BREAKOUT YEAR
An MM fake dating romance.
Coming 2025
A newly traded, newly out third baseman on the cusp of his first major contract hires a fake boyfriend—not expecting him to be the former player who ghosted him years before. But as their star ascends in public, their feelings burn hot in private...threatening to expose what’s for the cameras—and what’s for real.
Eitan Rivkin is used to being first. First generation born to Russian immigrant parents, first overall pick in the draft, now the first ballplayer to come out… before his first big contract. It’s lonely being the first, and it’s especially lonely in the inescapable eye of New York sports media.
So when he wants to practice dating openly for the first time, he hires a boyfriend—only for the cameras of course. But he never expected that boyfriend to be Akiva Goldfarb, a once-promising player who disappeared after he and Eitan played together way back when.
Akiva is used to being first too. The first—and only—Orthodox Jewish player drafted to play professional ball. The first to quit when things got rough. The first named in the acknowledgements of the books he freelance edits, because, hey, the rent’s due on the first of the month. Being hired as someone’s (fake) boyfriend is just another gig, right? Even if Akiva left baseball—and baseball players—behind for a reason.
What starts out as a brief arrangement gradually transforms into something more. But being the first openly gay active player in professional baseball comes with a heavy personal cost, one Eitan is less and less certain he’s willing to pay. And when an on-field incident threatens to disrupt Eitan’s free agency plans, they’ll have to figure out if the truth is better than fiction.
Buy BREAKOUT YEAR from your preferred retailer:
Google Play (Coming soon.)
Add on Goodreads
See content notes for more details.
Chapter One
Breaking: Last-minute trade launches Crooks third baseman from Midwest to center stage…
Eitan vowed to spend no more than five minutes with his ear against this door.
Wait here and don’t do anything rash. What Isabel, the Cosmopolitans media relations handler assigned to handle him, had said before she left.
Rash probably included listening in on the conversation murmuring in the next room. But in fairness, the people on the other side of the door—reporters assembled for a New York Cosmos press conference—were all talking about him.
The door was cold. The hallway smelled like ballpark: fresh grass and old sweat. The ceiling tiles hung low. A taller ballplayer might have to duck, but Eitan was all of five-ten. Okay, five-nine. In cleats.
He opened the timer app on his phone. The countdown had almost expired its three hundred seconds—hardly any time at all. Was there a certain limit that turned overhearing into eavesdropping? I get five minutes…unless I hear something good.
His timer dinged. Fine. He would behave. He peeled his ear off the door. Isabel had been gone…a while. What did she expect him to do?
Be patient, probably.
He was twenty-seven years old. He was new to the Cosmos organization. Isabel had seemed nice, if harried, though everyone in this city seemed harried. It had been a long day, even if it was only mid-afternoon. So he could be patient. Probably.
He tried not to bounce on his heels and almost succeeded. He counted the ceiling tiles, an old hard-to-shake habit. He adjusted and readjusted the Cosmos jersey he was wearing over his hastily ironed dress shirt.
Rivkin. The word—his last name—popped through the slim barrier of the door. Followed by trade. Followed by controversy. Well, now he had to know what they were talking about.
He pushed the rim of his ear against the door. Press hard enough and you could feel the pulse in your head—his heartbeat steady but rabbit fast.
Eavesdropping was probably rude, but so was his team—his old team—trading him with one minute to go on trade deadline day. He’d already turned his phone off. That had been step one in getting through this. He’d texted his parents, his former teammates on the Cleveland Crooks, and his agent, Gabe—in that order—then silenced all his other calls.
Now his phone sat brick-heavy in the pocket of his bright blue suit pants that clashed with the dark navy of his new jersey, because those pants had been bought specifically to match his Crooks gear. Of course you wore the wrong outfit. A thought he couldn’t ignore, unlike the notifications he’d managed to tune out since the news hit. Common sense would say not to check them right before he met with the press. He took out his phone, powered it on, waited for it to acquire signal. Voicemails, texts, WhatsApp, TikTok…
Connor, his best friend on the Crooks, had posted a goodbye on Insta with photos of their time in Cleveland together, arms draped around each other under the stadium lights. The rest of it though—fuck, reading those notifications would have been a mistake any time but was especially one right now.
He was frowning over them when Isabel reappeared. “What’re you doing?” she asked by way of greeting. She was almost as tall as he was, in a blazer bearing not so much as a wrinkle, with black hair that she’d marshalled into a short ponytail. In the five hours that he’d known her, she’d tried to handle him with that same kind of exactness. Given what happened with Cleveland, he didn’t really blame her.
He held up his phone, which buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed. “Being inundated.”
“Set your phone in airplane mode.” And she waited until he actually did it before asking, “Are you ready?”
She’d said the same thing in the town car on the drive in from JFK that morning, and before and after each of his various meetings with Cosmos personnel, most of which were fairly brief get to know the new team kind of things that distracted him from having been unceremoniously lobbed off his old one. Not lobbed. Traded. Though standing in the narrow corridor about to face the press, he wasn’t exactly sure there was a difference.
“I think I’m good to go?” he said. It came out as a question.
She frowned—that PR person frown he’s come to know and…if not appreciate, at least understand. “If they ask you something that you don’t want to answer—and rest assured, they will—just say how happy you are to be in New York.”
“I am happy to be in New York.” Even if he’d already calculated the number of days remaining before he could leave.
Another frown.
“Really.” He put on his best smile. He had his teeth whitened earlier in the season, the dentist zapping away tea stains in stratigraphic layers. He’d either look good on camera or like he was trying too hard. “I am happy to be here. I am happy to be talking with the New York sports media.”
Isabel snorted. “No one is happy to be talking with the New York sports media.”
He laughed, then ground his finger into the dimple poking its way into his cheek. “See, happy.”
Isabel almost cracked a smile. “Sure. Just not so happy that Cleveland gets in their feelings about it.”
And he was spared from saying something like If Cleveland didn’t want me to offend them, maybe they shouldn’t have traded me when she pushed the door open and propelled him through it.
Inside, the Cosmos press room held six or seven rows of chairs, a dozen chairs to a row, space in the back where even more reporters were idling, tapping things on their phones or scribbling in notebooks.
Eitan tried to count them from where Isabel seated him at a table in the front, mic aimed at him, patterned Cosmos backdrop shifting in the inadequate air conditioning. He did the math, then did the math again, and came up with a lot of reporters. A fuck ton. Certainly more than he’d ever encountered in Cleveland, all of whom were looking at him like they expected him to say he was thrilled—thrilled—to be here.
It wouldn’t even be a lie. He was thrilled. Mostly.
He shifted in his chair, tapped his foot. The microphone was buzzing, a low hum like a muted TV. He tried to tune it out. Somehow it got louder. He had the next thirty minutes to introduce himself to the media, and the first, and only, rule of baseball news conferences was to be boring enough to put the entire press corps to sleep.
Isabel posted up next to him, slightly off to the side, just enough to be out of the camera’s view. Various team personnel introduced him: the owner, an elderly guy who’d made his money doing unspeakable things to the stock market but decided to pour that into rebuilding the Queens baseball team, so all was forgiven. The team general manager, who was one of the crop of new, next-generation baseball executives whose teeth rivaled Eitan’s in their sheen.
Then it was Eitan’s turn to speak.
“You’re up,” Isabel said.
A mental skills coach once told Eitan that pressing his tongue against his teeth was a symptom of either nerves or excitement. He pushed it against his incisors and tried for an approximation of a smile.
“So, New York, huh?” A water bottle sat in front of him. He broke the seal. Its plastic click-click-click echoed through the room. The bottle contained exactly two sips of water—or one and half sips. Drops fell onto the Cosmos jersey he was wearing, too new for him to think of it as his. Great, now he wasn’t just nervous: he was nervous and damp.
No one said anything. Were they waiting for him? He was supposed to have prepared a statement—Isabel had said, Gabe had said, his mother had said‚ but he’d come to treat interactions with the press the way he did fielding third base: he’d done it enough to know it by feel. Feel. That baseball term for something so practiced it became easy and intuitive. Except none of this was easy or intuitive. So he was left staring at the assembled reporters who, maddeningly, were staring right back.
He considered his options. Fuck the Cleveland baseball organization but also why didn’t they want me enough to keep me? That might not go over so well.
All right, time to break the ice.
“It’s funny,” he said, “but I get more nervous in front of you all than I do playing in front of fifty thousand people.” It was a joke. It was supposed to be a joke.
No one laughed. One reporter offered a look that managed to communicate both sympathy and that Eitan wasn’t in Ohio anymore. As if he needed a reminder. He muttered—or attempted to mutter—tough crowd.
Except he aimed it at the mic. “Tough crowd.” Loud as a PA announcement.
He winced. Isabel winced. The reporters in the first three rows winced. The owner and GM winced. So this was inauspicious. Or a total fucking mess.
“All right”—he waved gamely—“bring it on, I guess.”
Isabel nodded to the assembled media, who all thrust up eager hands, then called on a reporter by name.
“How’re you feeling about the trade?” the reporter asked.
“I’m still getting used to it.” What else was Eitan supposed to say? That he found out about the trade from social media before the Crooks front office had even bothered to call him? That he’d procrastinated for an hour before needing all of five minutes to pack? That he’d spent the entirety of the—really nice, to be fair—private jet ride with his shirt sweat-stuck to his back like he could already feel the glare of baseball’s hottest spotlight? He tried on another smile. “New York’s a little bigger than Cleveland.”
“What’re you looking forward to about playing here?” someone else said. He missed the reporter’s name. In Cleveland, he’d known them all by name, by the ages of their various kids and where they’d been on their last vacation. Now he felt as if he was back in school and the teacher’s directions had turned to a shush in his head. Still, the truth was easy: he loved baseball. The dimensions of the diamond were the same no matter the city. He could figure everything else out…later.
He tilted his mouth to the mic, which, to its credit, only whined a little. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know my teammates and the fans. And of course, playing for the Commissioner’s Trophy.” Not like Cleveland, he didn’t add, but he didn’t need to, because everyone in baseball knew the Crooks had spent the past three seasons trading away any viable players as a cost-cutting measure. Eitan just hadn’t thought that would include him.
Another reporter chimed in. “Even as recently as last week, there was talk that you and Cleveland were making headway on a contract extension. What altered that conversation?”
Good fucking question. Sweat started to prick at Eitan’s hairline, from the lights, from the reporters’ stares. He’d heard somewhere that dark hair made you sweat more. His hair was practically black; now, it stuck to his neck. He tugged at his jersey, examined the curly edges of the NY logo to make the (he hoped subtle) point that he wasn’t in Cleveland.
“Sometimes things don’t work out how you want them.” His grin went fixed. “But I’m here, so that’s cool.”
“Any particular reason that negotiations broke down?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Isabel was shaking her head. Did PR people have classes on the don’t answer that head shake or did it come natural?
Eitan—gently—waved her off. “No, I got this one.”
Her don’t do it expression morphed into an oh shit, he’s gonna. Next to him, the owner’s face went blank, the GM’s teeth extra shiny.
He knew those looks. He’d seen them enough from his coaches and teachers growing up. That horrified realization that he was about to say or do something not terribly bright.
His mom liked to tell the story of when he was six and he climbed up to the highest diving board at the Jewish Community Center pool near their house. How the board wobbled at his small weight. How his chin wobbled—nerves, excitement. She offered to help him down. He shook his head and called, No turning back now, then leapt.
Well, no turning back now. “Talks with the Crooks broke down because they didn’t want me on the team anymore.”
At that, the press started murmuring to one another. Next to him, Isabel actually put her head in her hands. He should have said something bland like, It became evident I wasn’t necessarily a good organizational fit. The same stuff, but nicer. Oh well.
Why was he in the hot seat, anyway? Call Cleveland and ask why they sent me packing if you’re so curious. After this press conference they might, if only to confirm that the Crooks had made the right decision.
Another reporter spoke. “You were with the organization for six years.” It wasn’t a question, but the implication of one was close enough.
Eitan gave his brightest grin. He hoped his teeth reflected all the way to the Midwest. “Eight, if you count the minors.” He quickly calculated what percentage that was of his life. Jeez. He wasn’t going to get choked up about it, not publicly. Trades happened. It’s just business. Though the ache in his chest didn’t exactly agree.
Isabel cleared her throat. “We’re so excited to have Eitan with the Cosmos. I’d like to focus all our remaining time on his role with our team.”
The reporter ignored her. “That must have been hard, with you being from Cleveland.”
“Technically, I’m from Mayfield Heights,” Eitan said. As if being from a Russian Jewish enclave thirty whole minutes outside the city made any kind of difference. “Look, all I have to say about Cleveland is that I’m happy to be in New York. I mean, it’s a little like getting dumped and someone hotter immediately sliding into your DMs—”
At this the reporters laughed and Eitan, once talking, couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“—but yeah, I guess, what do you want me to say? I thought I was gonna be a Crook for life, and I’m not. So I’m gonna play a little third base for you and maybe compete for a championship. When I hit free agency in the fall, we’ll see how it goes. Now that I say all that out loud, it doesn’t sound too bad, you know?”
Another hand, another reporter. One whose name Eitan did in fact know. Camilla Fiore, who anchored the Cosmos postgame show, clips of which were sometimes passed around clubhouses as cautionary tales. She had blond hair that was black at the roots, a necklace pendant shaped like a horn, a New York accent thick enough to spread across toast. The other reporters inched back—deference or possibly fear. “Did your criticism of the Crooks last month factor into their decision to trade you?” she asked.
“I assume you’re referring to the incident with New Hope Christian Fellowship?” Eitan took a swig of his water. He had no idea how he looked on camera—nervous, pissy, dehydrated. Which he was, or possibly just wrung out.
He crumpled his emptied water bottle. A jag of plastic poked him in the palm. No turning back now. “I don’t think it was really a criticism,” he started, and Isabel looks almost relieved. Until he continued. “It’s not criticism to point out that having Pride Night on a Thursday and a Faith and Family Night on a Monday—with a church that’s not known for its tolerance—aren’t exactly consistent organizational values.”
At that the owner’s knuckles bleached white. The GM’s grin was closer to a grimace. Isabel made a noise akin to a kettle venting its steam. Eitan should probably buy her something. Maybe she had a dog—he was great at dog gifts—or one of those edible bouquets where all the fruit was shaped like flowers.
Camilla, on the other hand, looked like she’d just won the lottery. “So you’re not denying that incident was a factor.”
It wasn’t like that. Mostly, because it was worse—that the Crooks hadn’t told Eitan anything at all. Just shook his hand, wished him luck, and pushed him onto a plane.
Vaguely, Eitan knew there were correct things to say in these situations: gratitude, for one, the stuff he actually meant. “I don’t regret any part of my time in Cleveland.” Except leaving it. “I had a lot of great teammates, made a lot of good memories. But I’m really looking forward to getting to know the guys here. The Cosmos do seem like a better organizational fit.” There, nice and neat, even if he could practically hear Isabel’s jaw working behind him. “For any number of reasons.”
“Like the Cosmos’ support of the queer community?” Camilla clarified.
Queer pronounced in a thick New York accent didn’t sound derisive…but it didn’t sound complimentary, either. “Well, that’s a big part of it,” Eitan said, then added, “It’d be kinda hypocritical of me just to let that go.”
A statement followed by pin-drop silence, from the reporters. From the owner and GM.
Eitan stationed his tongue against the back of his teeth. Isabel was right. He’d been entirely unprepared for any of this. He knew what the next question was going to be, but that didn’t make him sweat any less when Camilla finally spoke.
“To confirm,” she said, “are you showing support for the queer community or coming out yourself?”
He knew why she was asking. To the New York sports press, him having a blister would be news. Coming out, if only by implication, would mean a media firestorm.
He could—should—clarify what he’d meant: That he supported progressive causes in Cleveland. That it sucked playing with guys whose politics weren’t all that different from why his family had to emigrate.
That this wasn’t the first time the conversation had come up. Back in Cleveland, guys asked him why he cared so much about what they all called the Pride Night thing. Was it because he was…? Most hadn’t even had the courage to finish the sentence.
He’d always been tempted to snap back, So what if I was gay? It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter who he dated, even if everything in baseball meant that it would.
Fuck it. His world got spun upside down a day ago. Let people draw the incorrect conclusion. Incorrect? a whispering part of his brain objected. A thought he’d had more than once. Maybe more than more than once, an increasingly loud question in the past few weeks since the Pride Night thing. One he’d examine somewhere else, away from the bright hot lights of the press, sometime when he wasn’t newly washed up on New York’s rocky shores.
Still, he wasn’t going to sit here and outright lie. What if there was a kid watching, someone who stared in the mirror and wondered if baseball had a place for them?
If he couldn’t make a good decision, he could at least make the right one. It’d mean another beleaguered phone call with Gabe, the second in twenty-four hours. All of the other ballplayers who’d come out were retired or unsigned. No one who was looking for a big payday come free agency. Just Eitan, with a mic in front of him, managing to say the exact wrong thing.
He should change the subject, redirect, roll back the last two days of his life. But what was a little more gasoline on a public relations fire?
So he smiled, big and challenging. “It’s so good to be on a team where everyone can be fully who they are—myself included.” And he let the room absorb that for all of five seconds before he added, “Really, I’m just so excited to be in New York. What else you got for me?”