Page 65 of Breakout Year

Eitan

Coming up next, Camilla Fiore’s exclusive interview with baseball’s top free agent—you won’t believe his message to his fans!

The studio lights were shining in Eitan’s eyes, but he didn’t much care. He refused to be rumpled. He refused to even so much as sweat.

Akiva wasn’t in the studio itself. He was wary of the camera.

Plus, every time Eitan had tried to rehearse his answers, his eyes would wander to Akiva.

He worried that, in his enthusiasm, he was going to blurt something like, My boyfriend’s name is Akiva Goldfarb, and here’s his home address.

It was possible Eitan was panicking slightly, despite all his determination not to.

So Eitan had left Akiva just outside the studio with his laptop out, his pen and notebook beside him.

Last Eitan saw, Akiva had a smear of ink on one cheek.

Eitan loved that smudge and the freckle it was over.

Loved the way Akiva had come home waving a book contract, wearing an unmistakable grin that sobered slightly when he’d mentioned he’d gone to his parents’ house.

Reconnection, it seemed, would take time.

Still, Eitan had picked him up—he’d started his offseason training in earnest and Akiva weighed half of what he routinely lifted at the gym—and spun him around, and they’d come down laughing, together.

Eitan had carried that feeling with him to the studio. Revisited it as they did his hair and brushed him with makeup. Held onto it as they adjusted the lighting, wired his microphone, and performed a variety of checks that blurred into background noise.

Camilla came over and seated herself in the chair opposite Eitan’s. The studio lights glinted off her necklace.

Gabe was just off camera, tapping something else out on his phone and chomping loudly from a bag of ginger chews. He was trying new things.

If you tell me not to do this, I won’t. What Eitan had said to him half a dozen times in their meeting when he’d pitched the idea.

Gabe had just said, Let me make some calls, then arranged the entire thing.

Now he came over to where Eitan and Camilla were sitting. “Go easy on him,” he said to Camilla.

“When have you known me to go easy on anyone?” She winked. The color rising up Gabe’s neck probably didn’t have anything to do with the lighting situation. Eitan suppressed the urge to whistle.

“Good luck, kid, you’re gonna need it.” Gabe clapped him on the shoulder, then retreated back off camera but still in Eitan’s line of sight.

Finally, they were declared ready for the interview. The already-bright lights intensified. Eitan adjusted his suit, sat up straighter.

Camilla provided an introduction that mostly zipped by him. “So, Eitan,” she said, angling her knees toward him in a gesture of either friendliness or confrontation, “you made quite the splash being traded midseason.”

Not quite a question, but enough of an on-ramp to the conversation. “A lot of people might only get one big thing happening to them each year,” he said. “I’m lucky—I got more than that. I was traded to New York, and I came out.”

“So you’re confirming that you’re a member of the LGBTQ-plus community?” Language they’d kicked back and forth for a while. Gay felt right for him, but he didn’t want someone watching to feel like that was their only option.

“I am.” He smiled, not toward the camera but toward the back of the room, as if he could feel Akiva through the walls.

“I haven’t exactly been hiding it, but I felt like I could do a little better than not hiding.

One of the things I love about the game is its long history.

I’m not the first gay player in professional baseball—I also hope I won’t be the last. Being open hasn’t always been simple.

What I’ve learned since I came out is that a lot of people have a lot of opinions about me.

I want to make sure whoever’s next doesn’t feel like they’re alone. ”

“This game can be unwelcoming.” For a moment, Camilla’s mouth pursed, and Eitan wondered who hadn’t welcomed her when she’d started reporting all those years ago.

If her hardened shell was actually closer to armor.

Then she resumed her normal expression—smile sharklike—and for once, Eitan was happy to see it.

“You’re currently one of the most valuable free agents on the market,” Camilla said. “Why come out now?”

Eitan paused. Felt in that moment exactly as he had in Cleveland, running the bases, hand up in a sign meant only for one person.

No matter what else happened—if teams called or if they didn’t; if he had to figure out what came next—he had that moment of being entirely free.

“This was a big year. I got traded. I came out. But most importantly, I fell in love. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything. ”

The interview aired three days later. Eitan sat on the couch, Akiva beside him. One of his hands was sprawled across Eitan’s lap. He rotated his wrist twice, wincing. Eitan seized his hand and rubbed his thumb across the tendons there as Akiva hummed—purred practically, a minor victory—in approval.

“Just as a warning, I talked a lot about you in the interview,” Eitan said.

Akiva winked an eye open, teasingly wary. “I hope you told everyone to buy my book.” He hissed under his breath as Eitan hit what must have been a sore spot.

“I might have been a bit excessive.”

“You? Never.” But Akiva kissed him and melted into Eitan’s side as Eitan worked his thumbs up Akiva’s forearm.

The interview came on, a segment on the local sports channel that Gabe said would be picked up nationally.

Camilla asked questions, and Eitan turned to the camera as he answered them. He only mentioned Akiva—not by name, but as my boyfriend , a title that was already feeling somewhat incomplete—a mere twenty times. Eitan felt like the picture of restraint.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Eitan said, after. His phone sat quiet on the coffee table. He wasn’t expecting teams to call immediately, but this silence felt markedly louder.

Akiva was fully sprawled against him, head on Eitan’s shoulder. He tipped his mouth up and kissed the underside of Eitan’s jaw. “If the goal was to make everyone fall in love with you, it already worked.”

No teams called that night, and none called the next morning—but many other calls came in: reporters, a bunch of players.

Williams, who told him to keep his head up.

Hairston, who said he had no doubt he’d see Eitan at spring training.

A handful more who told him that even when he wasn’t on their team, he was on their team.

Eitan was sure there were people who didn’t call, those who blocked his number or would tell people they always knew he was a little— you know .

He could live with their absence if it meant Akiva muttering to himself from his couch and the gurgle of his coffeemaker and the sound of the winter wind through the trees as he davened outside. Eitan could live with it all.

Hannukah came mid-December. They lit candles, bought Rachel and Mark’s children an excessive number of presents, hauled toys to the community center. Akiva was a sour cream on latkes person, and Eitan favored applesauce, but you couldn’t have everything, really.

One afternoon, Akiva met him at the door as Eitan was coming back from a run. He was carrying Eitan’s phone. “This rang a few times,” Akiva said. “I think Gabe wants you to give him a call.”

Eitan wiped his hands on the slick fabric of his running pants. Took the phone. Hit Gabe’s number.

Crunching greeted him. “So, kid, how do you feel about Philadelphia?”