Eitan didn’t have to wait long to find out. The batter, clearly eager to get the season underway, swung at the first pitch, sending the ball screaming down the third-base line. Eitan nabbed it, jumped up, made the transfer, and chucked it to first. A clean maneuver and throw that the speedy runner beat by a half a step.
There was a murmur of disapproval from the stands, a shout that held the vague shape of a slur. Eitan’s shoulders stiffened. Heat crept up his neck. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be like this, but the possibility had always been there. Now that he was experiencing it, no amount of rainbows on social media could wash that away.
Then came another voice, louder, a woman with the full force of a Philly accent who probably pronounced water with a d in the middle. “What the fuck did you just say about him?” she demanded.
The guy murmured something back at half volume. Shame, maybe, or just the desire to avoid a fistfight.
The woman was undeterred. “That’s our guy. Don’t talk to our fucking guy like that.”
Eitan couldn’t look back—the next batter was already up—but he permitted himself a single glimpse at what looked like a minor skirmish. Security wasn’t yet intervening, but a few other fans were calling for people to stop fucking yelling and watch the game being played on the field already.
That sounded all right to Eitan. So he leaned forward, weight on his toes, and watched the adjustment of the batter in the box, the shifting sea of grass in the diamond, ready for whatever happened next.
Akiva
After the game ended, Akiva waited outside the clubhouse door with the other families.
“They’re kind of tight about access early in the season.” Nicole, the first baseman’s wife, was standing next to him, her focus shifting between double-tapping things on Instagram and waiting for the clubhouse door to open. She’d sent Eitan a text after news of the signing broke and asked for Akiva’s number, then tossed Akiva into the WAGs group chat that had gotten summarily renamed Spouses and Partners. Akiva had disappointed her by not having his own social media accounts, but other than that, they got along well. She double-tapped yet another post. “Anyway, they’re being hard asses right now, but they’ll loosen up later.”
“Do you come to all the games?” he asked.
She snorted. “Eighty-two home games? No. But I try to buy a few of the sections beer once in a while.”
“I could probably swing that.”
Nicole chewed her lip for a second. She had long wavy blond hair that seemed unfussed by product and was wearing the kind of makeup that looked like she wasn’t wearing any. Nervousness didn’t look particularly natural on her, and Akiva suspected that she was gearing up to ask him something he might not want to answer. “You’re an author, right?” she said.
He wouldn’t truly feel like one until he had a book on the shelf with his name on it, but more and more that felt like a distinction without much of a difference. “I am.”
“How’d you get started doing that?”
I didn’t have much other choice. But that wasn’t true: he’d had a choice and even knowing how difficult it was, he’d make it again if it led him here. “Mostly I sit down, and words come out.”
She laughed. “I’ve been thinking about if I can leverage various brand deals—” she began and then twirled her hair a few more times as she articulated what sounded like a twelve-point business plan for world domination that included a book deal and a limited-run reality TV show.
She was just getting to point number thirteen when the clubhouse door opened and players began to emerge.
Eitan came out a few minutes later, hair wet from the shower, face glowing in a grin. Akiva met him, kissed him once, chastely, then again for good measure, before he drew back.
“You ready to go home?” Eitan asked. Though home in this case meant a ninety-minute drive back to New Jersey. Akiva suspected that later in the season, they’d end up staying in Philadelphia more often than not, but it really didn’t matter where he slept so long as Eitan was beside him.
Eitan took his hand, held it for the walk to the parking garage, dropped it only to unlatch Akiva’s door for him. Around them, other cars were already pulling out.
Akiva was about to climb into the passenger side when Eitan caught his hand again and pulled him close. Eitan made a show of glancing around at the emptying lot. “Kiss me,” he whispered, a puff of breath against Akiva’s cheek.
Akiva laughed. “Someone could be watching.”
“Then let’s give ’em a show.”
So they stood like that, kissing as time slid by, for an audience of no one but themselves.
THE END
