Page 98 of Breakout Year
“Akiva said you’d left New York,” Mark said to Eitan. It wasn’t accusatory, exactly, or perhaps it was only if you knew Mark well, and Akiva motioned for him to cut it out.
“I thought we were in New Jersey.” Eitan smiled. “So technically I did leave New York.”
Mark gave him the eye, a look that continued even as Akiva hissed at him to stop. Around them, the service was beginning, the first murmurs of people donning tallises and opening prayer books. Akiva, not for the first time, hoped to be rescued by the rabbi calling everyone’s attention to a specific page. No such luck came.
Eitan, however, was studying Mark the way he might an adversarial reporter he hoped to win over. “I moved back to Cleveland,” he said. “Turned out that was a mistake. I got in late last night, and I’m planning to stay in the area.”
“Just for the offseason?” Mark pressed.
Eitan shook his head, the green satin of his kippah catching the dimmed sanctuary lights. “No, not just for the offseason.”
The rabbi tapped the mic, and the congregation—the scant twenty or so people who showed up to Friday afternoon prayers—did an approximation of settling that mostly meant talking slightly less loudly. Akiva turned himself from the conversation, from the hammer of his heart in his chest. Took his tallis from his bag and recited the blessing embroidered over its length. Kissed its edges and wrapped it around his shoulders. He felt more settled then, his concentration aimed at the prayers in front of him, so familiar he didn’t really have to read the words.
Next to him, Eitan opened his prayer book, gazed at Akiva’s for the page number before flipping to the correct one. Eitan’s finger tracked down the page. “I can’t, uh, read Hebrew,” he admitted. “My parents’ temple is mostly in English.” He sounded apologetic.
Akiva leaned over, traced the line they were on, the corresponding translation. “It’ll be the silent Amidah in a minute.”
“Being quiet isn’t my strong suit,” Eitan said, but he was smiling.
The service was quick and went quicker as Akiva whispered various cues to Eitan. Eitan stayed next to him and rose when he rose from his seat and sat when he sat, and their knuckles brushed more than once. This felt close, different from the close of Eitan sleeping in his bed or Akiva holding him up in the shower. Close in a way that their lives could be, now, even if Eitan had worn a slightly pained expression all day when he’d thought Akiva wasn’t looking.
Occasionally, Rachel or Mark threw him a glance, a clear demand for explanation. If I had one, I’d offer it. Not the whole truth but the one that Akiva felt comfortable telling. That Eitan was here. That he’d given up everything to be here. That if Akiva thought about it too hard, he might tell Eitan to get back on the damn plane and go demand what he was worth, so instead he stood and he prayed and thought of everything and nothing and silence and the small uncompromised joy of Eitan’s hand brushing his.
42
Eitan
“Just to warn you, there are going to be questions,” Akiva said as they stood on Mark and Rachel’s front stoop and knocked. Akiva was carrying a cake along with flowers Eitan had bought after checking that they weren’t the kind that were harmful to cats. He wasn’t above bribery to make Akiva’s friends like him, if a honey cake and a bouquet of zinnias counted as bribes.
Eitan was holding a box containing three bottles of wine and two baseballs he’d apparently had in his luggage. He didn’t need them anymore, and perhaps the kids would like them. When he’d told Akiva that, he’d gotten a frown in response.
Eitan shifted the box to one arm, knocked on the front door, trying for his friendliest knock. “The Cosmos gave me a whole bunch of media training,” he said. “So I’m probably ready.”
“My friends aren’t the New York media.” Akiva sighed with an air of put-upon affection. “They might be worse.”
Eitan didn’t think any of them were going to flash a camera in his face or publish an exposé about how his choice in bodega breakfast was an affront to another equally as good sandwich shop right down the street. But he wanted them to like him, to think he was good for Akiva. He wanted to be good for Akiva, and he didn’t entirely know what that meant, but he could spend a decade or six figuring it out.
Mark answered the door, and Akiva held the flowers out as if in his own defense. “Eitan’s doing,” he said as he entered the house.
“Thank you.” Mark sniffed them. “They’re pretty.” It didn’t sound grudging, but Eitan was familiar with that tone from past coaches who were waiting for Eitan to convince them that his merits outweighed his ability to make trouble. Still, Mark took the flowers, the cake, directed both of them toward the kitchen, up a gradient that carried the scent of roasted chicken.
“Everything smells great,” Eitan said as they went past the living room with its scattering of toys. The house was older than Akiva’s, larger and with a certain lived-in feel from its slightly worn couches and rugs that had been freshly vacuumed but still bore the occasional grape juice stain.
Akiva had said he’d stayed here when he hadn’t had any other place to go. Eitan was glad for that, for having a community to catch him, for having friends good enough that they were clearly worried that Eitan might break his heart again.
In the kitchen, Rachel was doing something to a chicken in a roasting pan while two other women sat at the table. One waved, said her name was Chava; the other let out a strangled noise of recognition.
“This is my wife, Jess,” Chava said. “She is, unfortunately, a Cosmos fan.”
“Is this all who’s coming?” Akiva said.
“Unless you decided to invite the remainder of the Cosmos roster.” Rachel attempted to take the box holding the wine from Eitan and gave him an exaggerated scowl when he refused.
“It’s heavy.” He found a spare bit of counter to set it on. Might as well get this out of the way early. “I’m not playing for the Cosmos anymore. I’m not sure where—if—I’ll be playing next season.”
He hadn’t expected jubilation or outrage. These people weren’t the media. What did they care what he did so long as he was with Akiva? But he also hadn’t expected a sticky sensation in his throat, either.
Next to him, Akiva and Mark were having a conversation that was mostly composed of shaking their heads at one another. Rachel was giving him a look that made Eitan want to apologize to her, like one might to an aunt or a teacher.
