Page 12 of Breakout Year
Eitan
@da_stars_baby: Good thing Rivkin is single cause that’s my husband. He just doesn’t know it yet.
@queens_king: Think you might be barking up the wrong tree.
@da_stars_baby: Yeah but I’m still barking
* * *
“How come this city doesn’t believe in air conditioning?” Eitan tugged at his collar again. It was the same dress shirt he’d worn for his introductory press conference, though he probably shouldn’t have in case it was infused with bad luck. Maybe he should tell his laundry service to lose it or possibly burn it. Either way, it was pressing against his throat, the cuffs tight at his wrists. He had been in New York for ten days, and he wasn’t looking for things to dislike, but they seemingly kept finding him.
Gabe was sitting a few chairs down the hotel conference room table. He slid Eitan a bottle of water along with a portfolio of pictures. “This is still a bad idea.”
Because they were doing auditions for the role of fake boyfriend. Ones that involved headshots.
Eitan scanned the first two photos. Both guys were hot. Not just best-looking guy in the clubhouse hot—because contrary to popular belief, ballplayers looked like people, except for relief pitchers who mostly looked like handsome gnomes—but hot-hot. “What if I like everybody?”
Gabe shot him the eye, then popped something—potentially an antacid and, really, he should get his stomach looked at—and slugged back half of his own water.
“If you don’t want to do this, why are you here?” Eitan asked.
“Would you still do this if I wasn’t here supervising?”
Eitan had considered chickening out a half a dozen or so times in the last seventy-two hours but had grown more resolved with each snap of Dave’s camera. “Yes.”
“So here I am, supervising.” Gabe took another swig of water and muttered for better or worse. “Speaking of, Camilla called about interviewing you—she is very persistent—and I told her to clear it with the team.”
“Oh, Camilla called,” Eitan said, because Gabe mostly referred to reporters as that one from whatever media outlet.
Gabe went slightly pink; frustration at Eitan possibly. “The team also mentioned they offered to put out a statement on your behalf.”
“They did. I didn’t want to do that.”
“Yeah, well, getting photographed all over New York with a male model serves as a pretty big statement.”
“We can do something more official…” When I’m sure I actually want a boyfriend. “Later.”
A muscle in Gabe’s jaw pulsed. “If you’re gonna do this, people are gonna ask about it. You should be prepared for what they’re gonna say. Have you told your parents?”
“More or less.”
“More or—” Gabe cut himself off. “Did you talk with Kiley?”
“I’ll tell her.” I’m just not sure how yet.
“Someone probably already sent her the press conference video.”
Eitan’s stomach churned. He’d felt brave under the glare of media attention. Perhaps a touch less so when it came to picking up the phone. “Then I don’t need to tell her.”
Gabe looked equally dyspeptic. “This kinda news most people don’t want to hear from someone else. I know you don’t want to hear it, but really, I’m trying to look out for you, kid.”
“I’m twenty-seven,” Eitan said evenly. “I want to see what dating is like—” And his voice caught around with someone I want to date. Because he’d wanted to date Kiley. They’d had a good time before deciding to just be friends. “I want to see what dating is like on a new team.”
Gabe frowned and dropped the subject—possibly calling a temporary truce. Or possibly he’d just decided it wasn’t worth arguing.
A few minutes later, the first guy came in: he was tall and lean, with a shock of white-blond hair and an expressive mouth. If he recognized Eitan, it didn’t show. He signed the nondisclosure agreement they put in front of him, asked about the requirements for the “role.”
A few dates, an acknowledgement that he was okay being photographed, a promise not to spill the details of this arrangement to the press.
