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Sid thought nothing could be worse than losing to the Flyers in the first game at their brand new, scentless, completely wrong arena. Then they lost to the Canadiens right after, and now they have to fly out to New Jersey after the team plane has been deep-cleaned in preparation for the new season. Sid is starting to feel a little twitchy.
“Is there something wrong with the plane?” one of the new guys asks, and there’s a chorus of shushing. Sid swallows a growl.
“Like if I’m injured,” Flower starts.
Sid sucks in a breath. “Don’t say that!”
Flower rolls his eyes like he didn’t just try to jinx himself. “If I’m not on the plane, you don’t sit with me, right? So it’s okay.”
“But you are on the plane,” Sid says. “And Geno—”
Sid glances over at Geno, who is standing in the aisle with their bags, waiting for Sid to make up his mind. Sid should be carrying their bags, but he got in his head about letting Geno out of the car, and then Geno got impatient and grabbed everything himself. He was already in a mood because Sid made him get ready to go to the airport on time instead of sleeping in for no reason.
“Where you want me to sit,” Geno asks flatly. The line of guys behind him waiting to get on the plane are keeping their distance. Everyone’s already learned from the incident during training camp.
“Come on, Sid!” Kuni yells up the steps.
Sid glances guiltily at the floor. What he wants is for the plane to smell right, and to sit in his spot, and Flower to sit by the window in his spot, and Geno to kneel on the floor at Sid’s feet where Sid can keep him covered up and protected. And also possibly knot his mouth right here on the plane so everyone can see whose omega he is, except Sid isn’t going to do that, because that’s crazy. And also terrible for Geno’s knees.
“Stop that,” Flower chides, slapping at Sid’s hands where his fingers are digging into the upholstery. “Look, Sidney. You let Geno sit by the window, and you sit here and guard him from all these dangerous hockey players. And I am sitting here,” he adds decisively, slapping his stuff down and plopping into the seat right across the aisle from Sid’s.
“But Flower,” Sid protests, looking between him and Geno.
“He’s right,” Geno says, pushing his way past Sid and into Flower’s usual spot. “I’m sit here. You sit down, come on. I’m cold, I can’t sleep, you wake me up so early.”
“I didn’t wake you up ‘so early,’ ” Sid argues, but he gives in and sits down. He angles his body to keep Geno pressed against the wall of the plane and watches the rest of the team start to file past, keeping a close eye on any stray bags. “And you can sleep on the plane, anyway.”
“Shh, I’m sleep,” Geno grumbles, like he wasn’t just arguing with Sid.
Sid turns to glare at him, but he already has his eye mask down, his arms crossed irritably across his chest. “Ugh,” Sid says, and stands up to get the blanket of the overhead bin. Sid scented it this morning, so it should cover up some of the plane smell. It never occurred to Sid before that he should really be scenting the whole plane, not just his spot. Maybe then flying would be less stressful.
“Shh,” Geno says again, even though Sid didn’t say anything. Sid drops the blanket over his head.
#
They win, at least, although Sid and Geno both go without a point—and no wonder, after the plane situation. The win only cements Sid’s darkening suspicion; it’s not the team, or the coach, or the bonding hormones. It’s the arena.
He and Geno should have bonded in May, right after last season’s playoff run ended. That would’ve given them all summer to adjust. They still would’ve had to play in the new arena, but at least Sid would be feeling calmer. Probably. Instead, they waited all summer for Geno’s heat to come back, and then they cut it so close they almost missed training camp. And now the arena smells completely wrong and the Penguins haven’t had a single win at home all season.
“We’ve only played in this arena twice,” Flower reasons. “Maybe it’s too early to say it’s cursed.”
“Don’t!” Sid says, walking unhappily past his own enormous face where it’s plastered on the wall in the hallway. “Flower, you can’t just say stuff like that.”
Flower and Geno both let out dramatic sighs at the same time.
“Just give it a chance, Sid,” Flower tries.
“You sound like Mario,” Sid tells him. Mario spent the summer and half of last season talking up the new arena, trying to get Sid excited about it. They went over a bunch of times before it opened so Sid could give the new hallways and locker rooms and kitchen his seal of approval. But it just doesn’t feel right, and Sid can’t stand to have Geno out of his sight while they’re in it. Or really anywhere else, to be fair.
Flower shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “Oh, Sidney,” he says. “Geno, I hope you’re adjusting better.”
“Maybe Sid’s right,” Geno says loyally. “New arena, it’s like, not good yet. Needs more scenting.”
“I don’t think the locker room could smell any more like Sid if he moved in,” Talbot says, coming up from behind them.
Sid pulls Geno closer, keeping him between Sid and the wall.
“Let’s eat, Sid, I’m hungry,” Geno says. Sid rubs a grateful hand along his lower back and leads them to the kitchen.
The kitchen, sadly, is its own obstacle. They need way too many calories in a day for Sid to be hand-feeding, and anyway, Sid is not going to mess with Geno’s meal plan. Geno’s a modern omega who can pick out his own meals, and an athlete who needs to be able to eat on his own schedule, and also Sid is going to slap that tray right out of Geno’s hands if he has to watch this any longer.
“Geno,” Sid manages, through gritted teeth.
Geno turns to look at him, hand still on the tongs. There’s nothing Sid can say right now that won’t sound absolutely crazy, so he doesn’t say anything, just stares back at Geno until he finally puts the tongs down.
Sid pushes the offending tray out of the way and gets a new one out, then walks down the line carefully replicating Geno’s usual meal choices—one of each protein option, double of the potato, salad he’ll eat half of—and herds Geno over to a table where he can watch him eat. Sid already ate his sandwiches, so he doesn’t need to split his focus at all.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Tanger asks as he walks by, snickering to himself. He thinks he’s hilarious. Sid can’t wait until he gets bonded.
“Sid,” Geno complains. “I’m thirst.”
“Stay there,” Sid snaps, and darts over to the fridge. He glances back a couple of times, but Geno stays right where Sid put him, and no one moves to sit next to him. Still, Sid breathes a sigh of relief when it’s over and he can set Geno’s water bottle down on the table in front of him.
“Best alpha,” Geno says, and Sid can’t help it—he leans in to rub his neck against Geno’s and scent him properly. He ignores the chorus of groans and gagging noises behind him.
#
Somehow they make it through the game. Sid scores, finally, but it isn’t enough.
“Are you seriously going to guard him at the urinal?” Talbot asks.
Before all this, Sid vaguely thought of himself as a modern, enlightened alpha, someone who respected omega independence and autonomy. Unfortunately, he turned out to be the kind of alpha who can’t even let his omega take a piss in peace. Sid’s working on it, but so far he only has a fifty percent success rate in his own house. Locker rooms are right out.
“Yes,” Sid admits glumly. “Don’t come over here.”
Finally Geno finishes. Sidney rubs his wrist over Geno’s neck, working his scent gland against the healing scar of his bonding bite. Geno tolerates it with an air of smug satisfaction, his eyes half-lidded.
“Just piss on him already!” Kuni yells, from the other side of the room. He’s keeping his distance just like everyone else.
“That didn’t work,” Sidney admits, and he can feel himself flushing. The first time Geno definitely egged him on, laughing and making jack off motions. The second time he was a lot more stoic about it, like maybe he just realized what he’d gotten himself into.
Afterwards they go into the dressing room so Sid can deal with the media. Geno is supposed to talk, too, but Sid is just not at a point where he can let Geno talk to strangers, so Geno sits in his stall and waits instead. He doesn’t bother trying to get changed or go to the showers instead, which is a good thing. Sid would’ve caused an incident on camera, and then Jen would’ve killed both of them. She’s standing right there in the scrum, and she hasn’t taken her eyes off Sid since he sat down.
“One more question,” one of the new reporters says, a woman Sid hasn’t officially met yet. “Now that you and Geno have bonded, how’s that affecting your dynamic on the ice? What about with the team?”
“It’s the same as it’s always been,” Sid lies through his teeth. “We’re keeping the dynamic good, really focusing on working as a team and keeping our play up to the level we want it at.”
“No more questions,” Jen says immediately after, and sets to chasing the reporters all out of the room.
“G,” Sid manages. Geno comes slinking over to his stall, taking his sweet time. He tries to sit down next to Sid, but Sid makes him kneel on the ground instead. “Just stay there,” he grits out, smashing Geno’s face into the inside of his thigh, right up against his jock.
“Sid, you’re crush me,” Geno complains, and Sid forces himself to loosen his grip. He can’t quite make himself let Geno up, not with the room still full, staff everywhere and guys coming in and out of the showers and getting dressed.
Duper comes over and sits a couple stalls away once the room is mostly cleared out.
“Sid, you’re being a little—”
“Psychotic?” Sidney asks.
Duper just raises both eyebrows at him, like he wants to say ‘you said it, not me.’ “You can’t guard Geno like this forever,” he says. “It’s not good for his career if you won’t let him go into the dressing room by himself. Or, you know—talk to the staff.”
Sid grimaces. He’s just barely tolerating having strange alphas around, guys he doesn’t know—even the guys he does know, to be honest. There’s no way he can leave Geno alone with them, even for a second.
“It’s fine,” Geno says from the floor. He tilts his head to look up at Sid. His eyes look a little clouded, probably from all the pheromones Sid is putting out. “We’re just bond, it’s normal.”
He and Geno talked about the kind of alpha Sidney would be before they bonded. Geno doesn’t want an alpha interfering with his ability to play hockey, which sounded like such a non-issue that Sid actually laughed when he said it. But it’s turning out to be harder than Sid thought.
At least Geno doesn’t seem to mind having an alpha micromanage his life. Sid knows that the honeymoon can’t last forever, though. Eventually Geno’s going to want to leave the house by himself, which is both a normal thing to do and also makes Sid want to lock him up in their bedroom forever.
“We just need to move back to the Igloo,” Sid says. “I can’t get my head on straight in here. It smells wrong.”
“We can’t move back,” Duper says gently.
Sid knows—he’s had this conversation with Mario already, he knows —but he doesn’t have another solution. The arena is the problem.
“Duper,” Geno says. He doesn’t turn to look at him, keeps his eyes focused on Sid, so Sid lets it happen. “You get everyone out of room. I’m fix.”
“Uh,” Duper starts.
Sid can’t think of anything he wants more than for everyone else to be out of the dressing room right now.
“G’s right,” Sid says. “Can you just—”
“Okay, I got it,” Duper says. He pats the stall next to Sid, being careful not to look at Geno or touch him at all. “You’ll be alright, Sid,” he says. “It gets easier.”
“Thanks,” Sid says, just barely getting the word out. Duper gets up, and Sid closes his eyes and strokes Geno’s soft damp hair and takes long, deep breaths at steady intervals until the room goes silent.
“Okay,” Geno says, and slaps at Sid’s hands until he lets him up. “Now we fix arena.” He starts yanking off his underlayers and what’s left of his gear, tossing everything haphazardly on the floor. He pauses with his head halfway out of his shirt when Sid doesn’t move. “Come on, you too.”
Sid starts getting undressed. “How are we gonna fix the arena?” he asks. “I’ve been scenting it, it doesn’t work.”
“Wrong scent,” Geno says confidently. Fully naked, he gets down on the floor, and Sid is temporarily distracted by the sight of his half-hard cock. Then Geno raises his legs and Sid gets an eyeful of his pink little hole.
“You’re knot me here,” Geno says.
“In the dressing room?” Sid asks, eyes jerking back up to Geno’s face. “No way, G.”
“Yes!” Geno insists. “Dressing room smell better, it’s better. You’re, like, you’re happier. It’s better for alphas.”
“I’m not fucking you in here,” Sid says, crossing his arms. “That’s probably illegal. Public indecency.”
“You’re not want?” Geno asks, his voice a little shaky. His legs slide slowly back together.
“No, I want to,” Sid hurries to assure him, dropping down onto the floor so he can rub his hands up and down Geno’s legs. “At home, you know, in our den.”
“No, here,” Geno demands. “You feel better. Try.”
“Geno, who’s the alpha here?” Sid asks.
Geno raises an eyebrow, and Sid stares back at him firmly.
Geno twists his lips, and then Sid watches him blatantly decide to pull out the big guns: his lips quiver, he takes in a stuttered breath, and two huge crocodile tears start sliding down his face.
The infuriating part is that it works.
“I’m going to get a divorce,” Sid says calmly, holding Geno’s face against his shoulder and rubbing his other hand down Geno’s shuddering back. Shuddering with laughter, because Sid is the easiest mark in the world.
“Divorce after you fuck me,” Geno says, wriggling a little in Sid’s arms.
“Fine!” Sid says, exasperated. “If you need a knot so bad, then fine. Get turned around.”
Geno puts himself on his hands and knees, and he lets out a satisfying yelp and nearly smacks his face on the ground when Sid gets his mouth on him.
“Sid, no, you’re—I’m—” Geno says incoherently, already gratifyingly wet.
Sid slips a finger in alongside his tongue, working his way around Geno’s rim. Geno tastes amazing, like pure sweet omega, still fresh from the game. Sid rubs his hands along Geno’s ass, his thighs, gives them a squeeze. He could do this all day.
“Siiiiid,” Geno demands, when Sid comes up for air. “Hurry.”
“I decide when you get a knot,” Sid tells him, although he gets his dick out. Geno smells so good that Sid has to stop and scent him, and then to kiss up and down his back, and then he spreads Geno’s ass with one hand and works his way inside while Geno groans and rocks forward and releases a wash of pheromones that leave Sid’s brain temporarily blank.
When Sid comes back to he’s already fucking Geno hard and fast. Geno is letting out these soft breathy little gasping noises, alternated with Russian that Sid still can’t understand, and Sid becomes belatedly aware of all the other alpha scents still hanging heavily in the room.
Sid thinks, crazily, that maybe that’s why Geno demanded this; he’s heard of teams that pass omegas around the locker rooms to celebrate wins, every guy with a point getting his turn in a hot wet hole. Maybe that’s how they do it on Geno’s other teams. Maybe to Geno getting fucked in the dressing room is just an occupational hazard, as regular and ordinary as getting checked into the boards—maybe Geno likes it, maybe he likes it too much, maybe he has to be supervised or he’ll let them all fuck him even if they lose—
Sid shoves Geno’s shoulders down and bites down hard on the junction between his shoulder and neck, sinking his teeth in and laying another claim next to the one Geno already has. Geno yells and his arms give out, dropping him against the ground, but Sid keeps on fucking him until he can’t anymore, hips jerking as he finally comes and his knot ties them together.
“Good, Малыш,” Geno murmurs, patting blindly behind him and smacking Sid a couple of times on the hip.
Sid just hums, floating in that hazy warmth and the tight squeeze of Geno wrapped around his knot until the ground starts to get really uncomfortable.
Sid sighs. “Okay, I’m going to pull out now,” he warns.
“Hmm,” Geno says, which Sid takes as agreement. Slowly he pulls himself out, wincing at the squelch. Geno flops onto his back and Sid winces again at the obvious rug burn on his cheek.
“Sorry,” Sid says, and then he has to lean in to kiss Geno properly. And also scent him a little more.
“See? What do I tell you,” Geno says afterwards. His eyes are barely open, but he apparently has the energy to gloat. “You’re feel better now.”
“Whatever,” Sid grumbles, but he can’t really argue about it. He does feel better, something in him deeply satisfied, like he’s finally marked his territory properly.
Sid also has a vague memory of maybe saying some stuff that, post-orgasm, seems a little crazy.
“Sorry if I said anything weird,” he says.
“It’s good,” Geno says. “I’m have a good time, like, feel better too. Maybe we’re do this after every game.”
“I think if we did this every game Dana might actually kill us,” Sid says, now painfully aware of the state of the dressing room—jerseys uncollected, equipment laying out everywhere, and notably, the streak of Geno’s come and slick on the carpet right next to them.
Sid reaches out to rub at the stain, maybe make it a little less obvious what fluids, exactly, are soaked into the floor. And if that also gets the scent worked deeper into the carpet fibers—well, Sid thinks anyone would understand why it was necessary, just this once.