Page 39 of Breakout Year
“Jersey?” Williams said. “That’s a long way to go.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Williams’s mustache looked amused. “He must really like you, huh?”
It’s not like that. Eitan had dropped Akiva into his guest bed and helped him kick off his shoes, then had a very normal night staring at his bedroom ceiling and not thinking about Akiva’s lips, or stomach, or the way Akiva had wound his arm around Eitan’s shoulders while dancing, or the strange urge he had to see the inside of Akiva’s house. “Yeah, I guess.”
Williams laughed at him indulgently. “You got it bad, man.”
“Uh, thanks?”
Williams shrugged. “Seems like a nice guy.” Even if Eitan wasn’t sure Williams and Akiva had exchanged two words all night. And oh, this was Williams giving him the exact amount of shit he might any other player. An anxiety—that guys would be cool with him only to a point—that evaporated along with the rest of Eitan’s hangover.
“How about you?” Eitan asked. “You out making friends?”
Williams snorted. “You ever meet someone and end up putting them in your phone as like Sarah Cowgirl-Hat?”
“Sarah Cowgirl-Hat?”
“And Sarah Cowgirl-Hat’s friend.” Williams shrugged. “That’s how my night was.”
Eitan’s brain autofilled: Akiva Arizona. Akiva Contract. Akiva I Want To Put My Tongue In His Ear. Akiva…
“Eitan,” Isabel said, returning, “what’s that thing sitting on the table in front of you?”
Eitan looked down at the black standing mic seated in front of him as if this was a trick question. “A microphone?”
“Is there a light on at its base?”
“Yes?” He looked around. “There’s no one in here.”
Isabel wiped a hand down her face. Eitan should probably get her another fruit bouquet, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done wrong. “Sorry?” he said.
She sighed heavily. “Assume that if there’s a microphone—even if it’s not on, which that one is—someone is listening. It’s not only for your privacy.”
Now Eitan was definitely gonna get her another fruit bouquet, even if Akiva technically signed up to have his business spread everywhere. “Noted.” He folded his hands in front of him, gave the room his best media smile. “What questions do you have?”
Williams took a series of note cards Isabel handed him, shuffled through them, then shot up a hand. “What percent better would you say New York is than Cleveland?”
“Uh.” Eitan scrambled for a number that seemed sufficiently high. “Eighty?”
Isabel flopped into a chair. “We’re gonna be here a while.”
“Seems like you’re enjoying New York,” Camilla said. She’d volunteered to be his interviewer—his interrogator, really—for a segment that would be broadcast all over New York.
If he hadn’t just spent that morning with Isabel drilling him on what reporters’ questions were actually saying, he would have just nodded gamely and agreed. Now her voice came to him like a translator. Camilla means you got caught partying in public.
“I’m having a great time.” Eitan smiled at the camera. Isabel’s advice: Address the audience not the questioner. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know my teammates and playing for the fans. Plus, bodega sandwiches—top-notch.”
“Well, you’ve taken to the lifestyle.”
Eitan searched for an answer that was more diplomatic than, Why are we acting like I’m the first ballplayer to get traded or go to the club? “Yep,” he agreed. When in doubt, pander. “It’s great living near so many bookstores. And I’ve almost figured out the subway.”
Camilla, to her credit, laughed. “You’ve made quite a splash since you’ve been here.”
Though splash sounded a lot like crash-landed. “Just to set the record straight,” Eitan began, and Camilla leaned forward, a move probably designed to make Eitan trust her or at least forget about the camera, “I do really like New York. But when I first got here, I may have given people a mistaken impression.”
Now her lean wasn’t just a lean. It was out-and-out interest.
