Page 10 of Breakout Year
Eitan was about to head out when Williams sidled up to his stall. “We’re going out.” Like Eitan didn’t get a choice in the matter.
Botts, another reliever, slid next to them. He was miniature for a pitcher—so only a little taller than Eitan—and was for some reason wearing a Hawaiian shirt that made his lack of a tan more evident. “Rivkin can’t come. He’s still on house arrest.”
“I am not.” Even if the only things waiting for Eitan at his apartment were an audiobook and a glass of oat milk.
“So you’re coming?” Williams said.
Eitan waved a hand. “Maybe.”
“Maybe means yes. Let’s go.”
They wound up at a bar in Long Island City that Williams claimed had good beer and a rooftop view. Inside, people packed onto long benches and shouted to be heard under the pressed tin ceiling. The group migrated to the bar: Williams, Botts, Vientos, a handful of other bench players and bullpen guys. Eitan was in the process of leaning all five-ten-ish of himself over to signal for the bartender when he received a look from the guy on the barstool next him, a visual inspection that began at Eitan’s ankles and worked its way up.
A cluster of women had already begun waving to Williams from the other side of the bar. Botts practically catapulted himself across the room toward them. Vientos was shaking his head and muttering that Botts needed a little bit of chill, but he followed, displaying his wedding ring as if in deterrence to the group. Only Williams lingered. “You coming?” he asked Eitan.
“Think I might stick here.”
Williams gave him a look Eitan couldn’t read, a slight narrowing of his eyes punctuated by a glance at the guy on the barstool next to Eitan. Apathy? Disapproval? “Sure, see you around, man.”
Once Williams had cleared out, Eitan turned to the guy. He was lanky—certainly lankier than Eitan—with light hair and dark eyes. Eitan wasn’t quite sure what his type was but this guy might have been close to it. “What’re you drinking?” Eitan asked.
The guy lifted his mostly full beer. It was possible Eitan had misunderstood. “You can buy my next one,” the guy said. Or it was possible Eitan hadn’t misunderstood at all.
A stool opened up, and Eitan sat, accepted his card back along with his beer that tasted like—he took a sip—expensive mouthwash. “I’m Eitan.” He extended a hand.
The guy smiled around his beer. “I know.”
Well, that either made things easier or a lot more complicated. “I don’t get a name?”
“Logan.” Another smile. “Thanks for the future beer.”
Eitan wasn’t sure if there was something he should be saying, an, I like guys, I think signal he should be emitting like some kind of queer echolocation.
“So,” Logan said, after a minute, “you come here often?”
Eitan chuckled, shook his head. “Not sure if you heard, but I’m kinda new in town.”
“How’re you liking New York?”
“It’s loud.”
Logan laughed at that—a nice laugh from what Eitan could hear over the din. Eitan watched the long line of his throat, the shake in his gym-toned shoulders that looked to be the exact size of Eitan’s hands. A flick of a thought, a little fluttery thing like the first flame of a campfire in its kindling.
“Yeah, it can get pretty noisy,” Logan said.
“I think there’s a rooftop bar, if you want to check it out.”
For a moment, Logan studied him. Please be gay or at least into men or at least into me. A nervousness Eitan rarely felt even on those first few dates with Kiley.
“Sure,” Logan said, finally, as if he was agreeing to more than a drink at a different location.
Upstairs, the patio was open to a warm summer night. Across the river, Manhattan sparkled. Eitan corralled two chairs around a table.
Logan sat. His chair tipped to one side as if there was a wobble in the leg.
Eitan jumped up. “Here, let me get you a different one.”
“It’s fine.” Said less like it actually was fine and more like Eitan was being ridiculous for reasons he didn’t quite understand.
