Page 38 of Breakout Year
13
Eitan
u/eerie_erie: Well well well look who’s on TV eating crow about our fair city
u/longlive86: You mean the mistake on the lake??
u/eerie_erie: *yawn* Call us when you don’t have to buy a championship
u/longlive86: Everyone leaves you—just ask your wife
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.”
