Page 105 of Breakout Year
His mother was shorter than Akiva remembered. The few hairs sticking out from her tichel scarf had gone from brown to gray in their time apart. She was looking up at him as if he’d appeared on her doorstep like a ghost. She might not let him inside. It was possible, after all this, they’d become strangers to each other.
I came because I have news. I can fix everything between us. All of which died in his mouth. Money had broken things between them, but the rift might be beyond what money could repair. I’m a success. Even if he wasn’t yet, the possibility was there, and that was enough. I’m sorry you lost your house. Are you sorry you lost your son? His eyes stung with the cold, with sudden tears. “I wanted to let you know I got good news. A lot of it actually.”
His mother blinked up at him, then clasped his hands in hers. “You’re cold,” she said. “Where are your gloves?” Her mouth took on a certain reproval that Akiva recognized, mostly from the mirror. She stepped back, waved him into the house. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
The hallway smelled of floor polish and cooking aromas. The pictures on the walls included one of Akiva—the same one as on the baseball card he had, the only one he’d ever be issued. He remembered trying to look serious in the photo, even if now he just thought he looked some combination of grim and scared. Still, his parents had kept it. Hung it up in their new house like they had been waiting for him to come see it. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. Maybe next time—if there was a next time—he’d bring a new picture to replace that one.
For now, he called down the hallway to where his mother was already in the kitchen. “Actually, I could really use some tea.”
44
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.
