Chapter Text
The air conditioning in the dressing room of the Canadian Tire Centre was always set a few degrees too low, but today, Luca Haas couldn't stop the line of cold sweat from tracing down his ribs.
He sat on the training table, his bare legs dangling off the edge, staring intently at the laces of his skates. In his right hand, hidden deep inside the front pocket of his oversized Ottawa Centaurs hoodie, his fingers were curled around a small, amber glass vial. It was warm from his body heat. It was also entirely illegal under Section 4 of the NHL’s Biochemical Integrity Policy.
Sub-blockers.
Specifically, a high-potency, black-market Swiss synthetic that Maria had managed to source through a contact in Zurich. To the rest of the world, Luca was a brilliant nineteen-year-old playmaker with a lethal, silent edge on the ice—a rookie who had transitioned seamlessly from the Swiss National League to the high-velocity violence of the NHL. But to his own biology, he was a Submissive running on fumes.
Luca haas lost his fucking mind.
He had to because if this is his reality he needs the devil to make room because he’ll be their soon.
The suppressants kept the world predictable. They locked his presentation deep down in his marrow, freezing the biological urge to yield, to look for a Dominant's anchor, to freeze when a larger player crowded his space. They kept his mind a flat, grey, manageable line.
But the cost was getting heavier. His heart constantly hammered a frantic rhythm, his muscles ached with a strange, hollow fatigue, and sleep was nothing more than a series of shallow, vivid nightmares.
"Hey. Haas."
Luca jumped, the glass vial clicking sharply against his house keys inside his pocket. He forced his head up, plastering a neutral expression over his features.
Shane Hollander was standing in the doorway of the medical room, a white towel slung over his broad shoulders, his dark hair damp from the morning skate. As the team’s assistant captain and one of the most disciplined players in the league, Shane carried himself with a quiet, sharp-eyed authority. He was a Switch, but in the locker room, he operated with a clean, professional edge that commanded immediate respect.
"Management wants everyone in the main lounge," Shane said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tracked the slight tremor in Luca's shoulders. "League reps just landed. Mandatory sweep."
Luca’s stomach dropped into a bottomless, icy void. "A sweep? Today? We don't have a scheduled draw until next month."
"Unscheduled," Shane replied, stepping into the room. The subtle, protective scent that always followed Shane—something like cedar and crisp winter air—brushed against Luca’s raw senses. It made the suppressed, aching parts of Luca’s brain want to lean forward, to beg for a boundary. Luca tightly clenched his jaw, fighting the instinct. "Management looks pissed. Wiebe’s losing his mind in the hallway. Just get your shirt on and get out there."
"Right. Yeah. Two seconds," Luca choked out.
The moment Shane turned and walked down the hall, Luca pulled the amber vial from his pocket. His hands were shaking so violently he almost dropped it. He didn't have time to measure a dose. He unscrewed the cap, tipped the bitter, metallic liquid directly onto his tongue, and swallowed hard, gagging slightly at the chemical burn in his throat.
Just hide it, he prayed, leaning his head back against the cold cinderblock wall. Just let the blockers hold for one more test.
The main lounge was suffocating.
Three men in sharp, clinical grey suits with NHL Biochemical Compliance badges clipped to their lapels stood near the media screens. A row of stainless steel trays, sterile needles, and barcode labels were laid out on the ping-pong table.
Coach Brandon Wiebe was pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle was leaping in his cheek. Next to him, Wyatt Hayes, the team’s eccentric starting goaltender, was casually leaning against a pillar, flipping through a comic book, though his sharp eyes kept darting toward the league reps.
"Listen up," Wiebe barked, clapping his hands together once. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense room. "Compliance is doing a full baseline sweep. Genetics, hormones, toxicology. Standard procedure, they say, but I don't want any distractions. We have Toronto on Thursday. Line up by number, get your draw, and get to the video room. Let's go."
Luca took his place near the back of the line, his chest tightening with every step forward.
A few feet away, Ilya Rozanov was leaning against the wall. The Centaurs' captain and undisputed superstar was a massive, unyielding presence. Ilya was a natural, old-school Dominant, radiating a heavy, golden aura of absolute control that kept the entire locker room stable. Right now, he was watching the league reps with an unfiltered, dark Russian scowl, his hand casually resting on the back of Shane’s neck.
Shane was standing directly in front of him, his head tilted back just a fraction, completely relaxed under Ilya's heavy grip. To anyone else, it looked like two teammates leaning together. To Luca, who understood the microscopic language of the dynamic, it was a display of absolute, locked-in synchronization. Shane had offloaded his stress into Ilya; Ilya was carrying it for both of them.
Luca felt a sudden, bitter pang of envy so sharp it made his eyes sting. He didn't want a relationship. He didn't want a boyfriend. He just wanted someone to put a hand on his neck and tell him the world wasn't ending. He wanted the noise in his head to stop.
"Haas. You're up."
Luca blinked, realizing the line had moved. He stepped forward to the table, his knees feeling like water.
The league technician didn't look at him. He just checked Luca’s team ID, ripped open a fresh needle, and strapped a rubber tourniquet around Luca's upper arm. "Left arm, please. Pump your fist."
Luca complied, his eyes tracking the dark, thick blood as it rushed into the plastic vial. The synthetic blockers were burning in his veins, a desperate firewall trying to mask the fact that his sub-hormone levels were completely depleted, that his body was starving for a scene, starving for structure.
"All set. Press this cotton ball down," the tech said mechanically, slapping a barcode onto the tube.
Luca stumbled away from the table, pulling his sleeve down over the tiny red dot in the crook of his elbow. He made it through the video session on autopilot, Wiebe’s voice about defensive zone coverage sounding like it was underwater.
The hammer fell twenty-four hours later.
They had just finished Wednesday morning practice when Wiebe walked into the locker room, his face pale and completely devoid of its usual aggressive energy. He didn't look at the team. He looked straight at Luca.
"Haas. Medical room. Now."
The entire locker room went dead silent. Zane Boodram stopped mid-sentence; Evan Dykstra dropped his roll of shin-pad tape. Luca felt his heart stop, then shatter into a thousand jagged pieces.
He didn't remember walking down the hall. He didn't remember opening the door.
The team physician, Dr. Evans, was sitting behind his desk, looking at a digital readout on a tablet. Wiebe stood by the door, his arms crossed, looking deeply betrayed.
"Sit down, Luca," Dr. Evans said softly.
Luca didn't sit. He couldn't. "Am I traded?"
"No," Wiebe said, his voice unusually quiet. "Worse."
Dr. Evans turned the tablet around, displaying a series of graphs and chemical breakdowns. The lines were flashing a violent, systemic red.
"Your toxicology report came back from the league lab, Luca. You tested positive for a massive, unquantifiable amount of unauthorized Sub-blockers. A foreign synthetic." Dr. Evans sighed, rubbing his temples. "But more concerning than the breach of policy is your actual biological baseline. Your sub-hormone levels aren't just low—they are in a state of critical deficit. You have severe adrenal fatigue. Your body is running on pure stress and artificial adrenaline."
"I feel fine," Luca lied, his voice cracking. "I can play. My on-ice numbers—"
"Your on-ice numbers don't matter when your heart is at risk for a sudden collapse," Dr. Evans interrupted flatly. "The League Mandate is absolute, Luca. A registered Submissive showing critical level deficits cannot be cleared for physical contact. You are being benched. Effective immediately."
The word benched hit Luca like a physical blow. Hockey was his only escape. It was the only place where his artistic precision meant something, where he could outrun his own head.
"You have forty-eight hours," Dr. Evans continued, tapping the folder on his desk. "The league requires you to be leaned off the suppressants under medical supervision, and you must log a registered dynamic partnership. You need to scene, Luca. At least three times a week, until your body drops into subspace and your baseline stabilizes."
"I don't have a partner," Luca whispered, his chest heaving as the walls began to close in.
"I know. Which is why, as a league employee, I am authorized to assign you a certified League Dom service by tonight. They are highly regulated, professional caregivers—"
"No." The word tore out of Luca, raw and terrified. A sudden, violent memory flashed through his mind—clinical rooms, cold hands, the absolute terror of a stranger having total power over his body while he was helpless. His breath hitched, a full-blown panic attack clawing at his throat. "No League Doms. I won't do it. I'll... I'll go back to Switzerland. I'll quit."
"Luca, if you don't log a partner in forty-eight hours, management has no choice but to void your contract," Wiebe said, stepping forward, his expression torn. "You're a generational talent, kid, but we can't break federal dynamic law for you."
Luca didn't wait to hear the rest. He turned and stumbled out of the office, his vision blurring with hot, angry tears. He bolted down the concrete corridor toward the back exit of the arena, needing to escape the suffocating weight of the league, the code, and his own broken biology.
"Luca. Stop."
The voice was a physical barrier. Deep, heavy, and laced with a subtle, commanding rumble that resonated straight through Luca's frayed nerves.
Luca froze, his back hitting the cold metal of the equipment lockers.
Ilya and Shane were standing at the junction of the hallway. They had bypassed the public areas, tracking him down through the underbelly of the rink.
"Don't," Luca choked out, covering his face with his hands, desperately trying to hide the fact that he was breaking down. "Please. Just leave me alone."
Shane stepped forward first. He didn't crowd Luca; instead, he stepped into his line of sight, his posture gentle but entirely firm. "Wiebe called Ilya the second you left the office. We know what the lab report said, Luca."
“Is that even legal? He wondered. It doesn’t even matter I’ll be on the next flight to Zurich by morning.
I'm leaving," Luca sobbed, his shoulders shaking. "I'm going back to Zurich. I'm not letting them assign me a stranger. I can't. You don't understand, I just... I can't."
Ilya walked up, his heavy, solid boots echoing on the concrete. He stopped just inches away from Luca's space. He didn't touch him, but the sheer volume of his dominant presence felt like a warm, heavy blanket dropping over Luca's freezing body.
"We know you don't trust them," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick and steady. He looked down at Luca, his dark eyes filled with a fierce, protective focus that made Luca’s breath stutter. "And we know what happens to a Sub who is locked inside his own skin by those fucking pills."
Ilya looked at Shane, a rapid, silent communication passing between them in the span of a single heartbeat. Shane gave a small, resolute nod.
Ilya looked back at Luca, his jaw setting. "You do not leave Ottawa. You do not quit hockey."
"I don't have a choice!" Luca cried. "I don't have a partner!"
"You do now," Ilya commanded softly, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. "You scene with us.
Luca’s mouth fell open in shock, his chest heaving as he stared at the two men in front of him. "You—you don’t mean that," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his panic.
"You’re the captain and the assistant captain. You’re Married for fucks sake. Everyone knows you two are... you’re you. You can’t just---- How would that----- Letting me barge into your life because management found out I’m fucked up is crazy."
He didn’t even want to think about the power imbalance of this arrangement if he could call it that. He didn’t understand there was nothing in this for them. Its already bad enough people know about his massive fucking crush on the two of them, but he didn’t even want to think about what people would if they found out about this. He would be the biggest fucking joke in hockey.
He got by pretending to be a non-designated player. Not that there was anything wrong with being a sub it……it just made everything harder. People treated being a sub as if you’re some damsel in distress. Worried that a sport as rough as hockey was too much. He was bigger than the normal sub he didn’t even want to know or think of what it would be to go into subspace. He had enough on his plate and this is just too much. Fuck how long had he been in his head.
"You are not barging into our life. You have always been here since before the news broke about me and Shane," Ilya rumbled. His large hand finally came down, not on Luca’s face yet, but firmly on the top of his head, his fingers spreading through Luca’s damp curls. The physical contact was heavy, grounding, and instantly sent a shocking spike of warmth through Luca’s chemically starved brain.
"You are our player. You are a Centaur. And I do not let a stranger handle what belongs in my room."
Shane stepped in closer, his shoulder brushing Ilya’s as they formed a physical wall between Luca and the rest of the arena. "It’s clinical, Luca. A structured, legal arrangement to keep the league off your back while you lean off the blockers. Three times a week, we log the hours with Dr. Evans, you stay on the roster, and no one else touches you. This doesn’t have to be sexual if you don’t want it to be there is no pressure. Just containment."
Luca looked between them, his vision swimming. The offer was a lifeline, but it was also terrifying. Standing this close to them without his usual chemical armor, he could feel the sheer magnetism of their dynamic—the way Shane’s intense, focused gaze locked onto him while Ilya’s heavy hand anchored him to the spot.
"Forty-eight hours, Haas," Shane said softly, his voice a gentle but unyielding reminder. "Let us fix this."
Luca swallowed the lump in his throat, his body shivering as the very first wave of true suppressant withdrawal began to lick at his nerves. He closed his eyes and let his head drop forward, his forehead lightly touching Ilya’s chest.
"Okay," Luca whispered. "Please."