower was already running again. Shane sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Hayden’s name. For once, the idea of explaining everything didn’t feel like dragging barbed wire over his tongue.

The bathroom door opened in a rush of steam. Ilya padded out in a towel and damp hair, skin flushed from the heat, looking loose and content. “Pancakes coming?” he asked.

“Twenty minutes,” Shane said. “Maybe thirty.”

“Perfect,” Ilya said, crawling onto the bed without bothering to find clothes, towel hitched precariously low. He flopped onto his back and patted the mattress beside him. “Come. We practice being lazy. Very important skill for long season.”

Shane hesitated only a second before stretching out alongside him, rolling onto his side so he could tuck in close. Ilya’s arm came around him automatically, hand finding the back of his neck in that easy, claiming way that told Shane exactly where he belonged.

Outside, New York pressed in at the windows again: sirens in the distance, a horn, the low, constant rush of traffic. Shane could feel the wolf's press in his subconscious. He could almost feel his wolf curled up with them on the bed, quiet and full and, for the first time all night, almost content.

“Hey,” Ilya said softly, thumb stroking the short hair at his nape. “What is number now?”

Shane listened inward, surprised at the answer. “One,” he said. “Maybe less.”

Ilya’s smile was slow and pleased. “Good. We keep you there with pancakes and terrible late‑night TV.”

“And you threatening to burn your pants,” Shane said.

“Always,” Ilya agreed.

When the knock came and the smell of syrup and fried potatoes followed the cart in, the game felt a whole city away. Shane picked up his phone and opened Hayden’s chat, snapped a quick photo of the ridiculous stack of pancakes between their bare knees on the bed with the camption, 'I think i can live with this werewolf thing.'

He hit send, then let the phone drop to the mattress as Ilya shoved a fork into his hand.

“Eat,” Ilya ordered. “Doctor’s orders.”

Shane took a bite. Sugar, butter, and fake maple flooded his tongue. He chewed, swallowed, and felt the last lingering static of the night dissolve into something simple and human.

For a while, there was only the clink of cutlery, the murmur of the TV, and the steady beat of Ilya’s heart under his ear.

The city could have them again tomorrow. Tonight, it was just them.

Chapter Text

The next month blurred into airport carpets and recycled air.

Shane could have measured it in cities, in time zones, in the rolling list of opponents on the league app. Instead, his body kept its own count. Los Angeles, scale two. Denver, three. Pittsburgh, four and a half, with their stupid horn rattling in his teeth. By the time they hit Nashville, the moon had started to feel like a hand on the back of his neck again.

He learned, slowly, what the wolf could live with.

It liked the back of the bus at night, where he could see everyone at once. It tolerated planes if he had an aisle seat and at least one Centaur pressed against his side. It hated security lines, screaming toddlers, and the way hotel hallways all smelled like the same commercial detergent over different carpets.

Mostly, it hated anything that separated him from his pack.

“Stop looming,” Ilya said one night at LaGuardia, not looking away from his phone as the line inched toward the metal detector. “You make TSA nervous.”

“I’m not looming,” Shane muttered. He was. He’d left an extra step between himself and the stranger in front of him and closed that space behind Ilya instead, using his body like a wedge.

Hayes snorted from behind, backpack digging into Shane’s hip. “You’re literally growling at a belt tray, man.”

“I’m not growling.”

“You are making noise,” Ilya said with a chuckle.

Shane shut his mouth. The guard waved them through. The scanner hummed. His skin prickled all over under the machine’s invisible sweep, but he kept his arms above his head and didn’t bolt. On the other side, he bee‑lined for Ilya’s bag first and planted it on the table like that would keep the conveyor belt from stealing it.

 

The Centaurs’ routines settled into a new normal.

On the bus between cities, half the team sprawled across double seats, tangled in headphones and neck pillows. Hayes always ended up on the floor, using his backpack as a pillow and his hoodie as a blanket, no matter how many times Zane told him he was going to get concussed when someone tripped over him.

“Scale?” Zane would ask, standing in the aisle before they pulled out of a rink, like he was checking for warm bodies.

Shane learned how to answer without thinking too hard about it. “Three,” he’d say after a quiet win in Columbus, legs pleasantly tired, senses humming but not screaming. “Five,” after an overtime loss in Chicago where the crowd had become one big living thing pressing against the glass.

The night they drove from St. Louis to Minneapolis, he couldn’t sleep.

The bus lights were off. The only illumination came from the blue halos of phone screens and the distant glow of highway signs sliding past. Most of the guys had drifted into that weird road‑trip half‑sleep, mouths open, heads lolling, limbs at awkward angles.

Shane sat midway down the bus, turned sideways in his seat. Ilya was beside him, hood up, breathing slow and even, his arm heavy across Shane’s thigh. Across the aisle, Troy had oozed sideways until half his torso was draped over Harris, who’d given up pretending to be annoyed and fallen asleep with his cheek on Troy’s head. Hayes snored faintly on the floor.

The wolf counted.

One heartbeat, steady under his thigh: Ilya. Another, quicker, wrapped around a camera bag handle: Harris. Troy’s deeper, echoing from his chest. Zane’s from the back row, a strong drum. It traced and labeled each sound: pack, pack, mine, pack. His hand drifted to Ilya’s neck, thumb rubbing the warm skin above his collar. The instinct wasn’t ugly or sharp. It was simple: keep. Hold. Mark.

The urge to sink his teeth in, to feel his jaw close around something solid and familiar, rose like a tide. He swallowed hard and curled his fingers into the fabric instead.

This was not the place.

 

It started with looks. A winger would go in for a puck battle with him and come out glancing back over his shoulder, frown lingering between his brows. A center would lose an edge near him and stare, like Shane had done something to the ice.

“You terrify them,” Hayes said smugly, shoving his helmet into his bag after a chippy win in Dallas.

The league chirps weren’t subtle.

“Hey, Hollander!” a defenseman barked during a whistle in Nashville, face already red under his visor. “You gonna do the eye thing at me? Beggin’ you to spook me, man.”

Shane’s jaw flexed. The wolf pricked its ears. He heard his own breath, the scrape of the guy’s blades on the ice, the wet click of his mouthguard.

“Dumbass,” Troy muttered under his breath.

Shane leaned in just enough that his cage nearly brushed the other man’s. “Scoreboard,” he said. “Maybe work on your gap first.”

The guy shoved him as they separated. A stick jabbed into his ribs, just shy of the ref’s sightline. Heat flashed down his spine in a hard, bright line.

Bite, the wolf suggested, straightforward. Shane’s fingers tightened on his stick until the composite creaked. He could taste blood at the edge of his tongue and had to check to see if he’d accidentally bitten himself.

“Shane,” Ilya said from the circle, captain's voice cutting clean through the noise. “Let it go.”

He let it go. Mostly.

 

Some nights on the road were almost good.

In Phoenix, the hotel pool stayed open late. After a solid win and a night without back‑to‑back travel, the team ended up there, sprawled in loungers or bobbing in the water like kids on summer break.

Hayes cannonballed in and soaked half the deck. Dykstra and one of the rookies argued about whether the constellations looked different from this far south. Harris sat cross‑legged near the hot tub, camera in his lap, recording lazy footage of teammates lit by pool lights.

Shane dangled his feet in the water at the shallow end, skin prickling with the shock of cool. Chlorine burned in his nose, mixing with sunscreen and the faint, ever‑present hotel HVAC smell. The moon hung overhead, not full yet, but fuller than last week. It tugged.

Ilya slid onto the concrete beside him, thigh pressed to his. He’d changed into swim shorts, curls damp from a shower instead of the pool.

“Scale?” he murmured, low enough that only Shane could hear.

“Four,” Shane said, surprising himself. “Maybe five.”

“Not bad,” Ilya said. He tipped his head back, eyeing the moon. “You are handling travel better.”

The compliment sat warm in his chest.

He might have believed it, if not for the way his wolf tracked, unconsciously, every time a teammate passed within arm’s reach.

 

Too bright hotel rooms did them in.

They were three and a half weeks into the road swing when they hit a city that didn’t believe in blackout curtains. The glass wall in their twenty‑second‑floor room faced a neon canyon of signs and office towers. Even with the curtains pulled, light bled in around the edges, a restless, electric glow that set Shane’s teeth on edge.

He lay on his back, staring at the slice of brightness. His heart ticked too fast. His wolf spooled itself tight under his skin. Beside him, Ilya snored softly, one arm flung over his face, bare chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths.

Shane lasted half an hour. He rolled onto his side, slid closer, and pressed his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck.

“Mm?” Ilya grunted, half‑waking.

“Can’t sleep,” Shane muttered. His voice came out rough, more of a growl than a whine.

Ilya’s hand found his hip, squeezed. “Then lie here and be awake.”

Shane huffed a laugh into his skin. The laugh turned, too easily, into a sniff. Home. Sweat, soap from his earlier shower, the faint sweet note of the shampoo the hotel stocked. Under it, that warm, unique edge that was just Ilya. His wolf surged up like it had caught a scent trail.

His mouth brushed against Ilya’s throat before he realized he was doing it.

“That tickles,” Ilya mumbled.

Shane froze. Then, because not moving felt worse, he let his lips part and scraped his teeth, very lightly, along the line of tendon.

Heat shot straight through him. His hands clenched the sheets. “Shane,” Ilya said, more awake now. His voice had gone lower.

“Sorry,” Shane whispered. His breath puffed hot against damp skin. “Can’t—” He cut himself off. Couldn’t what? Name the ache in his chest? The clawing need to mark, to press down, to leave something of himself behind? He did it again. Just a graze. A little harder.

Ilya sucked in a breath.

“Someone is bitey,” he said. The roughness in his tone made something in Shane purr.

“It’s a thing,” Shane muttered. “Hayden said it’s…normal.”

His hand slid up to the back of Shane’s head, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there. “Is okay.”

Shane hummed, eyes closing. For a minute, he let himself lean into it, letting his teeth press, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel solid muscle under his tongue.

The wolf paced, pleased. Mine. He will be mine.

He fell asleep like that, jaw aching faintly, nose full of Ilya’s smell.

 

By the time they flew home, the moon was two nights from full.

The team was bruised and bone‑tired in the way only a long road trip could make them. Shin pads and garment bags hung heavy from shoulders. Ottawa’s cold hit Shane like a clean slap when they stepped out of the airport.

The cottage enveloped him the moment they entered. His first breath inside nearly overwhelmed him. The house’s scent was the opposite of the road, old wood and laundry. The lemon cleaner Ilya swore by on the counters. Coffee that had lingered in the cabinets from countless mornings.

And Ilya. Everywhere.

It clung to the couch cushions, to the blankets, to the small pile of laundry abandoned in the hamper. To the doorway where he always leaned to put on his shoes. To the bed down the hall.

His wolf reared up, joy punching through him so hard he had to grab the back of a chair.

“Easy,” Ilya said, dropping his duffel with a soft thump. “Do not faint." He teased lightly, but eyes full of worry.

“It’s a lot,” Shane said thickly.

“Sit,” Ilya ordered, toeing off his sneakers and flicking them toward the mat. “I make food. Then you shower. Then we sleep for ten years.”

The cottage was too quiet. After weeks of thin hotel walls and bus engines, the silence buzzed in Shane’s ears. The only sounds were the heater’s low hum and the occasional crackle from the baseboards when they warmed up. His skin felt too tight. Ilya found him pacing in the living room, shirtless, dragging his hand along the back of the couch like he needed something tangible to hold onto.

“Scale,” Ilya said softly, stepping into his path.

Shane swallowed. “Seven.” His mouth was full of saliva, and his teeth itched.

“Too high,” Ilya muttered. “Come.”

He reached out and caught Shane’s wrists, gently but firmly. His fingers were blessedly cool against Shane’s overheated skin.

“What are you—” Shane started, but Ilya was already backing toward the couch, hauling him along.

“Sit,” he said again, and pushed lightly until Shane’s knees hit the cushion.

He went down more out of surprise than obedience. The couch dipped under his weight. Ilya followed, not letting go of his hands, guiding one of Shane’s arms around his own waist as he swung a leg over and straddled Shane’s lap.

“Oh,” Shane said intelligently.

“Better focus,” Ilya said, settling his weight. His hands slid up to cup Shane’s face, thumbs brushing along the sharp line of his cheekbones. “Look at me.”

Shane did. The wolf did, too.

Ilya’s hair was a mess from his travel hat, curls sticking up in different directions. His eyes were tired but bright. A faint bruise shadowed his left cheekbone from where an opposing stick had come a little too high two games ago.

“This is us,” Ilya murmured. “Just us."

Shane’s shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out in a long exhale.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Just us.”

Ilya leaned down and kissed him. The first brush of lips was soft, more mouth than teeth, a grounding line drawn between them. Shane’s hands slid up instinctively, palms flattening across Ilya’s back, fingers tracing the familiar map of muscle and bone under skin.

The wolf purred.

Heat rose, slow but sure. After weeks of hurried hotel sex or tired cuddles between cities, this felt indulgent. Real. Ilya’s weight settled on his thighs, pressure heavy and perfect. His tongue slipped into Shane’s mouth, tasting of plain coffee and something sweet he’d grabbed from the vending machine. Shane opened for him with a low sound that made Ilya’s fingers tighten in his hair.

“Good,” Ilya murmured against his lips. “That’s it.”

Shane’s heart picked up again, but this time for reasons he understood. Desire threaded through the restless energy like a new pattern, giving it shape. He slid one hand down, curling his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s worn joggers, tugging him closer. Their hips rocked together, friction sparking up his spine.

“Impatient,” Ilya said, laughter rough.

“Have you met me?”

“Mmm. Once or twice.”

They kissed again, deeper, lazier, the kind of kiss that made Shane forget where he ended, and Ilya began. His wolf loved that.

He let his mouth drift from Ilya’s lips to his jaw, then to the sharp corner of his cheekbone. Moving downward along the strong line to where his neck met his shoulder, he inhaled deeply, narrowing his focus to that moment. Ilya’s skin felt warm and slightly damp, salty, with the scent of soap from their last hotel shower. Beneath that, the familiar aroma that had rooted him in every locker room on the road. That scent was home.

His teeth scraped lightly over the pulse point. Ilya’s breath stuttered. His hands, which had been cupping Shane’s jaw, slid down to his shoulders, fingers digging in.

“Shane,” he said quietly.

It appeared almost as a warning, nearly a plea. The wolf did not perceive a warning. Mine, it believed, unmistakably and resolutely. Mark.

Shane’s jaw clenched before his brain caught up.

He intended to be gentle, always aiming for tenderness. A brief nip, some gentle pressure, just enough to sense the skin's yield under his teeth and hear the reassuring thump of a heartbeat. His bite, however, pressed deeper than he expected. For a fleeting instant, his teeth sank in, not deeply or tearing, but enough to cause the skin to wrinkle and resist. A sharp, bright taste flooded his mouth, salt and copper.

Ilya choked on a sound that cut through everything. It wasn’t a moan. It wasn’t his usual half‑laugh, half‑swear when Shane pushed him against the countertop. It was a startled, pained noise, bitten off at the end.

The wolf was satisfied, some primitive part of Shane thought.

He tore his mouth away so fast his neck twinged, hands flying up to frame Ilya’s face as if he could fix it just by holding on.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. The words tripped over each other, coming too fast. “Fuck, Ilya, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Ilya’s hand had flown to his own throat, fingers pressed over the spot where teeth had been. His eyes were wide, pupils blown in a way that had nothing to do with arousal now.

For a heartbeat, he just breathed, shallow and quick. Then he lifted his hand away. Four faint crescents dotted the crook of his shoulder. One had already welled a tiny bead of red.

It wasn’t much. Not compared to what Shane knew he could do. Not compared to four ragged scars down his own back. But it was more than enough.

Ilya’s thumb smeared the blood away with a quick swipe. His gaze snapped back to Shane’s face.

“Scale,” he said. His voice had gone very flat.

Shane’s throat clicked. “Eight,” he croaked. “Nine. Fuck, I don’t—”

“Too high,” Ilya said. “I should have asked.”

Shane flinched. “This is not your fault.”

“Maybe not.” The words were quiet. “But I am your husband. I put myself under your teeth and I did not check. That is on me.”

The captain tone wrapped around the words like armor. Under it, his scent had gone sharp with adrenaline.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” Shane said. It came out raw, desperate. “I’d never—”

“You did,” Ilya said, not unkindly. His fingers brushed his neck again, light. “Not bad. But you did.”

The wolf shrank from that, curling in on itself in shame.

“I stopped,” Shane protested, hating how it sounded. Thin. Like an excuse.

“Yes,” Ilya said. Some of the ice thawed from his face. “You did. That is only reason we are talking and not at hospital.”

He shifted back, lifting off Shane’s lap to sit beside him instead. The sudden loss of weight made Shane’s body protest until his brain reminded him this was safer. Air rushed between them like a third presence.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said again, quieter. The words felt useless, flimsy against the gravity of what he’d almost done.

Ilya was quiet for a long beat. The heater hummed. The fridge clicked on in the kitchen.

“Look at me,” Ilya said finally.

Shane dragged his eyes up from his own shaking hands.

Ilya looked tired. There was a pinched line at the corner of his mouth he usually only wore after ugly losses or long flights. But his gaze, when it met Shane’s, was steady.

“I am not afraid of you,” he said, enunciating each word like he wanted it nailed into the floor. “I am…concerned about your judgment.”

Shane let out a cracked laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Neat. So I’m not a monster, I’m just an idiot.”

“Da,” Ilya said. “My idiot. With very sharp teeth.”

He reached up and, with a weird, gentle practicality, pressed his fingers around the bites again, feeling the skin. “It is not deep,” he reported. “Will bruise. Maybe scab. No stitches.” He tilted his head, assessing. “Will look very hot on camera.”

“Ilya,” Shane said, appalled.

“What?” Ilya shrugged one shoulder. The movement made the muscles in his neck flex under his hand. “You want me to be upset?” His mouth twisted. “I can do that later. Right now, we make plan.”

“Plan,” Shane repeated faintly.

“You did not think you were going to bite me tonight,” Ilya said. “But you did. We do not pretend this did not happen.” He leaned in, not enough to invade, just enough that Shane could see every fleck of color in his blue eyes. “We change rules.”

Shane swallowed. His tongue still tasted like salt and iron. His stomach flipped.

“What rules?” he asked, small.

“No sex if you are over six,” Ilya said immediately. “No naked wrestling. No teeth near throat. You want to bite, you bite pillow.”

“That’s not—” Shane started.

“Is not sexy, I know,” Ilya said dryly. “Do not care.”

Shane’s laugh came out strangled. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am serious,” Ilya snapped, some heat finally bleeding through. “You think I enjoy saying no to your stupid, pretty face? I am suffering. But I like you not eating me more.”

The sharpness was a relief, weirdly. It felt like them.

“Okay,” Shane said. His shoulders slumped. “Okay. No sex over six.”

“And,” Ilya added, softer now, “we do not do this alone next time. We call Hayden. Or Scott. Or both. They sit on you if they have to.”

Shane winced. “You’re going to tell them?”

Ilya’s gaze flicked to the side for a heartbeat, guilt and resolve wrestling in the lines of his face.

“I send photo to Hayden,” he admitted. “Already.”

Shane’s stomach dropped through the floor. “When?”

“When I went to get towel,” Ilya said. “You were making little hurt puppy noises on couch and staring at your hands. I did not think you were in place to have rational discussion.”

Humiliation burned hot in Shane’s chest. “Great.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Perfect.”

“You bite me,” Ilya said, more gently now. “I want second opinion.” He hesitated, then added, “He texted back.”

Shane’s head snapped up. “What did he say?”

“That he is coming,” Ilya said simply. “Tomorrow.”

Of course, Hayden would haul himself up to the cottage the second he saw teeth marks on Ilya’s throat.

Shane let his head fall back against the couch, eyes closing. The cushion smelled like them. The air smelled like lemon cleaner and old wood and the faint, metallic hint of his own mistake.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, one more time, because he didn’t know what else to offer.

He felt the couch shift. A warm weight pressed against his side as Ilya leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder.

“I know,” Ilya said quietly. His hand slid into Shane’s, fingers lacing, the grip firm and sure.

Shane turned his head until his forehead bumped Ilya’s temple.

The wolf, finally, finally, curled in on itself and went still, wrapped around a single, shaky fact:

Mate is hurt… Mate is still here.

He stared at the faint crescent marks on Ilya’s neck—already darkening, already his—and knew, bone‑deep, that this couldn’t happen again.

The full moon will rise in two days.

Tomorrow, Hayden would knock on their door. They would have to build new rules from the ground up. Tonight, there was this: a couch, a bruise, a hand in his, and the knowledge that love did not mean pretending teeth weren’t sharp.

It meant learning how not to use them.

 

The knock came earlier than Shane expected.

He’d slept, somehow. Not well, more like drifting in and out, wolf‑tired but too wired to sink, but at some point the light outside the windows went from black to grey. Ilya had shifted away in the night, leaving a gap of cool air between them on the couch and a folded throw blanket over Shane’s shoulders like an apology.

Now it was bright enough that the snow glare off the lake hurt his eyes when he blinked them open. His mouth tasted stale. The bite mark on Ilya’s neck—

He jerked upright.

Ilya wasn’t in the room.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Three quick raps, the third landing with just enough force that the doorframe gave a little offended creak.

“Shane?” Hayden’s voice, muffled through wood but unmistakable.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, staggered to his feet, and padded to the door in bare feet and yesterday’s T‑shirt. The floorboards were cold under his soles. His muscles ached like he’d played a double overtime.

When he pulled the door open, Hayden was already halfway through lifting a hand for a second round.

He looked like he’d been up all night as well, hair sticking up in messy tufts, hoodie thrown on over a faded concert T‑shirt, jeans creased like he’d slept in them. There was a travel mug in one hand and a battered duffel at his feet. The skin around his eyes was tight.

He took one look at Shane, and his expression went from worried to clinically focused.

“Where is he?” were his first words. No hello.

Shane stepped back automatically. “Inside.” His voice sounded wrong, like it belonged to someone else. “Come in.”

Hayden brushed past him in a swirl of cold air and stale coffee. His hand squeezed Shane’s shoulder as he went by, brief and hard enough to bruise.

“Bathroom,” Ilya called, before Hayden could shout his name. His accent was thicker than usual, consonants softened. “Give me second.”

Hayden dropped his duffel by the door and turned to Shane instead.

“Scale?” he demanded.

“Four,” Shane said, too fast, then forced himself to check. The wolf was awake but not pacing, a wary presence under his skin. The moon’s pull had eased with the dawn, leaving him with a hangover ache instead of a live wire. “Maybe five.”

Hayden’s eyes flicked over him, cataloging: no shakes, no gold at the edges of his irises, no half‑shift at the fingers. He nodded once, not quite satisfied but willing to table it.

“I saw the picture,” he said, softer. “Ilya’s throat.”

Shane swallowed. “It’s not—there wasn’t—” He swallowed again. The words wouldn’t line up.

Hayden’s gaze sharpened. “I’m going to look,” he said. “I am going to touch, if he lets me. You are not arguing with me. Understood?”

Shane nodded. It felt like agreeing to a penalty he deserved.

The bathroom door opened with a soft click.

Ilya stepped out, towel slung around his neck, damp curls darkening the collar of his old Centaurs hoodie. He’d shaved, the faint shadow along his jawline gone. His face was flushed with heat, and his eyes were hazy with fever.

Hayden moved before Shane could.

“One hug,” he said, already wrapping his arms around him.

Ilya huffed a laugh into Hayden’s shoulder.

They clung for a moment, Hayden, a compact line of tension, Ilya in his grip. The wolf inside Shane relaxed by degrees, soothed by the sight of pack together.

Then Hayden stepped back just far enough to take in Ilya's face.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

“I am annoyed,” Ilya said. “And sore. But breathing.” His gaze slid past Hayden to Shane, lingering for a half‑second. “We talked.”

“Good,” Hayden said. The word was loaded. “Now I’m going to look at your neck, okay?”

“Da,” Ilya said. “You already saw the worst picture.”

Hayden’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.” He tipped Ilya’s chin gently to the side. “But pictures lie.”

Shane held his breath as Hayden pushed the towel aside.

There should have been four crescents there. Last night, they’d been angry red, one welling bead of blood, edges raised and tender. Now…

Hayden went very, very still.

A faint shadow marked the spot where Shane’s teeth had sunk in. Not raw. Not scabbed. The skin had already knitted over, pink and smooth at the center, only a bruised halo blooming yellow‑purple at the edges like an old fingerprint.

“Jesus,” Hayden breathed.

Ilya frowned. “Is bad?”

He reached up, fingers brushing the place reflexively. Hayden caught his wrist mid‑air, grip tightening.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Just—hold still, okay?”

Something cold slid through Shane’s chest.

“It looks better,” Shane said, too loudly. He took a step closer before he realized he was moving. “It was worse last night. I broke skin, but it was—there was blood, but not a lot—”

“Shane.” Hayden didn’t look at him when he said his name. His eyes stayed fixed on the healing bite. “Back up.”

Shane stopped like he’d hit a wall.

Hayden’s fingers were gentle again when he let go of Ilya’s wrist and moved to press carefully around the bruise with the pads of his fingers, testing the give of the flesh.

“Does this hurt?” he asked.

“A little,” Ilya admitted. “Like someone pinched very hard.”

“Dizzy? Feverish? Any nausea?”

“Yes.” Ilya’s mouth twitched. “A little this morning. Is why I took shower.”

Hayden huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh and not at all one. He finally stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair.

“It shouldn’t look like that,” he said.

“It is ugly?” Ilya tried.

Hayden shot him a look. “No. It’s barely there.” He jerked his chin at the mark. “That was, what, ten hours ago?”

“Maybe twelve,” Shane said. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. “We— It was late.”

Hayden swore under his breath in French, the soft, vicious kind of swearing he only did when he forgot other people spoke the language.

“Ilya,” he said, slow and careful, like easing up to a skittish animal, “I need you to tell me exactly how it felt when he bit you.”

Ilya blinked. “It hurt,” he said simply. “Like sharp pressure. I was…surprised.” His eyes cut to Shane again, and something flickered there that made Shane’s stomach twist. “Then he stopped. I bled a little. I cleaned it. It is fine now.”

Hayden’s hand tightened on his travel mug until the plastic creaked.

“Fine isn’t the word I’d use,” he said. “Fast.”

Shane’s mouth went dry. “What does that mean?”

Hayden finally looked at him. Shane had seen that expression on him twice before. Once in the mirror at the cabin, Hayden had realized the thing trying to claw its way out of Shane’s skin was not metaphorical. Once in the quiet aftermath, when he’d sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea going cold in his hands and said, very calmly, We are not doing nothing about this.

“It means,” Hayden said, “that human bites don’t heal like that overnight.”

“They do on werewolves,” Shane snapped, panic spiking into anger because that was easier to hold. “That’s the whole thing, right? I heal fast. So what? You think I—”

He broke off, because the thought was a cliff edge he didn’t know how to look over.

The silence between them stretched.

Ilya’s brows drew together. “Hayden,” he said, quieter than before. “Say it.”

Hayden shut his eyes for a second, like he was bracing for a hit. When he opened them again, they were tired and full of something that looked too much like guilt.

“I think,” he said, choosing each word with painful care, “that if Shane’s bite broke skin, and if it healed this fast, we have to consider the possibility that it wasn’t just a love bite.”

“The possibility,” Shane repeated, voice hollow. “Of what?”

Hayden’s eyes darted between them: Shane, who was vibrating in place, and Ilya, standing casually with his hand over his pulse, appearing relaxed but deceptively composed.

“Of transmission,” Hayden said.

The room tilted.

Ilya uttered a soft, incredulous noise, half‑laugh, half‑scoff. “You are saying I am…what, infected?” He said the last word as if it personally offended him.

“That’s not how I’d frame it,” Hayden said quickly.

“I’m not—” he tried. His voice came out thin. “He’s not— You said it doesn’t work like that. You said it was intent, not—”

“I said we don’t have proof it’s as simple as teeth and blood,” Hayden snapped. The flash of temper was a mercy; it cut through the slow-building horror. “Because I didn’t want you living like a loaded gun all the time on top of everything else. I still don’t.” His shoulders slumped. “But I also didn’t think we were going to be testing that theory on Ilya.”

Ilya had gone very still. Up close, Shane could see the small signs now that his panic had let other details through: the way Ilya’s pupils were a touch wider than they should have been in this light. The restless flex of his fingers at his side.

A distant, horrified part of Shane’s brain piped up: This is what you looked like, at first.

“The full moon is tomorrow,” Hayden said. “If there’s going to be an…effect, that’s when we’ll see it.”

Effect. Like Ilya was a science experiment. Shane shook his head, backing up until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He sat down hard. “No,” he said. “We’re not doing this. He’s human. He stays human. I’m not—you can’t just say—”

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice cut across his rising hysteria like a clean line.

He turned his head. Ilya’s expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t scared, either, not in the way Shane had expected. It was something stranger—thoughtful, edged, like he was already running numbers on a board no one else could see.

“We do not change what is true by refusing to say it,” Ilya said. “If I am bitten by werewolf, we have to know what that means.”

“It means I fucked up,” Shane said. His throat hurt. “That’s all it means.”

“Maybe,” Hayden said softly. “Maybe not.”

He moved then, finally letting go of the space between them, and crossed to the kitchen counter. He set his mug down with a soft clack and started rummaging in his bag, pulling out a worn notebook, a pen, something that looked suspiciously like a home medical kit.

“We’re going to monitor,” he said, more to himself than to them. “Temperature. Heart rate. Sleep. Any sensory shifts. Mood.” He looked back at Ilya. “If anything feels off, you tell me. Immediately.”

“That will be difficult,” Ilya said dryly. “I am very tough guy.”

Hayden’s mouth twitched, but the line of his shoulders didn’t ease.

Shane watched them move around each other, Hayden efficient and grim, Ilya cooperative in that infuriating way he had when he’d already made peace with something Shane was still fighting.

The room felt too small.

“So what?” he said hoarsely. “We…wait? We sit here and see if he—” His voice cracked. “If he grows fur?”

Hayden’s eyes met his across the room. “We don’t know what it would look like, so close to a full moon,” he said. “First change, if there is one. It might be nothing. It might be…subtle.”

“Subtle,” Shane repeated, numb.

He’d torn himself open on a bathroom floor. That had not been subtle.

“You did say you wanted another wolf on the roster,” Ilya said, too casually.

Both Hayden and Shane stared at him.

He lifted one shoulder in a half‑shrug. “Is joke,” he said. “Mostly.” His fingers ghosted over his own throat again, over the healing crescent.

“If it happens,” Hayden said, “we deal with it. Together. Same as we did with Shane.”

Shane flinched. “I don’t want ‘same as we did with Shane’ for him,” he snapped. “It was a fucking nightmare.”

“I noticed,” Ilya said dryly. “I was there.”

Hayden’s pen scratched across paper, a small, insistent sound. Outside, the lake creaked again as the ice shifted. The light off the snow threw strange reflections on the ceiling. Somewhere under Shane’s skin, the wolf stirred, uneasy. Hayden looked up from his notebook, gaze landing on the clock above the stove.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ve got thirty-ish hours until moonrise. We keep you both here. We don’t let you out of sight. We figure out what we’re dealing with as it happens.” He paused. “I’ll call Scott.”

The name dropped into the room like a stone.

“Scott?” Shane repeated.

“If we’re right,” Hayden said quietly, “you’re not going to be the only long‑term case anymore. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Ilya’s brows rose. “And if you are wrong?”

Hayden’s mouth quirked in a humorless, almost‑smile.

“Then,” he said, “you just got bitten by a werewolf and walked it off.”

He clicked his pen closed with a decisive little snap and reached for his phone.

Shane watched his own hands, watched the faint tremor in them, watched Ilya’s reflection in the dark TV screen across from the couch: standing there with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilted, a thin, nearly invisible scar already fading along the column of his throat.

Hayden’s thumb hovered over Scott’s contact.

“Hayden,” Shane said, sudden and sharp, not even sure what he was asking for.

Hayden met his eyes. “We’re not sure yet,” Hayden said. “That’s all this is. Not yet."

The call connected with a crackle, and Scott’s sleepy voice came through tinny over the speaker.

“Hayden? What’s going on?”

Hayden glanced at Ilya, then at Shane.

“We might,” he said slowly, “have another wolf on our hands.”

The cottage seemed to hold its breath.

Scott swore softly, all the way across the country.

“Tell me everything,” he said.