Page 92 of Breakout Year
“My job’s just a job,” Kiley said, rescuing him from his contemplation. “But not everyone feels that way. And when we don’t, other people will tell us we’re less important than someone making millions anyhow.”
Eitan couldn’t deny that, even as it gnawed at him. If he went to Akiva, begged, said, Uproot your life and come with me, he’d be doing just that. Akiva had left baseball once. Eitan needed to respect that choice, no matter how much it sucked for them both.
But after he’d gotten in his car to drive home—back to his parents’ house where he was living until he knew where he was moving next—he sat as the engine heated up. Took out his phone and scrolled through those pictures again.
37
Akiva
Late November
Akiva selected the file from the menu. Clicked rename. Typed This Gilded Land FINAL. Loaded the attachment and sent it to Sue. She knew it was coming. Had been pestering him about it for almost four weeks after he’d brought it up. A moment later, his phone rang. Sue, calling over FaceTime.
“If I read this, will you stop sulking?” Sue’s phone shook as she held it, blurring the world behind her.
“I’m not sulking,” he said sulkily. He’d been trying not to sulk, anyway. At least the High Holidays had mostly kept him off his phone. Players couldn’t be signed until after the World Series was over, but that didn’t stop the entire baseball media from breathlessly speculating about next year’s free agency deals—which meant, now that the playoffs were done, anything could get announced at any moment. To cope, Akiva had put his head down three weeks ago and poured himself into finishing the book, a sprint that left him with a crick in his neck and a manuscript he mostly didn’t hate. “If the book is bad, just tell me.”
Sue made a noise. “The book will not be bad.”
“People are going to think I’m ripping off your writing style.”
“You sure do like to invent problems when the world has enough of them.” But it was fond. “Has that boy called or are you going to mope around your house some more?”
Eitan had texted the second each holiday was over, as if he’d been waiting at his phone just for that. Akiva had tried to be slow to respond to wean them off one another. Either it had worked or Eitan had simply settled back into his life in Cleveland, because he texted less now. It was okay, Akiva told himself. Even if it wasn’t, it was for the best. “He’s busy.”
“He’s busy.” Sue snorted. “He’s busy or you’re stubborn.”
“What’s that?” Akiva cupped his hand by his ear facetiously. “My computer is saying I have your edits to do.”
At that, Sue’s face went serious. “My first book I sent to the publisher so fast, I didn’t have a chance to enjoy having actually written it. Take some time. Do something for yourself. I hear Cleveland is nice this time of year.”
“It’s late November.” Almost Thanksgiving, though Akiva’s plans were taking him as far as Mark and Rachel’s house. “Anyway, let me know what you think of the book.” Then he hung up.
Now the only thing left for him was edits. He’d start those…in just a minute. His house was drafty in the winter, and he spent a while documenting its poor weather stripping, the various gaps in the window frames. Maybe he needed to live somewhere else, somewhere he wouldn’t be afraid to mount the TV Eitan had given him—because it was easier than shipping it back to Cleveland—without worrying about it tearing a chunk out of the wall. Checking the windows turned into cleaning their panes turned into organizing his bedroom turned into neatening his computer desktop.
His browser opened and somehow navigated to a discount airline site where someone—definitely not him—had set up price alerts for trips to Cleveland. If he bought a ticket, he could be in Ohio tomorrow. He selected a ticket. Entered his information. Hesitated.
Sue might talk a big game, but yesterday after PT, she’d had trouble holding onto a water bottle with both hands. If he stayed, he could edit her books. Even if his words were never published under his own name, they would be under hers. He’d know. He’d know and that’d be enough. He was doing the correct thing, the certain thing, the safe thing.
So he removed the ticket from his cart, then opened the document, and began spinning her notes into a story. At least he could control how this one would end.
38
Eitan
Rivkin Sweepstakes: Breaking Down Likely Landing Spots for Baseball’s Biggest Free Agent
Late November
“Could we turn down the air conditioning?” Eitan tugged at his collar again. He was wearing a new shirt—this one fresh from the store so as not to be infused with any sort of bad luck—that was apparently tissue-paper thin. Or else the air in this Anaheim hotel conference room was just blowing that hard.
Next to him, Gabe had been typing something out on his phone, bemoaning how much he missed old-school BlackBerries, and occasionally offering Eitan tidbits of baseball news. “Have some water.”
Eitan did not want water. Eitan wanted to meet with a team or several teams. He wanted to sign a contract. He wanted to be done, so this uncertainty could stop burning in his belly. “Are you sure the Cosmos aren’t interested?”
Gabe put down his phone. Despite the cold, his forehead shone in the conference room lights. “If they were, I would tell you.”
“How about the other New York team?” Gabe had grown up a fan of the other New York team and scowled every time Eitan called them that.
