Page 21 of Breakout Year

Eitan

u/eerie_erie: Well well well look who’s on TV eating crow about our fair city

u/eerie_erie: *yawn* Call us when you don’t have to buy a championship

Eight Hours Earlier

The morning after they’d gone out, Eitan got into his car and contemplated it for exactly five seconds before deciding he was still too hungover to drive.

So he flagged down a cab. His driver Wanda must have sensed his hangover, because she let Eitan groan in the backseat with his sunglasses on and earbuds in, which were playing a gentle sort of nothing, and didn’t try to make conversation.

Wanda was a gem. Best person in New York, really.

At least his tea had cooled down from boiling to perfect. When he’d left, Akiva had been drinking a cup of coffee. If we kissed, his mouth would taste like sugar . A thought Eitan should clear like steam but didn’t.

At the ballpark, Eitan got out quickly, tipped extravagantly, and shuffled into the clubhouse to find Isabel there, ready to yank him for his interview.

She gave him an interrogative look. “You couldn’t have slept?”

“I got as much sleep as I normally do.”

She pinched her nose. “Okay, you are going to go shave, change, and drink something with electrolytes. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

“I shaved last night.” But Eitan went.

He shaved over the bathroom sink. His skin probably wouldn’t forgive him for this.

Especially when he hit a patch that was especially sensitized—shit, stubble burn from Akiva’s jaw against his, which was what happened when you drank and then decided that your friend’s face was the best thing you’d ever seen.

Eitan didn’t groan. Or didn’t groan too loud, in case Isabel was still around.

He survived the rest of his shave, survived changing into the street clothes he kept ironed in his stall for emergencies, survived drinking a half a bottle of Gatorade in one go.

When he was done, he hailed Isabel via text.

She must have been waiting in a clubhouse office because she emerged from a nearby hallway.

“Wow, you look almost human. C’mon.” She led him to the media room, which was mercifully empty, waited until he seated himself at the table with the mic pointed at him. “I figured we’d give you some practice before the real deal.”

Some of the nerves zinging in Eitan’s belly zinged a little less. “Thank you. You were right, by the way. I feel better now. Won’t happen again.”

“You think you’re the first ballplayer who’s shown up to the clubhouse looking like something we scraped off the floor?” She shrugged. “And you’re welcome. You might thank me less once you hear what we’re doing.”

Eitan made a ruh-roh noise like Scooby-Doo then sank his head slowly into his hands with the mortification of a grown man with a hangover who’d just made a ruh-roh noise like Scooby-Doo. “Can’t wait.”

It was a good thing he deserved Isabel laughing at him because that was what he got. “I asked your teammates to volunteer to help.”

His teammates. Who he hadn’t heard from since last night beyond the normal chatter of the group text, none of which had been aimed at him.

Eitan looked around the room, which still contained no one other than Isabel and himself.

But now it was an emptier sort of no one.

His stomach burned, and it had nothing to do with the vodka-tea-Gatorade combo he’d put in it.

His teammates had seemed cool last night—they’d shouted a few encouragements at Akiva, but perhaps those were attributable to being in a dark, liquor-filled room.

Different from wanting to help Eitan out in the bright light of day.

It wasn’t like Eitan had done much for them, really, other than showing up and making a mess.

And winning , though right now that was less important.

He squared his shoulders, put on his best press-conference grin. Pushing your tongue behind your teeth helped with nausea too, it turned out. “Guess not,” he said.

Isabel’s face flickered through a series of expressions—reassurance, mostly, which hurt more than simply moving on—when the press-room door opened and Williams sauntered in.

He seated himself in the first row like he was a reporter about to ask Eitan a question.

He must not have gone home last night, judging by his layer of stubble.

And the cowboy hat, clearly sized for a woman, that was seated on his head like a trophy. A patina of glitter coated his face.

Isabel rose. “I’ll be back in a second.” She gave them both another look. “With Gatorade. Or possibly an IV.”

After she’d left, Eitan nodded to Williams. “Nice hat.”

Williams’s answering thanks sounded rough.

“Late night?” Eitan teased.

“I could say the same. You and your friend make it home okay?”

Friend . Which was what Akiva was, technically.

Someone with whom Eitan shared a contractually mandated secret and a series of blurry pictures that fans posted on Instagram.

Or maybe Williams was uncomfortable with boyfriend .

“Yeah, he crashed at my place.” Maybe too much info: it was possible Williams would do a straight-guy flinch, would issue an I didn’t need to know that like even mentioning a bed—if only by implication—was somehow salacious. “He lives in Newark.”

“Jersey?” Williams said. “That’s a long way to go.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Williams’s mustache looked amused. “He must really like you, huh?”

It’s not like that . Eitan had dropped Akiva into his guest bed and helped him kick off his shoes, then had a very normal night staring at his bedroom ceiling and not thinking about Akiva’s lips, or stomach, or the way Akiva had wound his arm around Eitan’s shoulders while dancing, or the strange urge he had to see the inside of Akiva’s house. “Yeah, I guess.”

Williams laughed at him indulgently. “You got it bad, man.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Williams shrugged. “Seems like a nice guy.” Even if Eitan wasn’t sure Williams and Akiva had exchanged two words all night.

And oh , this was Williams giving him the exact amount of shit he might any other player.

An anxiety—that guys would be cool with him only to a point—that evaporated along with the rest of Eitan’s hangover.

“How about you?” Eitan asked. “You out making friends?”

Williams snorted. “You ever meet someone and end up putting them in your phone as like Sarah Cowgirl-Hat? ”

“Sarah Cowgirl-Hat?”

“And Sarah Cowgirl-Hat’s friend .” Williams shrugged. “That’s how my night was.”

Eitan’s brain autofilled: Akiva Arizona. Akiva Contract. Akiva I Want To Put My Tongue In His Ear . Akiva…

“Eitan,” Isabel said, returning, “what’s that thing sitting on the table in front of you?”

Eitan looked down at the black standing mic seated in front of him as if this was a trick question. “A microphone?”

“Is there a light on at its base?”

“Yes?” He looked around. “There’s no one in here.”

Isabel wiped a hand down her face. Eitan should probably get her another fruit bouquet, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done wrong. “Sorry?” he said.

She sighed heavily. “Assume that if there’s a microphone—even if it’s not on, which that one is—someone is listening. It’s not only for your privacy.”

Now Eitan was definitely gonna get her another fruit bouquet, even if Akiva technically signed up to have his business spread everywhere. “Noted.” He folded his hands in front of him, gave the room his best media smile. “What questions do you have?”

Williams took a series of note cards Isabel handed him, shuffled through them, then shot up a hand. “What percent better would you say New York is than Cleveland?”

“Uh.” Eitan scrambled for a number that seemed sufficiently high. “Eighty?”

Isabel flopped into a chair. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

“Seems like you’re enjoying New York,” Camilla said. She’d volunteered to be his interviewer—his interrogator, really—for a segment that would be broadcast all over New York.

If he hadn’t just spent that morning with Isabel drilling him on what reporters’ questions were actually saying, he would have just nodded gamely and agreed. Now her voice came to him like a translator. Camilla means you got caught partying in public .

“I’m having a great time.” Eitan smiled at the camera. Isabel’s advice: Address the audience not the questioner . “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know my teammates and playing for the fans. Plus, bodega sandwiches—top-notch.”

“Well, you’ve taken to the lifestyle.”

Eitan searched for an answer that was more diplomatic than, Why are we acting like I’m the first ballplayer to get traded or go to the club? “Yep,” he agreed. When in doubt, pander. “It’s great living near so many bookstores. And I’ve almost figured out the subway.”

Camilla, to her credit, laughed. “You’ve made quite a splash since you’ve been here.”

Though splash sounded a lot like crash-landed .

“Just to set the record straight,” Eitan began, and Camilla leaned forward, a move probably designed to make Eitan trust her or at least forget about the camera, “I do really like New York. But when I first got here, I may have given people a mistaken impression.”

Now her lean wasn’t just a lean. It was out-and-out interest.

“I loved playing in Cleveland,” he said.

“Because I love the city. It’ll always be the place where I’m from, and if I gave people an impression otherwise, I apologize.

” A line he’d spent the better part of the day running through.

That rehearsal didn’t keep his throat from tightening, not because he was lying, but because he was telling the truth.

He loved the city; it still didn’t love him back, if social media was to be believed.

Camilla shifted in her chair, clearly disappointed that he hadn’t said anything she found particularly surprising. Was he kind of acing this?

“Anything else you’ve enjoyed about your time in New York?” Camilla asked.

“Well, I’ve been fortunate enough to reconnect with some old friends.” The words slipped out before Eitan could stop them. But that should be sufficiently vague, right? Friends could mean anyone.

“Really? Any friend in particular?” Asked innocuously enough, except for a knowing glint in her eye.

Was it possible she’d seen the pictures of Akiva and put two and two together and had come up with not just Eitan Rivkin’s possible boyfriend but Akiva Goldfarb, former prospect?

It’d take someone who really knew ball to make that connection. Someone like Camilla.

And even if she hadn’t, the Internet was full of people who could track down things like that.

Kiley had once mentioned that she could go from someone’s faceless TikTok account to finding out who they were in real life.

A talent Eitan had found mildly disconcerting at the time.

Now the idea of having that turned against him made his heart leap into his throat.

He twisted the ring on his forefinger. It was probably someone’s job to monitor the number of hours that he slept, his body temperature, his pulse rate—he wondered if they thought he was having a cardiac event.

He couldn’t call the interview off. So he sat, answered questions about how much he loved playing for the Cosmos and how welcoming he found the city. Until I strike out . It was funny how being called a bum was worse filtered through New York sports radio.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me,” he said later. His media safe word , as Isabel called it, to declare the interview over.

She intervened, thanking Camilla, and making distracting small talk that let Eitan ease himself from the room trailing appreciations and goodbyes.

As soon as he did, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Did the quick math on how many hours Akiva had been with him, beginning with Eitan’s come out with us text and ending with Akiva texting that he was on the train home, then sent him a cash app payment for the total.

At least if he decided not to speak to Eitan again— deservedly —he’d get what they’d agreed to.

Eitan should not sit in this hallway feeling sorry for himself, probably, so he leaned against the wall as he attempted to compose a coherent text.

Eitan: Sorry.

Eitan: I said something in an interview that could be traced back to you. Not you now. You as a ballplayer.

Eitan: If you want to stop this, I understand.

But it’s been really good seeing you.

Better than I expected.

Eitan: I guess I wasn’t sure

I wasn’t sure about a lot of stuff.

But I’m more sure now.

Just…thanks.

Eitan: Sorry.

He sent none of that. He should fix this. How? Telling Camilla to scrap his answer would be an admission that there was more to it than Eitan’s failed attempts at blandness. He should buy Akiva something. An apology present? A parting gift? He wasn’t sure. Finally, he typed:

I said something I shouldn’t have to a reporter that might end up being a problem for you. I don’t know if it’s gonna be a big deal. My instincts about this stuff aren’t great. If you want to stop this, I understand.

There, formal as an email. He even put a period at the end. He pressed send . Waited.

No answer came from Akiva, not even a read receipt. Wait, it was Friday after sunset. Shabbos. Fuck. Akiva wouldn’t know until the interview had already broadcast, when he turned his phone on again to potentially find a mess.

Eitan studied the message like that would make Akiva hear him. If you want to stop this…

What had Gabe called the inevitable end to their relationship—an amicable parting of ways? That was all this should be. Slowly, Eitan sank to the hallway floor.