Page 87 of Breakout Year
Akiva had started kissing him the second they’d gotten in the door and hadn’t stopped until Eitan had been gasping on the bed. He’d sucked his fingers to get them wet and touched two fingers to Eitan’s ass, and Eitan thought that was the gayest thing he could possibly do until Akiva had told him to lie back and licked him there, Eitan’s knees on either side of his head. Eitan had shot off from that, all over Akiva’s hand and his own belly, and Akiva had added to the mess a minute later, coming on Eitan’s stomach, and Eitan never ever wanted to move.
Now, cleaned up at Akiva’s insistence, Eitan’s heart rate still hadn’t settled. Belatedly, he pulled off the sensor ring and stuck it on the nightstand and hoped whoever got that data thought he was really into late-night runs.
He was just about to suggest they order room service or hit up the minibar or despoil the other bed when his phone started buzzing, frequently enough to be audible from where it was still in the pocket of his discarded pants. Grudgingly, he hauled himself up and checked it.
Williams: you seeing this?
A sentiment echoed by half a dozen other Cosmos players. Vientos had dropped a link in the chat. Eitan searched the floor for his underwear—the clinging supportive kind that apparently made Akiva’s eyes go hot. Whatever this was, he probably should be nominally dressed. “Something happened,” he said.
That made Akiva sit up. He had a sheet pulled up—orgasms made him a little cold, a fact Eitan now knew and would never unknow—that pooled around his waist. He unfolded his glasses from the nightstand and put them on.
And Eitan should probably figure out this apparent new crisis alone without burdening Akiva, but he climbed back in bed and tucked himself at Akiva’s side. “This might be awful,” Eitan warned.
Akiva reached across him and stroked his hip. Eitan sometimes worried that he’d come apart—publicly, frenetically. Now he felt held together, made safe by the tiny motions of Akiva’s hand. He should probably text Kiley and apologize. I’m sorry I couldn’t be who you wanted. I didn’t understand then, but I understand now.
He clicked the link.
A video of Hairston popped up. A normal postgame scrum with reporters shoving microphones toward him in the hope of getting an un-bland quote.
In baseball, there were rules for everything, particularly player equipment and dress. Your bat could only be certain woods and certain colors. Your glove couldn’t be white. When speaking to the media, you had to wear team-branded clothing at all times, including shirts and hats.
Eitan thought he knew all the Crooks gear. He’d certainly been issued enough of it, though most was still in boxes at his apartment he didn’t know if he’d ever unpack.
Hairston was in a hat with the familiar logo—most player hats were battered things, salt-stained from sweat. This one had a stiff brim. An embroidered C patch. Eitan counted the colors running through the patch and counted them again: red, orange, yellow, green, blue…two shades of purple, then a band of brown and one of black. “That’s the Pride Night hat. They did a fan giveaway.”
“Are you friends with him?” Akiva asked.
“Not really. We were talking about fielding earlier when—” And Eitan recounted the briefest version of what happened with Connor, though his throat went dry as he said it. “Anyway, that’s really solid of Hairston to wear that. The team must be furious.”
“It’s their hat.” But Akiva said it like he didn’t disagree.
Eitan opened his texts, extracted Hairston’s number from a long-ago text thread.
Eitan: thanks, man, I appreciate it
Hairston: don’t know what you’re talking about
Accompanied by a halo emoji.
Hairston: see you in the spring
Eitan: count on it
He put down his phone. Struggled to find the right words. “When I did that press conference, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Or no, I did, but I thought it’d be simpler: people would hate me or they wouldn’t, and if they did, well, fuck ’em. Not how everyone gets to have their own opinion about me.”
Akiva snuggled closer, resumed stroking Eitan’s hip. “What’s your opinion of you?”
A question that made Eitan’s throat go tight for a different reason: how Akiva knew the right words, even when Eitan felt frayed. “I want to be who I am as much as possible. I want that for everyone.”
That got Akiva’s smile, the press of his mouth to Eitan’s cheek. “Good.” He paused then added, “And fuck everyone who disagrees.”
Eitan turned, kissed him, buried himself in Akiva’s grin and the length of his body and the way he tugged at Eitan’s shorts and slowly worked him until Eitan was aching almost to the point of tears. As Akiva kissed him through it and held him after.
The words were there again, sitting in Eitan’s mouth, closer to the surface. “I feel like myself with you but better,” he said. Not quite what he wanted to say, but enough of a fraction Akiva would get it.
“You make me feel like I can jump and not fall.” Akiva said it in a rush, color on his cheeks, like he was embarrassed that he’d admitted that much. He looked up as Eitan cupped his cheek, blinking behind his glasses that had somehow stayed on. Akiva shivered slightly: the cold, something else? Eitan reached for the blanket and covered them both to shield them from the world, until it was only the two of them together, breathing in the quiet dark, not letting go.
On Sunday, Eitan played his last game with New York, four straight wins to finish it up in Cleveland—and still not enough to make the postseason.
