Page 86 of Breakout Year
Eventually, the umpire ushered him to the plate. Paused as Eitan doffed his helmet and scanned the crowd. They put his parents on the scoreboard, of course. Akiva should have expected that, but still his face flushed hot when he appeared on camera with them. Not knowing what else to do, he waved. That got Eitan’s grin—fluorescent, even in the bright ballpark lights—before he settled into the box to hit.
He took his time, adjusting his gloves and readying his bat. Akiva didn’t know much about Cleveland’s pitcher: what he threw, if he also posted bible verses on Instagram about himself as a warrior against evil or whatever. It was possible he was going to throw a ball at Eitan’s back to teach him a lesson. It was possible he was going to throw a ball at Eitan’s head.
Akiva set down his beer, leaned forward, hands tense on his kneecaps. Be careful. A foolish plea, but he made it anyway.
The first pitch was a ball thrown tight inside to Eitan, to the point that he jumped back. Intent to hit him or an honest mistake in avoiding New York’s best hitter? The second pitch was a strike delivered low enough in the zone that Eitan simply stood pat as it went by.
The third pitch flashed as it came out of the pitcher’s hand, a high fastball with some extra oomph. Even seven years removed from the game, Akiva could admire a pitch like that.
Or could’ve, if Eitan didn’t swing and make contact and send it screaming out of the park and possibly into downtown Cleveland. When the home team hit a home run, there was fanfare: stadium lights flashed, music played. Some ballparks popped off fireworks. Now there was only silence, then a scatter of jeers, then a collective sigh like the air had been let out of the crowd.
Eitan ran to first, a touch slower than his usual trot. When he turned, making his way toward second, he threw his hand up—pinky, index finger, and thumb extended. I love you. A gesture Akiva had seen him make on each of his preceding home runs, usually to the accolades of the New York crowd. Here, there was no one to receive it. Was this Eitan declaring that, despite everything, he still loved this city?
Or was it—Akiva barely allowed himself the thought—meant for a more specific audience?
His heart had almost settled as Eitan finished rounding the bases, as Irene nudged Akiva with her elbow and said, “He started doing that for me.”
Right. Of course. And it was a cool evening, but Akiva’s face went hot with embarrassment, until she added, “Maybe not for me anymore,” then downed a few swigs of her drink and began in on the greatness of the American brewing industry and its something for everyone varieties of beer.
34
Eitan
@da_stars_baby: Weird way for Rivkin to propose but I accept!
@queens_king: Delusion is a Great Lake in Cleveland
* * *
Akiva was sitting in the lobby of the team hotel when Eitan arrived after the game. Akiva had his computer out, an overnight bag next to him that had seen better days. He’d need a better one if he came to visit Eitan next season, and Eitan was half-tempted to make a note of it until he realized there was no guarantee that Akiva would visit, and even if he did, he’d have to leave again.
His head was bent over his work; he frowned slightly as he typed. If you’d asked Eitan seven years ago if he thought Akiva was attractive, he would have said something like, Sure, he’s a good-looking guy. If you’d asked him a few months ago, when Akiva walked into the conference room, he might have updated good-looking to handsome.
Now, Eitan wasn’t sure if there was a word for what you felt when you knew the sandpaper grit of someone’s stubble, when you wanted to take their shoulders in your hands. When you wanted to hold them and have them hold you and not let them go for stupid things like baseball contracts. He wasn’t sure, but Akiva had come all the way to see him, so maybe he had some idea of what that was called.
“Hey,” Eitan said when he pulled up to where Akiva was working.
Akiva looked up then pushed his glasses up his nose with his forefinger, an action Eitan found far more adorable than he probably should have. “Hey.”
“You have dinner yet?”
“I have had more hot dogs than I want to talk about. Your mother insisted I eat something.”
“She’s right, you know.”
“Well, I told her she sounded just like her son.”
Eitan grinned at that. If anyone was taking their picture, he knew what his face would look like. Goofy. Smitten. That was fine. He was both those things. “What are you writing?”
Akiva clicked his laptop shut and tucked it in his bag. “Emails, mostly. But I’m working on…” He lowered his voice. “There’s a book I’ve been writing on and off for a while. I think it’s finally starting to come together.”
Write me a book. Write me the book you always wanted to write. “Can I read it?”
“Half of it is placeholders and the other half is a mess.” But Akiva was smiling. “Maybe? We’ll see if anything ever comes of it.”
“I’m sure something will.” Eitan picked up Akiva’s bag, held out his hand to offer leverage up from the chair. If they kissed now, everyone would see. So he leaned up and did it, a brief press of their mouths. “If you’re not hungry, I was thinking maybe we could go to bed.”
“It’s good the room came with two beds,” Eitan said later, as he lay panting across the hotel comforter. Akiva was lying next to him, arm thrown across Eitan’s chest.
