Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane loved baseball the way the earth orbited the sun. It was a constant in his life, never changing, always solidly, dependably present.

He loved it through the slumps, when he would barely bat .200, he loved it when it rained or when it was over a hundred degrees. He even loved it during drills, although that was probably when he loved it least.

He had had a picture of the Commissioner’s Trophy on his wall since he was eight years old; a goal, something to aspire to, something to make the travel ball, summer ball, fall training, and no social life outside of the dugout worth it.

One day, he would stand in a major league ballpark, and lift that trophy over his head.

Everything in Shane’s life revolved around baseball. He made every choice based on what would further his career.

Which had made choosing a college about ten times more daunting than it would be for a normal person. The right school could affect his chances at a high draft position in a couple of years, which would change where he played in the minors, and when he would get called up.

In other words, Shane approached the selection with all the care and precision of a surgeon excising an organ from the inside of a patient’s chest.

Shane had been courted by no less than seven of the universities in the Southeastern Conference. He had visited each one, usually for a game, sometimes just for an afternoon practice. The coaches would take him through everything, from the campus to the park, all the way down to the gym and locker rooms. His mother would take extensive notes, and Shane would try to take it all in.

He liked the South, he had decided that early. Baseball was at the very least respected, if not revered there, and those schools tended to have the best facilities.

In the end, he had settled on a top three fairly quickly. Vanderbilt and Tennessee had good facilities, but not enough compared to the others. Arkansas’ coaching staff wasn’t what he was looking for. Ole Miss had just felt off.

So it came down to Texas, LSU, and Mississippi State.

All three had great facilities, a good coaching staff, and a recognizable name. The scouts would have no trouble seeing him at any of the three.

“Austin and Baton Rouge are bigger cities,” his mother had reasoned, a calming hand on his arm as he stared down at the brochures and financial paperwork for each of them, “There’d be a lot more to do there.”

“I’m not going to be doing anything but playing baseball.”

“LSU has the best financial package,” his father had chimed in, “If that makes any difference to you.”

“Yeah,” he pulled the piece of paper towards him, the all-in figure between scholarships and NIL payments almost dizzying to look at, “But there’s just…”

“Something about Starkville?” his father said quietly,” and Shane nodded, relieved that someone understood, “I felt that way too.”

It was a small town, nestled in the northeastern part of Mississippi, hours away from any major city. By all accounts, it should have felt the same as Arkansas or Ole Miss, but it didn’t.

The city bled for baseball. It was obvious everywhere he looked. Nearly fifteen thousand people had gathered in their stadium to watch a weekend game, a figure that some major league parks didn’t even record on any given game day.

Shane had never seen anything like it, especially not at the college level. The team was adored, and they had set an attendance record at the game Shane had attended.

Not that that was special to them, Mississippi State held all twenty-five attendance records in NCAA history.

His mother had set up a phone call, and he had told Coach Wiebe that he would commit as soon as the paperwork was sent over.

“Excited for you to be a Bulldog, Shane,” he had said, his voice calm and steady, “I hope you’ll find a home here.”

It was maybe the most terrifying experience of his life, walking into the park after move-in day by himself, without the familiar presence of his parents at his shoulder.

He was greeted by a table just inside the door to the facility, where two smiling people were happy to check him off a list and send him on his way, mentioning something about a team meeting.

Shane had felt out of place, the odd one out when he walked into a room that was full of boys that had known each other for years. It was unpleasant, but he had had to get used to it over the years. People came and went, summer ball meant a new team every season, it was part of the game.  The room itself wasn’t helping his nerves either; it was by far the nicest film room he had ever set foot in, filled with plush leather chairs, the logo of the team plastered everywhere.

He settled into a seat right at the front, his hands clasped in his lap, and his nails digging into the skin of his palm.

“Hi,” a heavy weight had collapsed down next to him a moment later, “Are you a freshman too?”

Shane had looked around, meeting the bright, earnest eyes of the boy next to him. He sized him up immediately. He was weedy, maybe fast, definitely short for an outfielder, and not broad enough for a catcher. Maybe a shortstop?  Second base?

“I’m Hayden,” he continued, sticking out his hand, “Pike.”

“Shane Hollander,” he took the proffered hand gratefully, “And yeah, freshman.”

“Me too,” he said happily, looking around the room like it was exciting and not utterly terrifying, “Kinda crazy to be here right?”

“Yeah for sure,” Shane pushed through his awkwardness, hoping to maybe make a friend, “It feels different than when I toured.”

“Oh for sure, it’s fucking crazy.”

The conversation lulled for a moment, and Shane couldn’t help himself,

“What position do you play?”

Hayden grinned.

“First base. I don’t look it but I’m slow as shit. You?”

“Outfielder. Usually center.”

“Nice,” he didn’t seem nearly as concerned about this as Shane was, “So, what dorm are you in?”

From that day on, he and Hayden became inseparable friends, especially when they realized they were just down the hall from each other in the dorms.

It was nice, Shane decided, to have someone to walk to class and practice with, someone to study with, and someone to commiserate with after a brutal scrimmage.  It was annoying that he was always asking him to go out on double dates, but it was a small trade off.

He had gotten into a routine fairly quickly. Practice, classes, studying, and workouts occupied most of his time, and he liked it that way. Shane liked the player he was becoming, the player that State was turning him into.  By his second year in college, he became a leader in the dugout, an ear for problems in practice or in class.  He loved them all fiercely, and even though they hadn’t made it to Omaha in his freshman or sophomore years, Shane had a feeling.

Junior year, they were going to go all the way.

He and Hayden walked into the locker room together for the first practice of their Junior season, chattering happily after a long summer apart.  The room was already full of people, most of them waving to them as they unpacked their gear.  Shane’s eyes swept across the new faces, most of them looking similarly terrified as he had been on his first day.

The exception was talking to Coach Wiebe, dirty blonde curls falling gracefully in his eyes, and looking as at ease as if this was something he did every day.

Shane didn’t recognize him, even though he had carefully studied the list of freshmen and incoming transfers over the summer.  He took pride in knowing the new guys before they introduced themselves to him.  Plus, he always liked to know what strengths they were adding to the squad before he saw them play.

But…he felt like he would have remembered this face.

He was just a little taller than Shane, and his skin was tanned, probably by summer ball.  His side profile was striking, and the muscles of his arms bulged across his broad chest.  He seemed a commanding presence, drawing the eyes of nearly everybody.  And the thing was, he didn’t seem to care at all.  He listened intently to Coach Wiebe, eyes not straying as people walked behind or around him. 

Shane watched him, taking in his stance.  Definitely a hitter, maybe a catcher, though he was pretty tall for that.  He supposed he might be a fit for third baseman, but Barrett was so comfortable in that position, it would be a hard sell to put him somewhere else.

Suddenly, as though he could read his mind, he looked up and met Shane’s eyes.  Shane waved, trying to be friendly, and he…winked at him?

Huh?

“Who’s that?” Hayden asked, and Shane had completely forgotten that he was at his shoulder, “New transfer?”

“I guess,” Shane tore his eyes away from the newcomer, “I don’t know him.”

“Wow,” JJ had materialized out of nowhere, thumping each of them on the back, “Even Hollander doesn’t know everything.  A shock to all of us.”

Shane’s mouth curved up.  He had missed this.

“And they let you keep your scholarship even though you never go to class,” he responded drily, “You’re right, wonders never cease.”

JJ snorted with laughter, looping his arm around his and Hayden’s necks, and dragging them off to their lockers.

Shane took his time unpacking his gear, listening to Hayden argue with Barrett and JJ about whether the Rockies would win more than forty games this season.  This turned into a larger conversation, with people chipping in all over the room, and even though it was loud and a little overstimulating, Shane wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He had spent the last two summers in Cape Cod, and he had liked the guys he had played with, but it hadn’t been the same as being here, in his home park with his guys.

“Circle up!” a voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he joined the rest of the team in the middle of the room, giving encouraging smiles to all the freshmen, who still looked terrified.

“Alright boys,” Coach Wiebe looked seriously around at all of them, his hands clasped behind his back, “It’s time to get to work.  Pitchers, you’re with Hunter.  Fielders, with Price.  Catchers, Bennett.  We’ll work on drills today, then full team meeting to debrief after.”

“Yes Coach,” the whole room echoed, and they broke off into their respective position groups, JJ trailing away from Shane and Hayden with the other pitchers.

Shane turned back to his locker to grab his gloves and athletic tape, only to nearly walk smack into the winking guy.

“Uh,” Shane took a step back, “Hi.  I’m Shane.  Shane Hollander.”

“Yes,” his voice was heavy with an accent, “I know you.”

Okay.  This was weird.

“Nice to meet you, man.  Welcome to the team.”

“Ilya,” he stuck out his hand, which Shane took.  It was warm and calloused, just like his own, “Rozanov.”

“What position do you play?”

“Outfield, usually left.”

“Cool.  So, you’re a transfer?” he ducked around him, retrieving his gear and trailing after the group, “I didn’t see you on the preseason roster.”

“So many questions,” he said, almost teasing, “Last minute thing.  I needed to get out of my last school.”

“Which was?”

“Oregon State.”

“Oh,” he brightened at the mention.  Something non-weird that they could talk about, “Yeah that’s a great program.  We played you guys in the Supers a few years ago.”

“Yes,” Rozanov said dismissively, “You lost.”

“Okay,” this guy was kind of an asshole, “It’s not like I was playing.”

“Neither was I,” Ilya seemed amused by how personally Shane took his words, “I am just pointing it out.”

“Yeah well,” he was fighting the urge to speed walk ahead to catch up with Hayden, “Not this year.”

“No,” they walked out onto the field, which glittered in the late summer sun, “Because you have me on the team now.”

He walked away, leaving Shane a little confused and more than a little pissed off.

Unfortunately, Ilya Rozanov was really, really fucking good.

Shane could tell, even during drills, that he hadn’t spent the summer laying around like Hayden and Mitty, who were out of breath after two sets of wind sprints.  He kept up with Shane easily, hardly looking like he was exercising at all, and winked at him.  Again.

He looked away pointedly, and pushed himself harder, working to leave him behind.

The heat he could feel in his face was definitely because of how hard he was pushing himself and the heat of the day.  No other reason.

Coach Price kept them at it for over an hour before he had the L-screen set up, and had them warm up for batting practice.

“How does your form look so good?” Hayden complained, watching Shane swing, “I take like thirty steps back every offseason.”

“That’s because-”

“Sure looks like it,” they turned to see Rozanov smirking at them, a bat swinging loosely in his hands, his gaze still on Shane, “I can’t imagine it improves much in the season.”

“How would you know?” Hayden snapped, rising to the bait immediately.

“Because I am always top of the order, no matter where I play.”

“Right,” Hayden pointed at Shane, who very much wanted to be excluded from whatever this was, “Well you haven’t competed with him.”

“Yes,” his eyes glittered, “I know that.  Will make for an interesting preseason, yes?”

Shane rolled his eyes, and took his spot in the batter’s box, where a new assistant coach was waiting to start throwing.

It was easy enough to forget Rozanov when he was batting.  Shane relished in the stretch of his muscles, the feel of the worn tape around the bat; he was never happier than when he was here.  He hit well, the muscle memory of it coming back to him easily. 

“Nice work, Hollander,” Price said, jerking his head for Rozanov to step forward.  Shane stripped off his gloves, his bat jammed between his knees, and tried not to be too obvious in how he watched him.

He crowded the plate, and the bat was never still in his hands, moving constantly. 

Smart, Shane thought, it would be a distraction to a weaker pitcher.

Usually, players would wait for a couple pitches in practice; getting used to the speed and the direction that the coach was throwing.  But Ilya Rozanov was not most players.

The first pitch thrown cracked out of the park so violently, Shane wouldn’t be surprised if one of them went out to the parking lot and found a ball through their windshield.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, squinting against the sun so he could track its progress.

Rozanov turned in the batter’s box, and met his eyes again.  He raised his eyebrows, then looked back towards the place where the ball had left the park, lifting a hand over his eyes.

“Asshole,” Shane said, loud enough that he was sure Rozanov could hear him, and stalked back to the rest of the lineup. 

He made a point of ignoring him for the rest of practice, and hung back during the team meeting, to make sure he took a seat as far away from him as possible.  Coach Wiebe spent a couple of hours walking them through schemes and tape for their fall exhibitions and scrimmages, and Shane left the facility with Hayden, his head buzzing with diagrams and fielding placements.

“That Rozanov guy,” Hayden started on him the moment they walked into their shared apartment late in the afternoon, slinging his backpack across the room, “What a fucking dick.”

“You said it,” Shane said, putting his own backpack down carefully as he toed off his shoes, “He’s good though.”

“Yeah, he’s fucking great obviously,” Hayden threw himself down on the couch, “But did you hear what he said to Bood?”

“I was trying not to listen to him.”

“He said that now that he was here, we’d be first in the conference,” Hayden propped himself up on his elbows, evidently waiting for Shane’s reaction.

“Well that’s good,” Shane deadpanned, “If he’s the second coming of Babe Ruth, that’s good news for us.”

Hayden roared with laughter.

“You have to say that to his face.”

“I don’t want to start shit in the fall,” he shook his head, pulling a water bottle out of the fridge, “He’ll probably run out of gas in a couple of weeks.  You know how Price is.”

To Shane’s dismay however, Rozanov did not run out of gas in the weeks that followed.  On the contrary, the grueling regimen of drills and complicated meetings on scheme didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.  He seemed focused on one goal: being the top of the batting order. 

This wouldn’t have been a problem, if Shane hadn’t been eyeing the exact same thing.

Plus, he really was kind of an asshole, and had honed in on the fact that Shane was an easy target.

“Hi Hollander,” he would be leaning on the wall next to his locker at the start of every practice, “Good night?”

“I guess so.”

“Ah, so you are okay if I take top of the order in scrimmage today?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” he would say, nettled by his tone and the way it needled into Shane’s skin.

“So rude to me,” he grinned, “Not at all the team leader everyone says you are.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane would nearly sigh in relief every time Price said this, but it never stopped him; he would start right up again the next day, and never seemed to listen to any of Shane’s insults.

“Can you talk to Coach Wiebe about him?” his mother asked anxiously, when he had finally confided in her about it, “It sounds like he’s a personality problem.”

“He’s really good, that’s the problem,” Shane had splayed out on his bed, ignoring the Facility & Event Management homework he was supposed to be doing, “Like…so good.”

“He’s not better than you,” Yuna had said definitively, but Shane wasn’t so sure of that.

He was used to being the best on any team that he was on.  From tee ball to little league, up to varsity baseball in high school, he had always been the power hitter, the most dedicated fielder, the leader in the dugout and the locker room.  And he was still those things, but Rozanov was too close to him in ability for comfort.

As an added insult, Rozanov was also a leader in his own way.  He might not be with Shane, but the rest of the guys, apart from Hayden, liked him.  He was always organizing a team activity outside of practice, texting the group to meet up for drinks or dinner or a movie.

Shane should probably be a little grateful, since that was never his forte, but it just ended up being irritating.  The team expected him to be there, and he would always show, but it was messing with his carefully designed sleep and study schedule, so he went into midterms feeling a step behind where he usually was.

And it was all Rozanov’s fault.

“Hollander,” he greeted him easily the morning of their first exhibition game, “Ready for today?”

“Yeah,” he said, clipped and annoyed.  He had stayed up way too late finishing an essay for his entirely unnecessary English class that his advisor said he had put off for too long, “Fine.”

“You seem tired,” he said smoothly, “Maybe you should let me bat first.  So is not so much pressure on you.”

“In your fucking dreams, Rozanov," Shane rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a headache, "Don’t you have someone else that you can annoy?”

He smirked at him.

“Ah, but you are so easy to rile up, Hollander.  Makes things so much more fun.”

“Whatever,” he snarled, seizing his gloves and marching away from him.

This was probably the worst part about Rozanov; when the words he said took on a different tone, when they wormed their way into Shane’s chest.  He hated that he made him blush, actually fucking blush, and he hated that he knew it.

He had started leaning towards Shane when he talked like this, getting in his space, and it was overwhelming in a way that Shane couldn’t describe.

It scared the hell out of him.

He resolved not to think about it.  He was here for one reason, to make it to the MLB, everything else was fundamentally lesser in importance than that.

Especially not the Russian with blue eyes that burned brighter when he looked at Shane.