Chapter Text
The first sound is water.
Not cheering. Not commentary. Just the low, blurred thunder of a body cutting through a pool at dawn. The lights overhead shimmer and fracture across the surface, casting shifting bars along the bottom tiles.
Shane Hollander moves through the lane like something engineered. Every muscle controlled. Every breath measured. Every movement precise.
Four underwater dolphin kicks – fast, tight, symmetrical. He breaks the surface, chin low, chest pulling upward with the force of his arm sweep. Butterfly always feels like trying to fight gravity with his entire torso, but Shane loves it. Loves the clean violence of it. Loves the order.
When he hits the wall, the silence shatters.
Voices spill into the moment – coaches calling out intervals, swimmers splashing through their warm-ups, trainers snapping latex gloves, timing pads clicking against the wall. The Auburn natatorium is alive, and early morning light filters in from the tall windows.
Shane pulls off his goggles. Water drips down his face, but he barely notices. His focus is already shifting to the next task. The next drill. The next split.
Routine is oxygen. Routine is control. Routine leaves no room for anything else.
A student reporter approaches with a mic and a notebook clutched in one hand. The Auburn athletics department has been pushing these preseason human-interest features hard – highlight your stars, sell the program, build a story – and Shane is too polite, too perfectly media-friendly to refuse.
The girl smiles nervously. “Shane? Can we do your quick intro now?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice even. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The camera is already rolling. A bright LED panel clicks on.
Shane has his answers preloaded, the same way he memorizes set pacing.
“What are your goals for this meet? Any special strategies to take down Alabama?”
“Refine my stroke transitions. Improve the second half of my 200 fly. Trust the training plan.”
“What about outside the pool?”
Shane blinks once. He wasn’t expecting that question.
Coach Curt subtly shakes his head behind the camera – don’t stray, don’t improvise, don’t give them anything that requires management later.
“School, mostly,” Shane says, tone clean and measured. “Keeping balanced. Making sure I’m ready for SECs. That’s the priority.
The girl nods, relieved by his simplicity, then leaves to interview someone more talkative.
Shane squeezes the bridge of his nose. His shoulders twitch the faintest bit, like invisible strings tug tight. Anxiety disguised as focus. Focus disguised as perfection.
No one on earth would ever guess he’s nervous.
Warm-up passes in a haze of structured motion.
He downs water with electrolyte powder, grimaces at the taste, wipes the inside of his goggles with anti-fog. His teammates shout around him – music, jokes, trash talk – but it all stays outside his bubble.
This is Shane’s sanctuary: the lane, the work, the quiet between his pulse beats.
It’s easy, usually, to ignore anything that isn’t part of the checklist.
Today, though, something feels… different.
Like electricity humming just under the pool deck tile. Like the air is thicker than it should be.
He tells himself it’s early-season nerves.
He tells himself it’s nothing.
He’s adjusting his cap – thumb smoothing the crease along the silicone – when the atmosphere shifts. First a murmur. Then a ripple. Then a full wave of attention swinging toward the entrance.
Shane doesn’t turn. He focuses on the cap. On the feeling of it snapping into place.
But the noise keeps rising. Whispers first. Then recognition.
“Holy shit – Alabama’s here?”
“Bro, look – look – it’s him.”
“That’s Rozanov. I swear he teleports.”
“No way that dude negative-split a 200 fly. That’s an urban legend.”
A teammate mispronounces the name, stretching it into something clumsy.
Shane corrects automatically. “It’s Ro-zah-nov.”
His teammate pauses. “How do you know that?”
Shane straightens and grabs his water bottle.
“I read psych sheets,” he lies.
He dives in the cooldown lane before anyone can comment, the shock of cool water swallowing his embarrassment whole.
The rest of warm-ups become noise and motion. Flip turns. Underwaters. Pullouts. More drills. More structure.
At one point, between sets, Shane rests his arms on the lane line and hears a laugh – low and sharp. It’s not loud, but it slices though every other sound like a blade.
He forces himself not to look.
He refuses to give attention to someone who thrives on it.
Even if the air shifts when that someone walks by his lane.
Even if chlorine suddenly smells like adrenaline.
Shane needs the focus. Needs the tunnel vision. Needs to be stronger than distraction.
He is stronger than distraction.
He is.
—
By the time the whistle blows for the 100 fly, the natatorium feels like it’s holding its breath.
Auburn teammates slap each other’s shoulders. Alabama swimmers shout over one another as they strip down to jammers. Coaches mutter about pace strategies and tempos.
But when Shane steps behind his starting block, everything inside him goes still.
Lane four. His lane. His place.
The announcer calls their names. Each one bounces off the walls, echoing around the vaulted ceiling.
“... in lane four, for Auburn – the six-foot-three freshman from Ottawa, Canada… SHANE HOLLANDER!”
The cheers rise. Shane barely hears them.
“And in lane five, for Alabama – the six-foot-four junior from Moscow, Russia… ILYA ROZANOV!”
The cheers turn into something else. Curiosity. Anticipation. Maybe even a little fear.
Rozanov steps up to his block like he’s walking into an arena. A half-zipped crimson parka hanging off his shoulders. Hair dripping. Eyes bright with barely-concealed static.
He looks loose. Effortless. Dangerous.
Shane sets his jaw, straightens his spine, focuses on the water.
But Rozanov moves closer – just enough.
“Try not to drown, Hollander,” he murmurs.
His voice is quiet but carries – smooth, accented, annoyingly amused.
Shane breathes out. Controlled. Cool.
He doesn’t respond. He won’t give him the satisfaction.
The official raises the whistle.
“Swimmers to your blocks.”
Shane steps up. Sets his feet. Grips the edge.
“Take your mark –”
Silence.
“BEEP.”
He dives hard.
The air tears away. The water slams into him. Everything clicks.
Underwater kicks: perfect. Breakout: clean. Tempo: high and tight. Arms: slicing the water in lethal arcs.
He hears the crowd dim behind the pounding in his ears.
“Hollander in four! Rozanov in five! Unbelievable pace –”
He doesn’t look sideways. He doesn’t need to.
He can feel Rozanov’s presence like a second heartbeat in the water.
Halfway. Three-quarters. Everything burns.
Shane pushes harder.
The last turn is vicious – water exploding around them as they sprint toward the wall.
The world narrows to a single point:
Reach. Hold. Finish.
Hands slam the timing pad.
Shane gasps. Heart hammering. Arms shaking.
He looks up.
The scoreboard flickers.
Lane 5 – Rozanov – 40.12
Lane 4 – Hollander – 40.15
Three-hundredths.
Shane stares at the numbers. His brain is blank. His body is on fire.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t curse. Doesn’t show a single crack.
He pulls himself out of the pool with absolute composure, water streaming off him in shimmering arcs.
His teammates cheer anyway. They clap his back. Tell him hell of a swim. Tell him it’s early season. Tell him he’ll get it next time.
Shane nods. He knows he will. That’s the last time he loses to the Russian.
As he steps away from the blocks, something catches his attention. A movement. A weight. A gaze.
He turns his head a fraction.
Ilya Rozanov stands a few feet away, towel slung around his neck, curls dripping. His breathing is still heavy, his chest rising and falling.
And he’s watching Shane.
Not mockingly. Not theatrically. Just… pointedly.
He raises an eyebrow – barely. A ghost of a smirk curves one corner of his mouth.
Acknowledgement. Challenge. Invitation. Threat.
Shane looks away immediately.
He’s not falling into this. He’s not giving him anything.
Not today. Not ever.
—
After the meet, the noise gradually dies. The bleachers empty. The teams trickle into locker rooms. The camera crew packs up.
Shane stays behind.
He sits on the edge of the deck, legs hanging in the water, staring at the ripples spreading lazily across the pool surface. He runs his thumb along the edge of his wrist where his whoop band had pressed into the skin.
The paper his coach handed him sits next to him. His splits stare back at him. Fast. Consistent. Competitive.
But not enough.
He exhales slowly. Long. Even.
He’ll fix it. He’ll adjust. He’ll get stronger. He always does.
The water keeps moving. So does Shane’s pulse.
He tells himself it’s adrenaline.
It’s not about Ilya Rozanov.
High above the deck, on the upper viewing platform where the last of the spectators are filtering out, someone else stays behind.
Ilya Rozanov leans on the railing, hair still dripping. His teammates, likely still downstairs, shouting in the hallway, celebrating their narrow win.
He stays, watching the lone Auburn swimmer sitting by the pool, wrapped in quiet and chlorine and frustration.
His lips curve – slowly, thoughtfully.
Then he turns, melting into the shadows of the Auburn halls without a sound, leaving Shane Hollander, still alone at the water’s edge.