Chapter Text
Shane was having a terrible week. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but his main theory was that he’d caught something, and his body was actively fighting it. Each morning, he woke up feeling lousy, worked out with little stamina, and went to bed completely and utterly exhausted.
“I don’t know, Mom; I’ve just been really tired lately. Hayden said his kids were all sick, and I hung out with him last week; maybe I caught whatever they had through him and can’t shake it off,” he said to his mom over the phone. Because, of course, Hayden would be the Typhoid Mary of Shane’s immune system. The guy was surrounded by snot, drool, and poopy diapers day in, day out.
She hummed, “Yeah, the flu’s pretty odd this year, maybe your body’s fighting something…” she said thoughtfully, “Promise me you’ll visit the doctor Friday if you don’t feel better by then, okay?”
“I will, promise,” Shane grumbled into his phone. He hated the idea of wasting time visiting his doctor, but at the same time, it was part of his job to make sure he was physically fit to play, and if he were honest with himself, these days, he wasn’t.
He thought himself fortunate to have a doctor readily available—a benefit of being a professional athlete.
He went to bed at 8 PM that evening, not even feeling bad about missing out on a night of going out and socializing with people his age, as the non-boring folks of this world did. Their society was designed for extroverts, while introverts like him felt like outcasts and oddballs.
He thought of Rozanov, who was probably somewhere in a bar in Boston, with four attractive women around him, waiting for him to choose whom he wanted to sleep with tonight. When Shane closed his eyes, he could hear his thick Russian accent, see the outline of his strong shoulders, and feel the warmth of his hands on his skin.
Except tonight, Rozanov’s words were likely directed at a woman; whispered in her ear like promises. His shoulders were likely wrapped in slender, feminine arms, and his warm hands were probably stroking curvy skin that smelled of delicate perfume.
Shane crinkled his nose in disgust. Maybe he preferred being boring to dealing with this kind of awkward interaction.
He blindly searched through his bedside table drawer for his meds, took the pill out of its aluminum foil, and swallowed it with his saliva; after years of consistently doing the same routine, Shane didn’t need water to swallow the tiny pill. The creature of habit that he was had this motion ingrained in his mind, like walking or skating.
He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and woke up ten hours later, still feeling exhausted.
When he got out of bed, the world spun, and he had to sit down again. This wasn’t normal. His blood pressure was perfect — 120/80 mmHg — and his hemoglobin levels were fine: 15.1 g/dL. He ate plenty of green vegetables to maintain good health.
He was sure he’d caught something, yet his throat didn’t hurt; his head felt fine, and his nose wasn’t congested. Whatever had infected him was like a shadow running through his veins; it eluded him constantly, but was always there, in the corner of his mind, following him wherever he went.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Hayden asked after he stopped midway through their morning jog because Shane was out of breath. He, a freakin’ pro athlete of the goddamn NHL, felt like he might collapse if he didn’t stop running. His ribs hurt, and his stomach was cramping, making him feel like he might puke. His inner thighs were hurting badly, and his joints felt like those of an eighty-year-old on a rainy day. Was he developing arthritis?
“I think I caught something, Hayd—I don’t know, I feel like shit,” Shane said, feeling both hot and cold at the same time. The sweat dripping down his face and chest felt cold against his skin.
“You look pale. Do you want to sit down?” Hayden said, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. He guided—fucking guided—Shane to a bench in the shade of a birch tree like he was some old man needing help.
“Could it be…hormonal?” Hayden said in a low, tentative voice. Shane stiffened; this was a delicate topic. He was impressed by Hayden’s boldness at even mentioning it.
Shane shrugged, “I don’t see why it would be. I’m on the same meds I've always been since my teens, and they work, nothing’s changed…” he replied. Now, he was slightly nervous that Hayden might be right.
A virus was one thing; his hormones going berserk was quite another. He hoped it was a cold—hell, even a flu would be preferable to screwed-up hormones. A virus, he could manage, fight, and fix. His hormones, however, he could only helplessly endure.
Hayden was studying him. “Let's get you to the clinic, okay,” he said calmly, but Shane knew him well enough to see the worry there. To make it worse, Hayden was keeping his expression neutral, kind of like when he didn’t want to alert his wife, Jackie, that something bad was happening. To top it off, his friend’s alpha scent was suddenly deliberately soothing, as a way to try to calm Shane. Fucking hell.
Hayden was more nervous than he let on, and that, more than anything, made Shane worry.
“Yeah, okay,” Shane said, suddenly running out of ways to justify himself. “Let’s just…finish this run, and then I’ll go straight to the clinic,” he said, because he couldn’t stop halfway through his training. He had a workout plan, and sticking to that plan was how Shane got to where he was. Not by skipping half of it just because he wanted a break.
Discipline was key here.
Hayden glared at him, then rolled his eyes. “Okay, but we’re slowing down, and I want you to drink more water before we go.”
Shane glared at him right back, drank three large gulps of water, and stood up. He did so very abruptly; too abruptly.
His stomach did a backflip with all the water he’d just drunk, and Shane barely had time to sit back down and bend over before the water came back up. Fuck, he hated throwing up. He sounded like an agonizing T-Rex when he did. He sounded awful and disgusting, and the taste—acrid, acid, rancid, and hot with the occasional chunk of food—was so gross that he kept throwing up more because of it.
It was like vomit-ception. Vomiting made Shane vomit. The chicken and the egg, or whatever.
He clung to the bench as he dry-heaved like a dying walrus between his parted legs, fully aware that his running shoes were getting splashed since he couldn’t aim. Meanwhile, Hayden paced away from the splash zone, running his fingers through his hair and muttering curses under his breath.
When Shane’s stomach finally settled, he propped his shaky elbows on his knees and cradled his sweaty, cold face.
“Fuck…” he moaned pitifully.
The world around him felt distant, and his ears started ringing so loudly he could hardly hear Hayden’s voice.
He lay on his side on the bench, ignoring the bird piss stains, and covered his eyes with his hand to shield them from the too-bright sun.
“Are you okay, Shane?” Hayden asked, and Shane barely heard him through the high-pitched ringing in his ears. The sound grew louder, and Shane concentrated on breathing as his head spun.
He felt Hayden’s fingers on his neck—checking his pulse?
Hayden was speaking, and the only word Shane understood was “ambulance.”
Shane wanted to tell him not to call an ambulance because it would be embarrassing to have so many people witness him in this state, but he could only mumble something inarticulate.
He thought of his suppressants; the meds he’d been taking since he’d presented.
Fuck, he hoped it was the flu.
He came to in the ambulance, and instead of being embarrassed, he was actually relieved to have a health professional around him because his head wouldn’t stop spinning, and he felt so weak he couldn’t raise his hands.
Someone was holding a bright light in front of his eyes. It left halos in Shane’s vision as it moved.
“Shane, can you hear me?” the woman asked, and Shane replied weakly, “Yeah,” with little conviction or energy.
“Your friend, Hayden, told us you’re an omega on suppressants; can you tell us the medication you take?” she asked, while Shane closed his eyes because everything was spinning faster now. He could hear the ambulance's sirens and wondered why they were in such a hurry. It was just the flu, right?
“Huh…It’s Amniopluritran, from Kabi. The molecule is…huh…” normally he knew this, but right now, he was very confused.
“It’s okay, we’re familiar with that one, Shane. Can you tell us how you feel?” the paramedic asked, and Shane focused on his body.
“Nauseated, tired, everything’s spinning,” he slurred. “I’m cold,” he added as he shivered.
“Where’s Hayden?” Shane asked, suddenly realizing he was in an ambulance, but Hayden was nowhere around.
“He’s following us in his car; he called your parents, too. You’re in good hands, Shane. We got you,” the lady said, and Shane realized her words did make him feel better.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asked, his words slurred.
“We don’t know for sure, but we have a few leads to investigate. We’ll take you to the omega wing of the hospital; you might need special care. How long have you felt off, Shane?” the lady asked while she was monitoring him.
“About a week…maybe two…” he said, unconvinced. His face felt cold, and his body shivered as sweat dripped down his neck.
Shane kept his eyes closed, and if the paramedic asked him more questions, he didn’t hear them over the loud ringing in his ears and the blaring sirens.
He was taken to the hospital with the paramedic woman walking beside his gurney. He felt oddly reassured to know the woman was still there, by his side. She was talking to a nurse or doctor, explaining his gender as an omega, his symptoms, and his medication. Shane’s head was spinning, and his body felt heavier than ever before.
His body was lifted and handled from the gurney to a hospital bed; something cold touched his face, and he realized he had a nasal cannula: a small oxygen line under his nose. The cold air filled his nose right before something sharp pierced his skin—a venipuncture.
Damn, things started feeling really serious as Shane realized they were hooking him up to machines and someone began to inject him with an IV drip. He swallowed, feeling afraid. What was going on?
Someone entered his room, drew blood from his left arm, and left again. Five people were working all around him; each doing their task, all focused on Shane. They all talked to each other, discussing dosages, hormones, temperatures; no one was talking directly to Shane.
Hayden arrived inside the room. His eyes were wide, and he was on the phone. Shane felt so much better knowing someone was here for him, for his person, and not his condition.
Hayden made his way through the crowd of specialists, who were walking around the room, setting everything up.
“Hayden, what’s going on?” Shane asked, his voice a low whisper.
Hayden’s eyes looked so fucking worried that Shane hardly knew what to make of them. “I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s a virus, Shane.” His eyes watched the hospital staff carefully. “Your parents are on their way, and I already texted the coach; don’t worry, your mother and I will handle the administrative stuff, you just take it easy, okay?”
Shane nodded. Anything else was just too much.
He closed his eyes for a second, and when he reopened them, the room was dark, he was alone, and it was night.
He was covered in a blanket and still had an IV drip on his arm. He really had to pee. His room was dark, but a faint neon light flickered just outside it. He rolled onto his side, examining the IV pole and wondering whether it was attached to anything or if it could be moved.
Right as he was about to call for someone, or lift up the pole and take it along because it didn’t have wheels, a nurse walked in.
“Oh, you’re awake,” he said.
“Yeah, I gotta pee...” Shane groaned, his body missing its usual strength. He felt as weak as a kitten.
“Wait, I’ll bring you a bedpan,” the man said, turning around and leaving.
“A what?” Shane asked, way too late. He was alone for less than a minute, frowning, before the man returned with a bowl-shaped…thing.
The man set the…thing on the bed and began helping Shane sit up.
“What’s that?” he asked; he thought he knew what this was…but he was in denial.
“A bedpan, you can pee into it,” the man replied matter-of-factly.
“No, I can walk. I’ll just walk to the toilet,” Shane said, suddenly fueled by despair and humiliation. He wasn’t going to piss in a damn bedpan. Not today. Not ever!
“You should stay in bed, though, your system isn’t stabilized yet,” the man gently countered, and Shane was unfazed.
“Fuck my system,” he grunted, “I’m not taking a piss in that thing. Please, help me get up. We’re doing this.”
The man pressed his lips, but did help Shane to his great relief.
“We’ll need urine samples. I’m David, by the way,” the nurse—David—said as he carried Shane’s IV drip while supporting Shane in the overly-bright hospital hall. The light hurt his eyes, his legs were shaky, his head felt floaty, and he might throw up if he ate or drank anything. But none of those uncomfortable symptoms would stop him from reaching the toilet and pissing like a normal person, thank you very much.
Shane was a man with a purpose. Most days, it was to score goals on the ice as a professional hockey player from the infamous Metros.
Today, it was to make it to a toilet so he wouldn’t have to piss in a freakin’ bedpan.
How the pendulum swings, he thought bitterly.
He finally made it to the toilet, managed to pee like a grown-ass man — he even provided the urine samples like a freaking champ — and then walked back to his bed with David’s help. He felt both victorious and pathetic.
The short walk had completely exhausted him, and he sank heavily onto his pillow. He sighed, drained, “So, do they know what’s happening to me?” Shane finally asked, now that his bladder was empty, and his dignity was no longer threatened by the bedpan.
“We do,” the man replied calmly. “Your body’s rejecting your suppressants. It’s called a Karl-Finch reaction...” The man continued explaining what it was, but Shane already knew.
All omegas knew about this, and everyone on suppressants was deeply scared of it. It was like toxic shock for women using tampons, but in omega-on-suppressant form.
It was the only risk of taking suppressants, which happened in maybe one in a million cases. Damn.
Shane really won the shit lottery this time. At least he was alive. Some omegas died from Karl-Finch reactions.
“We’re flushing your system of the suppressants; you need to go medication-free from now on,” the man said softly, and Shane nodded, resigned.
His stomach felt like a heavy rock had settled in, and he tried to think of his future as an athlete… “shit…” he whispered to himself, feeling his eyes sting with tears.
Deep down, he knew his coach would be okay with it. He knew Shane was an omega on suppressants; he was aware and had no issue with it. It was the entire shift to Shane’s reality that was the hardest to accept. The world in general. The media. Rozanov—fuck.
“I need to get back to work,” David said gently, “try to get some sleep, you need to rest. The other stuff can wait, okay?”
Shane nodded and watched David walk out of his room. He gazed at the city lights through his window; Montreal was stunning.
He blinked, enduring the slow, painful realization that his life would have to change forever. Going medication-free meant no longer pretending to be a scentless beta. There was no turning back, he knew.
He would have to start a new life as an omega. No more hiding or blending in with the crowd. He would be forced to stand out and accept what he was. Not that he was ashamed; he had never been. It was just that, in his line of work, being an omega wasn’t advantageous; in fact, it was seen as a hindrance, even if it wasn’t.
Would he have preferred being an alpha? Yes. Mostly because of the stereotypes, and the heavy sexualization of omegas worldwide. Still, he mostly resented society for that, instead of his secondary gender. In a world where omegas were accepted as equals, there was still a faint hint of discrimination. Shane had chosen to hide his gender to chase his dream, and now he would need to finally come clean.
He was an omega.
He was a damn good hockey player—one of the best the world had ever seen.
Being an omega did not suddenly erase his talent, his lifelong work, and his achievements.
The world would have to swallow that pill because Shane no longer could.
That was the end of it.
Shane’s mom and dad sat in the hospital room with him when Dr. Tremblay entered. She was a woman in her mid-fifties with blond hair pulled up in a bun. She wore blue-rimmed glasses and appeared very pale in the morning light.
“Mr. Hollander,” she said, as she checked her tablet, “David mentioned that he had a discussion with you last night; however, I wanted to review the Karl-Finch reaction and subsequent implications with you before discharging you.”
Shane saw his mom clench her jaw; he nodded.
“Okay,” he said, listening.
“As you know, this is a very serious condition,” the doctor said. “Your labs are all clear; physically, you are perfectly healthy. However, you cannot use any suppressants ever again. Think of it as a kind of allergy: your body gave you the initial warning, and from now on, any suppressant in your system will trigger a strong immune response that can cause your kidneys to malfunction and eventually stop. You’d be looking at a lifetime of dialysis. It can also lead to acute liver failure and death.”
He knew about the deadly risks of a Karl-Finch reaction; everyone had learned this at school. But it had always seemed like an urban legend… now, though, it felt very real.
“Okay, so no suppressants. Can I use scent blockers?” he asked. All night, he’d clung to this hope that he’d still be able to somewhat control his omega scent.
“No,” the doctor said. “Nothing that impacts your endocrine system, Shane. That includes all brands of suppressants or scent blockers. The only products we know that are harmless are scent-absorbing creams and soaps. You will have to live your life as an omega from now on; there is no other option for you.”
Shane felt his remaining hope of fixing this slip away like sand through his fingers. Still, if he had to choose between hiding his omega status and dying, he would face it as he did everything else. He could handle whatever crap came at him because it was better than rotting in a coffin six feet underground. In the cold light of death, being an omega who played hockey in the NHL wasn’t so bad. He still had goals to score, cups to win, ice to conquer, and teams to defeat.
“How long until my scent starts changing? Or has it started?” he glanced curiously at his parents, and his dad shook his head.
“A few days,” the doctor replied.
Shane saw his mother nod, her eyes wide with fear. He swallowed thickly, realizing how little time he had left under his chemical camouflage.
His mom laid her hands on his bed sheet smoothly and decisively.
“That’s okay, Shane. You know this could always become a possibility,” she rationalized, “We are prepared and will face this like we faced anything else. With a plan, a strategy, and hard work.”
Shane nodded. How many times had he heard those words before?
Still, they were true, and he knew it.
“I will reach out to Reebok and Rolex; we’ll hire an agent to help us navigate this; I think you can come out stronger…”
Shane let his mother’s words wash over him while he thought of his team, of his friends, of Rozanov.
How the fuck was his Russian alpha hook-up going to react when he learned about this?