Page 6 of Breakout Year

Eitan

u/make_it_anywhere: So Rivkin’s kind of a hothead. Guess we’ll see if he backs all that static up on the field.

u/cosmos_gazer: Who’s that with him?

A week later, Eitan had an apartment with too much space for his stuff, a browser history full of searches that boiled down to what to do if not straight and also kind of famous that yielded a lot of unsatisfying answers, and a handful of really dedicated paparazzi who seemed to think Eitan’s personal life was a lot more interesting than it actually was.

“Morning, Dave.” Eitan waved hello, and Dave—who was somewhere in his forties and always wore a ballcap that looked twice that age while he wielded a camera that he kept perpetually trained on Eitan—waved back somewhat abashedly.

So Eitan put on his shades and pulled his hat low. Donned an expression somewhere between determined and bored, the same mask every other pedestrian was wearing, as he walked to his destination without having to consult his phone directions (much).

Today was Monday, a bookstore day, because no one could possibly cause trouble at a bookstore. At least he couldn’t. Probably.

Stay under the radar: The directive from the team, from Gabe, from his parents via texts, because he hadn’t been ducking their calls, exactly, but he hadn’t been answering them either.

They loved him. They supported him. They were five hundred miles away from him in a city where people were practically burning him in effigy for the sin of being traded and being marginally happy about it—and for other things Crooks fans also viewed as sins.

He’d only seen one photo of someone in Cleveland running over a Rivkin jersey with their truck, but really, one was enough.

He’d been to this bookstore a few times already, so much so that the employees greeted him as he came in.

Dave was somewhere—maybe outside, maybe he’d decided that big-league player also sort of literate wasn’t going to sell papers.

Wherever he was, the burned-in sensation of being watched faded as Eitan entered the store.

Book people will tell you about the particular smell of bookstores: ink and paper, something inarticulable like ideas floating above the shelves.

This one smelled like coffee and lemon floor polish as he browsed their selection for a while.

The employees seemed content to let him, though the fifty he’d shoved in the tip jar by the register might have had something to do with that.

He noted a few books, googled to see if they were available in audio, because—fortunately or unfortunately—books had a lot of pages.

He pulled one from the shelf that looked similar to the mystery series he was binging.

Words swam as he tried to track them, an effect that was usually lessened when he was reading off his phone, when there was enough white space and the text was rendered in a particular font.

He didn’t have problems in three dimensions: a ball was a ball, and he could see one well enough to discern the patterning of its stitches, even when it was coming at him at a hundred miles an hour.

But these words shifted, slightly, perceptibly, dizzyingly. Eitan was about to return the book to the shelf when the employee at the register called out to him. “That copy is probably signed.”

He flipped back to the title page. Sure enough, there was a signature, one as practiced as his own autograph. He held the book up, displaying it. “Hey, neat.”

“The author’s local. She does events here sometimes.”

“That’s cool.” Because it’d be fun to do something that wouldn’t make everyone text cautionary things to him like he couldn’t be trusted on his own. Distantly, he wished for someone to bring: a friend, a date.

He messaged Kiley, his ex, a snapshot of the autographed book. Got back two emojis—both pink sparkly hearts—and a picture of her at brunch with her new boyfriend. He was handsome, blond-haired and taller than Eitan. He was looking at Kiley like he didn’t want to look anywhere else.

When she’d broken up with Eitan a few weeks ago, it was as if she’d been rehearsing it for a while.

They’d been together for the better part of his time in Cleveland.

A long relationship to end so suddenly. All he could think was, Shouldn’t this hurt more?

Looking at that picture of her now—with a new boyfriend so soon after they’d broken up—he couldn’t help but think the same thing.

He considered calling that modeling agency, saying something like, Yeah, a fake girlfriend might be great.

Someone he could bring to a place like this.

He could hold her hand, buy her whatever she wanted—including most of the store’s inventory if that was what she asked for—and not have it mean anything.

Instead, he slid his phone back in his pocket.

By now, he’d been holding the book long enough he should probably buy it.

Even if he didn’t read it himself, he could give it to his mom for Hannukah.

Hell, maybe he’d start a collection: owning books and reading books were two different hobbies, anyway.

So he made his purchase, along with the appropriate amount of baseball-related small talk.

When he got outside, Dave was there, lurking.

Eitan held up his shopping bag, careful to include the name of the store. At least someone should benefit from this. Gabe might yell at him for the unpaid endorsement but whatever. “I bought a book, Dave. Real exciting stuff.”

Dave, obligingly, snapped his picture. Of course he used flash, like an asshole, leaving Eitan blinking on the sidewalk.

“You gonna be here a lot?” Dave called.

“Nope.” Because Isabel had impressed upon him that unpredictability would help with the press. Guess he needed a different bookstore.

He ducked inside a nearby bodega—learning which was the good one had been his major victory for the week—for a medicinal breakfast sandwich.

As he waited, he marked the day off on his calendar—each one brought him closer to when he could leave New York—then snapped a picture of the bodega’s cat, a rangy tabby.

He texted it to Connor. No response, just as there hadn’t been when he’d texted any of the times since the trade.

He’s probably just busy . Even though baseball was usually a lot of sitting around and losing baseball was doubly so.

Still, the cat looked like Williams, one of the Cosmos relief pitchers, right down to the line of brown fur above its mouth like a mustache, so Eitan sent the photo to him as well.

Eitan: found your twin

No response came for a moment. It was possible they were on clubhouse speaking terms, but Williams wouldn’t answer a text directly from him.

Then Eitan’s phone buzzed.

Williams: ha ha

It was a start. It was something.

Eitan: You want me to bring you breakfast? I’m getting a bacon, egg, and cheese

Another minute, though this one came with three dots in a text bubble.

Williams: Vientos wants one too

If all it took to fit in on the team was bribing the pitching staff with food, Eitan could work with that.

Once he had his sandwiches, he posted the picture to Insta with the caption convenience store kitty .

New Yorkers were incredibly easy to wind up if you knew the right pressure points.

Sure enough, a minute later, his notifications flooded with a bunch of comments insisting that a bodega couldn’t possibly be a convenience store.

If you’d asked Eitan a week ago if he had strong feelings about trains, he would have said, probably not.

Now that probably not was amended with but how are there so many of them?

Inside the subway station, he stood at the route map, attempting to discern what various colors, numbers, and letters actually meant before another passenger marched over, demanded to know where he wanted to go—Cosmos Stadium—and gave him directions so specific even he couldn’t screw them up.

On board, the train rattled. A few passengers noticed him and elbowed one another. A word drifted across the train car. Gay . From this distance, it was hard to tell if it was a pejorative or just a description.

Right, headphones in his ears—the sign for I’m busy that got him out of talking with strangers without him looking like a jerk.

He opened the audiobook he’d started the day before, the same one his mom was listening to.

A habit they’d developed when he’d been in high school—listening to the same book at the same time—that they’d begun after he’d realized she got embarrassed by her mispronunciations.

As if there was something wrong with knowing a word only from having read it, something wrong with saying it in her faintly accented English, Russian still clinging to its edges.

So he closed his eyes and let the tide of the train pull him to his destination. If he turned the volume high enough, he wouldn’t have to hear the other passengers’ whispers.

The Cosmos won that night. Eitan took his at-bats, his walks, only a moderate amount of venom from the crowd for a strikeout.

He listened for other, worse words. Braced his shoulders for them.

Tightened his fingers around the neck of his bat.

None came, but they might. Somehow the waiting was worse.

After the game, the clubhouse was pulsing—music, fog from a fog machine. Lively the way Cleveland never was. Winning the way Cleveland never was.

Eitan was about to head out when Williams sidled up to his stall. “We’re going out.” Like Eitan didn’t get a choice in the matter.

Botts, another reliever, slid next to them. He was miniature for a pitcher—so only a little taller than Eitan—and was for some reason wearing a Hawaiian shirt that made his lack of a tan more evident. “Rivkin can’t come. He’s still on house arrest.”

“I am not.” Even if the only things waiting for Eitan at his apartment were an audiobook and a glass of oat milk.

“So you’re coming?” Williams said.

Eitan waved a hand. “Maybe.”