Work Text:
It began like any other day.
Mason Rollans, veteran catcher for the Nashville Notes, had left his apartment over the Bass Notes Bar early, like always, to get in before the rest of the team and review stats for the upcoming doubleheader that weekend. The team manager, Paul Skipher had pushed for additional practices—a rarity, really, only possible since they had the privilege of a long rest beforehand. The Notes had been on a winning streak the past few games, but with each new field they conquered the margins were getting narrower. A fact that, for the most part, the rest of the players hadn’t noticed.
That, in Mason’s mind, was the problem. For as much as he tried to push the team to do their best every game, there was no beast like complacency.
And, while he was the most veteran player on the team, he could only do so much as the catcher to motivate them. The rest was on the shoulders of the coaching staff and, perhaps more so, the rest of the players.
All of whom were, to their credit, only complaining about every other drill and play they were asked to run.
Well, almost all of them.
Mason winced as he knees popped coming out of a crouch behind home plate. He waved Keifer and the batter who’d been helping with Live BP off to stretch after several rounds of running through the pitcher’s full repertoire but, when he turned to call out the next pitcher in their rotation, he frowned.
Steve Dixon was nowhere to be seen.
And, while it was true that Dixon was no morning person—often showing up to morning practice with his hair still slightly mussed, clutching a travel mug of coffee so large it was comical—he had never just not shown up, had never even been late.
Steve Dixon had only been with the Notes for around two dozen games so far, having been called up from the minors mid-season when Luke Postner was sent down to Boulder to work out his mechanics issues without tanking his ERA and the team’s record. Normally, the mid-season replacements were short-lived loner-types—either by choice or necessity. When a veteran pitcher like Postner was sent away to deal with their mechanics rather than just calling them in for extra practice, it was a clear symptom of some deeper rift with the team’s goals. That rift meant there was always a chance that whoever got called up would end up being a permanent replacement, rather than just filling in through the main season. Usually, the pressures forced the temporary pitcher to dig in, try to prove himself, often at the expense of the slow settling required to fit in with the team culture. Meanwhile, no team wanted to lose someone they had good history with, so the rest of the guys would often shut out the replacement, leaving him little option to join in even if he did have the good sense to set his ego aside.
That’s what usually happened, at least.
But with Steve Dixon, things had been different. And Mason didn’t think that just because he still caught himself thinking about that night he and Steve had flirted across the bar before Steve met the team and found out who Mason really was or because Postner had always been a bit of a bastard and the rest of the guys would be none too sad to see him go—well, it may have been mostly that. No. It was because Steve Dixon showed up, did the work, and fit right in—and, Mason could admit, looked damn good—while doing it.
Maybe that sort of team-focused attitude was just what happened when a thirty-two-year-old rookie was called up for the first time, or maybe it was just Steve’s unique blend of steady dedication to the game and willingness to throw a comeback as easily as the cutter that got him noticed in the first place. Either way, Steve Dixon had found his home with the Notes—so long as Mason was concerned, at least—and with each game it seemed even more sure that he was there to stay.
Which was why it was damn frustrating that he was nowhere to be found.
“Hey, Gordon!” Mason called out to the first baseman talking through the errors made in the infield last game. “Why don’t you run through those fixes now. I gotta check on something.”
“Who died and made you coach?” Gordon snapped back, though his grin grew wider as he pushed his glasses back into place. Both he and Mason may not have any formal sway over team decisions, the coaches all trusted them enough to know what areas needed the most work and to get that work done, especially in supplementary practices like that one. Gordon turned back to the other infielders and waved them towards the field. “You heard him!”
To their credit, only half of them drug their feet.
“You gonna have Keifer set up the tosses?” Gordon asked, nodding to where the man in question was running through cool-down stretches with their lead pitching coach, Johnny.
“Rather not,” Mason shook his head with a scowl as his eyes drifted towards the gate that would lead back into the locker room—still no sign of Steve. “Dixon’s still missin’ though, so I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
“He didn’t tell you he’d be late?” Gordon’s tone sounded innocent enough, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth left Mason wary.
“He tell you something?”
“No.” Gordon broke out into a smirk. “But the two of you have been getting close lately. Thought he might’ve told you something.”
“He’s got potential to be our new ace. It’s my job to make sure that happens,” Mason replied cooly in spite of the burning he could feel at the back of his neck.
It was true enough; without a good rapport between the pitcher and catcher, neither could truly be great, and Mason would fight like hell before he let a new pitcher throw off what would likely be the last season of his career. Dixon likely knew that Mason, at thirty-eight with knees louder than firecrackers, was closer to retirement than not—though none of the guys knew truly how close—so the pair of them had pushed hard. Whether it was working on the field or staying at the clubhouse late going over mechanics, stats, or strategies, Mason had never had a more dedicated pitcher than Steve Dixon. Even when Steve joked that he only hung around until Mason called it a night to make sure Mason himself didn’t end up falling asleep under a pile of notecards.
Which had only happened once.
Maybe twice.
That Steve knew about.
But that was beside the point. Mason knew all too well what Gordon was insinuating, knew that all the other guys on the team who paid attention thought it odd that Mason spent more one-on-one time with the new pitcher outside of practice than he’d ever spent with a player before, but their relationship was purely professional. It had to be. No matter what. Even though that night at the bar, Steve had flirted with him first. Even though Mason had flirted back. Especially because of that.
“Right,” Gordon replied, slow and skeptical. His gaze drifted over Mason’s shoulder and he nodded. “Then you better get your man and get to work.”
Mason leveled a glare at Gordon for a solid second, more to keep from looking too eager when finally he turned to see Steve jogging out onto the field towards them, stretching as he went. For just three steps—some time to let Steve get warmed up, he’d tell himself—Mason let himself look. Look at the way the late morning sun glowed against Steve’s tanned skin, how his team-branded shirt pulled tight across his shoulders and around his arms, how his body moved with that practiced ease of an athlete at their peak.
And then Gordon cleared his throat and Mason shook all unprofessional thoughts out of his head.
“Dixon,” Mason shouted as he crossed the field intending to meet Steve halfway to the mound, “you’re late!”
“Sorry, traffic,” Steve called back, his tone so short and clipped, Mason stopped in his tracks.
“You been in the city how long?” Mason tried to joke back as he waited for Steve to stop with him to catch up on what he’d missed in practice so far. “Ain’t used to the traffic yet?”
But rather than stop, rather than laugh and either joke back or roll his eyes, Steve just kept walking. His shoulder nearly knocked right into Mason as he brushed past, muttering, “There was an accident. Won’t happen again.”
Mason frowned as he watched Steve stalk over to the mound, giving only the barest of nods to the rest of the players who greeted him on his way. It wasn’t the first time Steve had let a foul mood follow him onto the field. They’d only been teammates a short while, but already Mason knew the other man had a temper that’d put a cornered mutt to shame. Anytime his throws got away from him, if he got pulled mid-inning, or if he thought Mason’s calls were forcing him into a corner, Steve wouldn’t hesitate to make his frustration known. He may have had less of an ego than most rookies, but Steve Dixon was as stubborn as they came. Usually, though, it was for a reason.
But Steve had been steady in his last few games, was already set as their starter for the next, and Mason knew that whatever shit the other guys had given him for being late couldn’t be any worse than the teasing that had ensued when they’d caught Dixon singing along to Dolly Parton in his car in the clubhouse parking lot last week. So far as Mason could tell, whatever had Steve on edge had nothing to do with practice or the team at all.
Which meant it was none of Mason’s business.
Or, at least, it shouldn’t have been any of Mason’s business. But the second Dixon’s first warm-up pitch forced Mason to pop out of a crouch just to catch it, he knew it was going to be a problem.
If they had just been working on mechanics, it would’ve been fine. The extra heat Dixon was putting behind each throw that made them pull wide, the uncontrolled spin, the broken frames, all of that could have been worked out with patience if the goal of that practice had been to experiment and refine the throws themselves. But it wasn’t.
Steve was Mason’s go-to pitcher when working out errors in the infield for one simple reason: predictability. When the infield needed work, the best path forward was to recreate the plays that caused the problem in the first place and the closer they could get to game conditions the better. In order to achieve that, they needed predictable pitches thrown with the goal of setting up a batter with enough control to hit the ball wherever they needed it to go.
What they didn’t need was a pitcher ignoring the signs that were called and throwing like he was trying to dig himself out of a hole.
“Hey, take five,” Mason called out to the guys on the field, struggling to hide his frustration after Steve’s fastball nearly beamed the batter, Scott, right in the hip. Standing, he waved Steve over towards the mound. “Dixon, c’mere.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened with that last throw,” Steve explained with a scowl before he’d even come to a stop by home plate. “I think I just—”
“How’s your shoulder?” Mason cut him off abruptly with a pointed glance toward where Steve had been absentmindedly rubbing the bend between his neck and shoulder. The only reason Dixon hadn’t made it to the majors before his thirties was because he’d had to have his shoulder surgically repaired after an accident four years prior. He’d beaten the odds to even be able to play again, but most teams still felt he was too big of a risk. Until the Notes, at least. “I know you didn’t get a proper warm-up. I can get Keifer to—”
“It’s fine,” Steve snapped, pausing, breathing, then continuing at a softer level, “I’m fine. Just… just need to keep throwing.”
Mason kept his expression clear and stern even as something about Steve’s words caught in his head. Steve Dixon was a stubborn bastard when it came to taking him out of a game but in practice? Well, Mason would never dare call Dixon lazy or a slacker, but there was a reason Gordon poked fun at Steve staying so late to talk through games with Mason when the pitcher usually had no qualms about cutting out early with the rest of the guys anytime the option was given. He wasn’t the type to push until breaking for every little thing. Not usually, at least.
“Alright,” Mason allowed, hesitantly nodding for Steve to head back, “just don’t take whatever’s going on up there out on us.”
Steve flinched when Mason lifted up his gloved hand to tap him on the forehead.
Mason froze, but before he could open his mouth to apologize for whatever line he’d crossed, Steve was already turning on his heel with a hurried, “Yes, sir.”
If it had been anyone else on any other day, Mason would’ve given him shit for that sir business, but it was Steve—who never mouthed off unless it was with that cocky smile of his—and the way he said it was just so…
Wrong.
There was something wrong.
And it wasn’t just the short tone or the sir bullshit. It was something about how Dixon kept digging in at the mound, cleats tearing at the dirt. Something in the way he kept rolling his shoulders back and shaking out his hands before and after every pitch. Usually watching Dixon on the mound was like watching sun on still water. Calm, steady, beautiful.
But today…
Today, something just wasn’t right.
Only… it was only practice, and Steve was fighting his way through just as many good pitches as he was bad. It was only practice, and far too many guys on the team had already caught on to the way Mason and Steve gravitated towards each other. It was only practice, they were only teammates, and Mason wasn’t about to push where he wasn’t wanted.
“What the hell, Dixon!”
Mason barely had time to jump up and grab Scott’s shoulder before the batter took more than two steps towards the mound, looking for a fight. Not that the reaction wasn’t warranted; if Mason had had to use a bat as a shield against a fastball headed straight at his chin from his own pitcher, he’d probably want to let off some steam, too.
“I’ll talk to him,” Mason told Scott firmly enough he wouldn’t argue. He pretended he didn’t hear the curse the better muttered under his breath.
“Slipped out of my grip.” Steve didn’t even look up as Mason approached. He just kept his head down, shaking out his hands and wiping his palms on his pants. “Won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t.” Mason’s tone must’ve caught his attention, because Steve stopped his constant fidgeting—only for a moment—and met his eyes. “Inside. Now.”
“What?”
“Now.” Mason turned to the side and gestured towards the clubhouse, arching a brow at Steve until he finally stalked past.
All too aware of the rest of the guys watching them as Steve stormed off away from the field, Mason made sure to keep his expression firm, clear.
They didn’t need to know that, beneath the frustration and very real annoyance at having to break up fights between their own players, Mason was worried.
“In here.” Mason pointed to the exam rooms. He knew they’d be empty, the full staff not present for a practice since there was an EMT on standby on the field.
Steve glared at him, refusing to walk inside. “I told you, it’s fine.”
Mason cocked his head and opened the door. They stood there, at an impasse, until Steve finally went inside, grumbling curse words in Spanish he probably assumed Mason wouldn’t know.
“’atta boy.” Mason didn’t bother to hide his laugh when Steve scowled at him at that. “Now, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Steve shrugged. He held out his right arm and moved it in all the familiar motions the trainers did to prove he had a full range of motion. “See?”
“Okay.” Mason nodded and moved so he was standing with crossed arms between Steve and the door. “Then tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.”
“Sit.”
Steve sat on the exam table, his back rigid, his hands fisted on his knees. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Mason crossed the room, stopping when Steve started to stand. “’less you want me to call medical staff in here?”
Steve sat back on the table without another word.
“Just gonna check for swelling,” Mason explained before approaching again. He waited until Steve nodded, still remembering the way Dixon flinched when he’d tapped his forehead out on the field, before reaching out to lightly feel for any warmth or signs of inflammation around Steve’s shoulder.
Mason had dealt with enough close calls with his knees throughout his career to know the heat and tenderness of a budding strain. While the medical staff had more training, if they ordered any sort of official examinations it could put Dixon under scrutiny and cause more speculation. Steve seemed on edge enough as it was; Mason wanted to save him the added pressure if he could.
“Tell me if it hurts,” Mason instructed as he put one hand flat against the back of Steve’s shoulder and stared to press gently at all the usual points for a strain.
Steve shrugged under Mason’s touch. “I told you it’s fi—”
“Dixon.”
Steve’s mouth snapped shut.
Mason couldn’t help but smirk, muttering under his breath, “If looks could kill.”
“Then maybe I’d be able to get back on the field sooner,” Steve grumbled.
Mason laughed, loud in the empty room. “That’s the Steve Dixon I know.”
Steve shot him another exasperated look but otherwise kept quiet.
Trying to be as careful as possible in case there was something wrong, Mason continued pressing along Steve’s shoulder. Even through the fabric of Steve’s shirt, Mason could feel the warmth of his skin, the slight tremor of the muscles underneath, and he felt the sudden urge to hold his breath.
It was strange. Mason had seen Steve shirtless plenty of times changing in the locker room, had long grown out of being unable to look away from the guys or girls he found most attractive, but the door was closed and the room was silent except for the sound of their breaths and there was just something about Steve that—
“You’re shaking.” Mason paused, pressing one hand on Steve’s back, the other on his upper arm. He felt another tremor run through Steve’s body and saw his hands shaking as he twisted them in his lap. Before he could think better of it, Mason slid his hand down from Steve’s arm to hold his wrist. “Dixon. Talk to me.”
“It’s not—” Steve broke off with a sharp breath. “Just, let me play, it’ll be fine.”
“Steve.” Mason stepped around the side of the table and crouched down in front of Steve, keeping one hand on the other man’s wrist. “I ain’t gonna let you out there until you tell me what’s going through that head of yours.”
“Not fair.” Steve’s shoulders slumped slightly.
Mason wasn’t quite sure if he was referring to the threat or the Tennessee drawl Mason may have intentionally emphasized—it wasn’t his fault Steve always seemed to settle a little more when he used it. Either way, Mason took it as a victory.
“I know.” He thought about taking his hand off of Steve’s wrist. But the door was closed and Steve didn’t seem to mind. “Better start talkin’.”
“God, this is stupid,” Steve groaned, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands, effectively pulling free from Mason’s touch.
Mason brought his hand back to himself. “Doubt it. Tell me anyway.”
Steve remained silent for another moment before nodding to himself. “This morning, on the drive over, the accident…”
Dread pushed Mason to his feet as Steve curved his shoulders in on himself. “Were you—”
“The car in front of me.” Steve shook his head. When he looked up, it was like he was looking through him. “Someone ran a red light. If I had been one car sooner, I… it would’ve…”
“It wasn’t,” Mason said, his voice a bit rougher than he’d meant it. Hesitantly, he asked, “Was it… did anyone…?”
“They were all fine, far as I could tell.” Steve wrapped his arms around himself, gripping his own arms so tight his knuckles turned white. “It didn’t even look that bad, but all… all I could… it just made me think—”
Steve’s breath caught in his throat, his entire body shuddering as he closed his eyes and shook his head.
For just a second, Mason stood there unmoving, confused, then he noticed Steve holding tight to his own shoulder and—
Oh.
Of course.
It wasn’t just a normal sports injury that had nearly ended Steve Dixon’s career before it even began. No, it was a car accident. An accident that landed Steve in the hospital and his wife—
Mason had read into the accident when he heard Skipher had signed a new pitcher. A single paragraph on Dixon’s Wikipedia page. A single paragraph Mason had hardly given thought to outside of the implications the surgery would have for Dixon’s ability to perform. Only a paragraph and a brief pang of sympathy for the accident that had killed his—
“Fuck,” Steve muttered between increasingly panicked breaths. He opened his eyes, his deep brown gaze falling helplessly on Mason. “It’s been four… four years, and… and I thought… hadn’t thought—”
“Hey.” Mason stepped in close and put his hands on Steve’s arms, trying to pull his focus away from the panic. “Steve. It’s alright. You’re alright.”
“I just wanted to—” Steve curled in on himself even more, rocking slightly as he broke Mason’s gaze. “I thought if I… I could just keep throwing… if I could forget—”
“It don’t work like that, darlin’.” The endearment slipped through before Mason could stop it, but if Steve noticed he didn’t react.
Instead, his breath seemed to come faster, totally heedless of the soothing circles Mason was trying to press into his arms. Unsure what to do, but more than certain Dixon was headed towards a full-blown panic attack, Mason let go of Steve’s arms and pulled him against his chest.
Steve’s entire body went rigid except for the all-too-quick breaths Mason felt sending chills against his neck. Mason wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders, running one hand slowly up and down his back.
“C’mon darlin’, steady now,” Mason murmured; he figured if he’d already crossed that line, might as well go the distance. “Take a breath with me, that’s it.”
He felt Steve struggle to steady his breathing. Short gasps, but holding still in between like he couldn’t breathe deep enough. Mason held him closer, the hand moving along Steve’s back shifting to the base of his neck.
“You said they were alright, right?” Mason kept his voice low, trying to keep his own nerves out of it. He paused, waiting until he felt Steve nod against his chest, before continuing, “See? They’re okay. And you’re alright now, too. Just here with me, darlin’, you’re alright here with me.”
Steve shook his head and pulled back just slightly, just enough that Mason started to step back, worried he’d gone too far, but the second Mason loosened his hold, Steve reached out and pulled him back into a hug. And even though Steve had started crying in earnest, Mason still let out a breath of relief as he held the other man close.
At least Steve’s breaths seemed steadier, at least he had stopped shaking.
“That’s it.” Mason turned his head and rested his cheek on top of Steve’s head, keeping an eye on the door as he continued to murmur, “I’m here. I’ve got ya, darlin’.”
Mason wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, how long until Steve’s breathing finally evened out and his hands stopped shaking. Truthfully, it was a minor miracle none of their coaches or teammates had come looking for them, though Mason suspected he had Gordon to thank for that.
It didn’t matter, though. He’d gone through too many nightmares alone—both awake and asleep. He’d stand there as long as it took.
“S-sorry,” Steve sniffled, his face still tucked against Mason’s shoulder. “Shit, I really thought I could—”
“You don’t gotta apologize to me,” Mason chuckled. “You don’t have to be or do anything, either. No one’s gonna fault you for this, darlin’. We all fall apart sometimes.”
“Not your job to deal with it, though.” Steve grimaced as he sat back and pulled out of Mason’s embrace, wiping at his cheeks with the heel of his hand.
“Kinda is, though,” Mason caught Steve’s bemused smile even though he meant every word, no matter how cliché it sounded, “catcher’s job to watch out for their pitcher.”
Steve snorted, shaking his head; Mason didn’t bother pushing how sincere he’d been. “You sound ridiculous, you know that, right?”
Mason shrugged and let it slide. “Made you laugh, though.”
The tenuous smile on Steve’s face faded slightly, giving way to something softer, more confused. “About that… the, uh, ‘darlin,’ you…”
“If I crossed a line, Steve, I’m sorry,” Mason tried not to show his disappointment so obviously as he took half a step back. “Truth be told, I didn’t really know—”
“No, no, it’s not that, I…” Steve reached out and caught Mason’s wrist to hold him in place. They both looked down at his hand, Mason staying perfectly still as Steve let his fingers trail over the back of Mason’s hand, loosely interlacing their fingers before dropping his hand to his lap. “I just didn’t know, I didn’t think you’d want to… after that night at the bar…”
Steve trailed off with a shrug.
For a second Mason considered taking the out, playing off the endearment like just a last-ditch effort to keep a teammate calm, but—
Well, Dixon wasn’t an idiot, and he was pretty sure they’d both know if he gave anything but the truth.
So, Mason nodded. “I have a rule not to get involved with teammates. Stakes are too high.”
“I figured,” Steve offered him a shaky smile, “but then—”
“But I meant what I said, darlin’,” Mason admitted, watching Steve’s expression closely—he looked a bit like a hopeful puppy dog, big brown eyes and a furrowed brow.
Part of him wanted to tell Steve right then that he was planning on retiring after that season, that once the winter came Mason Rollans would no longer be a catcher for the Notes, that he’d be just another man in the heart of Nashville, just another man with a weakness for brown eyes, heart, and a love of the game.
All he said instead, though, was, “I’ve got you, if you want me to.”
Steve chuckled, breathless and unsteady, but his smile was sincere. “You really think I’d say no?”
The question, too, was sincere. An edge of disbelief that Mason could ever think himself unwanted. Mason shrugged, keenly aware that the fluorescent lights above would do no good in hiding the color in his cheeks.
“You know if the guys saw you like this, they’d stop accidentally calling you ‘sir’ in a heartbeat.” Steve smirked before closing his eyes and taking a deep steady breath.
“There’s the Dixon I know.” Mason smiled, soft, as he thought back to all the late nights they’d spent at the clubhouse together.
It was work, then, of course, but it also… wasn’t. Aside from Gordon, who’d known him almost half his life, Steve was the only one Mason had let see him as he was. Stressed, flawed, insecure. He was just glad he could return the favor.
“So, what do you say?” Mason asked, offering Steve his hand. “Ready to play some ball?”
Steve nodded, but instead of taking Mason’s hand and standing, he tugged Mason closer and leaned against his shoulder. “Think they’d mind if we took another minute?”
“Nah,” Mason shook his head, even though he was sure Gordon would expect some sort of favor down the line. Once they stepped out of those doors, the risks, the lines he’d drawn, would have to come back into play. So, he let them both rest, just for a moment. “We’ll take as much time as you’d like, darlin’. As much time as you’d like.”
The End