Page 15 of Breakout Year
So of course when Akiva had seen him, he’d done what he’d been doing since he left affiliated baseball—turned tail and fled. And then Eitan had coaxed him back.
“Just so I’m understanding clearly,” Akiva said, “why do you want to pay for my time?”
Eitan rolled a pen between his fingers. He tapped it, once, against the surface of the table. He shifted in his chair. It squeaked as it moved from side to side, and that was something about him Akiva did remember. How Eitan could never be still.
“I’ll be a free agent this fall,” Eitan said. “Any team I sign with should be comfortable with—accepting of—the fact I date men.”
They won’t be. Followed immediately by, Don’t argue. Money was money. Akiva’s landlord, and his utilities, and his student loans, and all his other debts didn’t really care about how he got that money, so long as he got it. Maybe baseball had changed in the past seven years. Maybe optimism is for people who don’t have to worry about rent.
“I don’t want to put anyone I date through all the media stuff,” Eitan added. “Doesn’t seem fair to them.” Date with an unstated suffix: date for real.
“Which brings us to you,” Gabe said. “We’d engage you on a per-hour basis, beginning with a couple of dates and some photos, followed by…” He paused as if considering his words with a lawyer’s care. “Followed by an amicable parting of ways.” Though amicable parting of ways sounded more like go the fuck back where you came from.
“I don’t know if I’m the best fit for what you’re looking for.” Akiva touched his kippah, the leather circle of it still clipped to his hair. He’d almost worn a ballcap, because ballcaps were generally easier to explain. People might still give him a hard time but just about rooting for the wrong team. Now he wished he’d worn one, if only so he wouldn’t remind Eitan what they had in common.
“You like baseball—” Eitan began.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Fine, you know baseball, you’re Jewish, you read books.” Like those were the only things involved in compatibility. “We can get caught up for a few not-really-dates, I pay you, you can go back to doing…whatever it is you’ve been doing, and it’s all good.” Eitan paused. His forehead knitted. “I guess I should probably ask if you date men.”
You didn’t know? Akiva was still stuck on the fact that Eitan apparently did date men, a revelation that he would examine some time other than sitting in bad hotel conference room lighting. “I do.”
“Oh. Well, good. Does that mean you’re in?” Eitan’s smile had a certain asymmetry to it, a perfect imperfection that Akiva remembered from the opposing team’s dugout seven years ago and from down the long expanse of an Arizona bar. One of the many, many reasons Akiva had left.
Years ago, that smile might have affected Akiva. Now he was closer to thirty than twenty with bills and a career, meager as it might be. It was for that—and for absolutely no other reason, including seeing Eitan smile again—that he said, “One date.”
“Don’t be so enthusiastic.” But Eitan was grinning, enthusiastic enough for both of them. He looked to Gabe, like there might be more details to this. There had to be: in Akiva’s experience, there was no such thing as a simple agreement. Contracts came with fine print for a reason.
An instinct that proved correct when Gabe passed a stack of papers to Akiva. “Read these thoroughly.” With a seemingly unspoken, There’s still time to say no. “We’ll give you a few minutes.”
He motioned for Eitan, once, then again when Eitan didn’t rise from his chair. Finally, Eitan got up and headed toward the door, a route that took him by Akiva. He dragged his fingers over the polished surface of the table, as if he was concerned that Akiva might leave again in his absence. Which Akiva hadn’t ruled out entirely.
“Text me when you’re done,” Eitan said. “Better yet, give me your number.”
“Subtle.” Akiva wouldn’t let himself smile at that or at anything related to this situation. “And my number is the same as in Arizona.”
Eitan flinched. Not even a flinch, a flicker. “I figured you changed it. When you didn’t, uh, text me back.” He stood for another minute, then smiled, this time forcedly. “Let us know when you’re done.” And walked out, closing the door behind him.
“For what it’s worth, I wish things had turned out differently,” Akiva said. But Eitan was already out of earshot.
The contract was just that: a contract, more concerned about what might happen than in specifying what would.
If Akiva signed this, he promised not to disclose information about this agreement to anyone for any reason not approved by Eitan and Gabe, in perpetuity, until such time as the Earth was swallowed by the Sun.
If Akiva signed this, he agreed to be photographed by press and various media outlets as much as might occur during the course of a date.
If Akiva signed this, he agreed to receive half the money before any dates and the other half after “successful completion of services.”
What those services were…
You could hide a lot in contractual language, but sometimes the most important part of a contract was what wasn’t written.
Akiva paged through the contract, half expecting to see a list of specific acts—how much for holding hands, for the press of Eitan’s lips against his cheek—even if he knew that wasn’t how things like this worked. Only one rate: an hourly one, and the money wasn’t just good—it was very good.
Eitan hadn’t been lying: he really was paying for Akiva’s time. Only his time. Nothing else. Why Eitan couldn’t just get a friend to do this—because in Arizona, Eitan had always been in a swirl of people—Akiva wasn’t sure.
If he thought about it more, he wouldn’t sign, so he picked up the branded hotel pen and put ink to paper. One date, with a mutual option for more. Practically a baseball transaction. Ha.
