#val-mora

the leagues keep their own packs. when shane first got to the eojhl some kids were already bonded, even though shane wasn't age-eligible to try yet. the mlh has its packs. some prospects don't bond until they meet the right pup at the combine, and then that's it, you're in, all the gms eyeing how your wolf fits with their wolves, how you fit. the khl has wolves, and they're supposed to be bigger and more aggressive than north american ones, but shane doesn't need that, because he's fast and smart and exactly where he needs to be on the ice at all times, and that's the kind of wolf he wants

at the 2009 international prospect cup, shane meets ilya rozanov for the first time, and rozanov has a wolf.

it's a dark thing crouched at rozanov's feet as he's trying to light a cigarette, big ears and big paws and lanky limbs, and it should look awkward growing into its body but it doesn't. it growls low as shane comes near. "hey, you're not supposed to smoke here," shane says, trying to ignore it, trying to suppress the shiver down his spine. they're not wild animals, they're smart, like people, and shane can pretend the wolf isn't staring at him with one eye and teeth glinting from under a drawn lip, because shane's good at pretending not to see when people hate him.

rozanov smokes his cigarette. looks at him. says, thirty seconds later, "you have one?"

"what? no, i don't smoke. and you shouldn't, either, not here. there's the-- sign."

"no," rozanov says, and nods toward his feet. "a wolf."

shane's had chances by now, two litters from the eojhl pack in the past six months, and both times the pups picked other people, nearly falling over on their unsteady paws in their eagerness, small flashing teeth digging into the candidates' reaching hands. it's fine, his mom says. he still has time before the draft. she's not sure if that pack has the right temperament for him, anyway. she's halfway through submitting a candidate request for the next qmjhl litter.

"no," shane says.

rozanov exhales. "too bad."

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"i want to beat you in fair fight. not fair, with no wolf."

shane goes hot, then very cold, the way he feels on ice sometimes, the play laid out stark and clear in front of him. "i don't need a wolf to beat you," he says. turns away with his heart thumping. rozanov's wolf can probably hear it. his hands are curled into fists.

"we'll see!" rozanov calls from behind him.

canada loses to russia.

the qmjhl litter doesn't pick him, either. the mlh doesn't let anyone in as a candidate before the combine. shane reads about wolves, and hockey, and watches rozanov's tape. his wolf is getting bigger, tall enough now to rear up and rest its front paws on the boards to watch rozanov's game. when rozanov comes in for a shift change he puts a big hand on its head, squirts water into his mouth first and then onto his wolf's lolling tongue. he plays aggressive; when he gets on a loose puck, tears off on a breakaway, his wolf's hind legs twitch on the bench. if shane had a wolf it would read rozanov's, easy as breathing; but shane doesn't, so he studies instead, rozanov and wolf both. that's how he plays.

canada beats russia in 2010. he shakes rozanov's hand. "i told you it was a fair fight," he says, adrenaline running high, dizzy with the win. "see you in october."

rozanov grins; or at least, he shows his teeth. shane doesn't look toward the tunnel where he knows rozanov's wolf is doing the same.

the mlh times their litters for the combine. half a dozen pups for shane's group, furry and indistinguishable, except one, the largest, trotting with certainty over to shane. it bites at shane's ankle, then rolls over.

she rolls over.

"oh, fuck," shane says. "oh, sorry, i mean--"

she wants him to pick him up. he does. she's a solid lump of heat in his arms, and he can feel her heartbeat thrum through her whole body. she's so alive. she sticks a wet nose into the crook of his elbow and looks at him with one sharp eye.

we're going to win, she says.

there's talk, always, isn't there. the bitch; the one who bonds the bitch, which makes him leader and pariah all at once. because the team is better with a bitch, can move as a whole without thought, but what's that worth, when what it means first and foremost is the sex, the fucking, the wolf in heat and you on the floor beside her, begging for dick, the whole team hard and wanting and giving it to you, one by one. it can take up to two days for the heat to break. shane had read that, thought about what would happen if he ended up drafted to a team with a bitch, how he'd have to fuck a man and pretend he didn't like it. maybe he wouldn't like it. maybe it would go fast, and he'd just have to not make it weird, watch everyone else out of the corner of his eye and follow what they do, be normal, be good. and he can do that, he can, that's what he'd been doing all this time, isn't that what he's been doing?

we are going to win, she says again, and he believes her.

rozanov gets drafted first, and everyone says, boston plays aggressive, that's the right call. metros take second, and we know they've been looking for a player to build a bench around, could hollander be that piece? he's a good player, he's fast, he's smart--

his wolf, they don't say, and shane isn't reading that, is feeding his wolf bits of steak from his hand, is telling her she's beautiful, that she's perfect, and she licks his palm clean and shivers all over in pleasure and says, i will build you a team.

montreal has had a bitch before, knows how to use one. everyone invited to development camp is bonded, and while shane's on the ice his wolf is touching noses with every other wolf. play-snapping, sometimes not-play. they test twenty, thirty lines, and shane feels the way his wolf makes the connection roar open, his right winger past the d, his left on his blind side. the whole ice is in his head, clear like game tape. he makes the play, a thought, and the pieces move. the team is the pack.

first time they play boston is in montreal. rozanov looks at shane over the faceoff dot and says, "you're not going to introduce me?"

"i already know you," shane says.

"your wolf," rozanov says.

shane feels her pacing the bench, not looking toward boston's. he keeps his eyes on the puck. wins the face-off.

a lot of guys say stuff to him on ice. asks if he's already bent over for the team. says they can give him what he's missing, now or later. never mind that his wolf isn't old enough for heats yet. the metros medical team had said: two years, and they'll get him set up comfortably. it'll be a small thing the first time, they'll vet the wolves (the wolves, not the guys, because this is about her and not him), they've made sure guys got through open matings safely before, does he have any questions?

he's not worried about safe. he clicks his jaw shut and strokes his wolf over the soft ears. her contentment at the team sits warm over his heart. he loves hockey. he loves her, the wild joy in her when there's ice in her nose, her yelp clearer than the goal horn when he scores.

probably in this world the ccm shoot happens later, after rookie season. the sponsors were interested, obviously, he's a great player, but, well. the classic hockey player image is someone with a wolf, isn't it. after he bonds the calls come pouring in, and his mom sorts through it all, tells him, "ccm wants to do an ad this summer," video where he's got skates on, the whole thing. last year they hadn't wanted that even though shane's been using their pads and getting his sticks custom-cut since he was fourteen. they want him now. him and the wolf.

it's a lot of money. shane hollander is something you can sell, these days. some brands think a wolf is a bigger kind of dog, and shane hates those; but ccm knows about wolves. he says yes.

day of the shoot, rozanov staring shane down on the ice. he keeps laughing because the director's got the wolves on ice between their knees. his wolf is gingerly lifting up its paws, unhappy with the booties they've put on to prevent frostbite on the pads. shane's wolf has her tongue lolling out, no matter how many times the director says, "okay, a little fiercer, please, gimme a little bite?" rozanov catches shane's eye at that, mimes with his own teeth, and then shane's laughing too, and the takes after that are no good at all.

[shower scene happens exactly as is]

in the locker room, shane saying, "let's forget that happened." rozanov looks over at where his wolf's lying on a bench, shane's on top gnawing wetly at an ear. fur touching fur; it's nearly like rozanov's touching him. "what's your room number," rozanov says, and shane tells him.

shane's pacing in the room, nervous energy radiating from his shoulders to his fingertips. his wolf asks, is this a game? shane laughs, pets her with long strokes against her side. "a stupid one," he says. he should call it off. half the league already think he's taking it up the ass on the reg.

but rozanov hadn't been looking at shane's wolf in the shower. he'd been looking at shane.

knock on the door. shane's wolf already knows it's rozanov. shane lets him in and rozanov pushes him against the door, puts a hand on shane's jaw, his mouth on shane's mouth. fuck, it's good. fuck, he likes it. fuck.

it's only after shane comes in rozanov's mouth that he realizes rozanov didn't bring his wolf.

"it's fair," rozanov says. "i meet your wolf now, without him." wiggles his fingers at shane's wolf, which. they'd been covered in come like 30 seconds ago. shane's wolf flicks an annoyed ear from where she's curled up in the armchair, and rozanov laughs. "a little princess."

"don't call her that," shane says. if he had hackles they'd be up, too. "she's smart, she's strong, she's not just a--"

"oh, i know," rozanov says, rolling back over. "and when she grows up she will be queen, yes?"

that's what montreal wants. they'd marked her out at the combine, told shane it was a dream come true when they bonded. at the draft the gm said they would have taken him even without her, but that's probably a lie. the last time montreal won the cup was thirty years ago. they'd had a bitch then, too.

maybe a year to go now, before the first heat. montreal pack. shane doesn't want to think about it. "you should go," he says. he doesn't watch rozanov roll out of bed and put his clothes back on, but his wolf does, so it's nearly the same thing.

after rozanov leaves shane's wolf comes to the bed and licks over shane's knuckles. you're upset, she says. did he hurt you?

"he didn't," shane tells her. it didn't. it had felt like hockey, the clarity, the way it had slammed him into his body and made him live there, feel every sensation inside it.

his wolf climbs onto the bed so she can lie all against his side. did i hurt you?

fuck. shane rolls to face her, pets over her ears and her muzzle, digs his fingers into her fur. "no" he tells her. "you could never. don't ever think that, okay?"

she's a wolf, which means she's smart; and she's his, which means she knows him. you're worried, she says.

shane looks up at the ceiling. digs a canine into his tongue until his breath eases. "i always worry," he says, which she knows is true. "but not about you."