viver é bom

It's not that Shane didn't expect it.

If it's about hockey, Shane already knows everything. Since he started getting scouted in middle school, Shane has more or less had a general outline of what his life was going to be: minor hockey to junior hockey to—hopefully—the MHL. He's anticipated every entry-draft and every championship, had planned for it, or followed the plans Mom built for him. Shane anticipated this too. This was the thing that he tried not to think about, or have to talk with his mom and dad, since he was thirteen. It's been settled into stone since his medical chart first had O written on it.

Thinking about it made Shane's face heat and his stomach wrap itself into knots, and hearing his mom and dad try to talk about it was even worse. The thought has always made Shane feel like a kid, even if he's nineteen now, and a MHL draftee, second overall or not. He feels like a kid even while putting on his Rebooks, like his mom wants him to use them, and the Montreal hoodie he'd been given in draft day, getting ready for this meeting a week after it.

All the big suits from the day of the draft are in the conference room when Shane and his mom get there, along with a few more strangers. It takes Shane shaking their hands, trying to pretend his stomach isn't all up in knots again, for him to realize they're all probably the team lawyers.

"Shane, we just want to tell you again how happy we are for you to be joining our franchise," the GM says, smiling cleanly at both him his mom. Everyone sitting around the table's got a smile like that. "We're very excited. We've followed your career very closely in the junior league. Naturally, we were all hoping you'd win the Prospect Cup for Canada, but we were impressed with your performance in the tournament either way, and we know you're going to be doing great things along with us."

Shane nods, because it feels like it'd be rude not to. He can't make himself meet anyone's eyes.

There's a full desk watching him, like he's surrounded by sharks. Mom's sitting by his side, and holding his hand out of view, but it's just the two of them against a full room. "Of course—" the GM continues, and Mom's hand squeezes, "there's the matter of the future prospect contribution."

Contribution is a weird way to put it. It sounds like a gift, not something you're made to do; maybe that's the point. The GM's talking like this is just another conversation in his week, and it probably is. It's Shane's life the one that's going to be changed.

"Now, as his agent, I'm sure you've read everything in the contracts we've sent, yes, Mrs Hollander?"

Mom straightens up. "Yes. I took the liberty to cross-check it with other omega draftees in the league's history—"

The Metros GM raises a hand to stop her, smile turning more patronizing than welcoming now. "I'm also sure you've read up all the precedents you could, Mrs Hollander. But the terms to Shane's contract, if he's going to take it, and we hope he will, are those we presented to you. We've been very generous in our offers, considering the caliber of Shane's playing."

"It's not the contract's payment that I'm concerned about," Mom says.

The table must have been expecting that too, because the GM's smile doesn't flicker. "Naturally. Now, Shane, I understand it might seem very daunting for you at this moment—" he says it like it's something Shane will grown out of, grow used to, somehow, "but I assure you that this has been part of the induction of every omega in the entire history of the league. There have been several other omegas in this year's draft—including other picks from us—and all of them will make prospect contributions. It's not only you."

That's offered with an air of reassurance, but Shane struggles to find anything comforting in it. He's not going to feel any more prepared no matter how many other omegas are expected to pump out a baby for the league.