I tickle her and grab her waist, hoisting her up so her feet dangle a foot above the floor. “You should’ve told me you were coming. I would’ve prepared.” I’m so fucking happy to see her.
“Where’s the fun in that? You know I like messy Theo way more than proper stick-up-his-ass Theo. It’s why we’re friends.”
I tousle her new purple hair, ready to be the escape she needs. “We’re outta here.”
Chapter 7
Jamal King
Ace sits in Gray’s roller chair and motions for me to close the door behind me. I expected Gray to be here too and feel like I’m in trouble, analyzing everything I’ve said and done recently.
“What do you know about O’Keefe’s past?” he asks with no lead-in.
Blinking several times, I still don’t know if he’s upset with me or O’Keefe. “Not much. His mom married the guy who contributed half of my DNA, but we’ve never had a relationship off the ice.”
“I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll ask you outright. Do you think he was abused?”
I cross over to lean on the treatment table. “What?” My thoughts are in a high-speed blender, and nothing makes sense.
“Twice I’ve seen him flinch from contact, ready to strike back. As a guy who prefers my personal space and no hugs, I’m confident in saying he overreacts in an alarming way.”
“I…I have no idea. Are you suggesting his stepfather? My…” The word father gets stuck in my throat, and I hunch over. We’re talking about the guy who has every privilege life can offer: whiteness, money, family connections, and a trust fund.
Ace rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not accusing anyone. Thought you might have some insight for me.”
I shake my head, but deep down something about Ace’s observation makes sense. Maybe there’s a reason O’Keefe hates me, and it has nothing to do with hockey.
“This conversation stays between us, yeah?” Ace stands and thumps my back.
“Of course.”
“Question: what would you do if O’Keefe came over to slap your back?”
With the thought of it, my elbow pops up, ensuring Ace can’t get closer, even though we’re talking about O’Keefe.
“That’s what I thought. Thanks, King.” Ace leaves, but I can’t move.
There’s only one person who might have answers for me.
My apartment building is farther out than most of my teammates’, and I don’t have a doorman or much security. My moms preaches not to forget who I am or where I came from.
I’m a Black man playing one of the whitest sports in this country. I don’t need any reminders; the world, the media, and the fans constantly remind me, not that I’d ever want to forget. My mom and stepdad, and our extended family, instilled a deep love for my culture in me.
The thing about being one of the few Black men in the league and the only one on my team is that I always feel pressure to set a good example. Logically, I know it’s not my job to represent every Black person who ever existed. But I feel the responsibility.
It’s part of why I choose to live in a Black neighborhood. I get to be me. I’m comfortable in my own home and have the best neighbors.
It’s also why I wear my hair in braids, even though a bald fade would fit much easier in my helmet. The natural hair movement was just gathering steam when I started wearing braids. Black kids weren’t getting the message to love our hair exactly as it grows on our heads the way they do now. It’s something I stillstruggle with. I fear being seen as unkempt and unprofessional if I let my fro fly free.
I have anxiety around my hair that I’m not proud of and wish I felt comfortable wearing it naturally. My braids are a huge part of who I am, and I can’t imagine cutting my hair.
“Hey, ’sup, man?” My friend and neighbor, Tyrone, holds the door for me.
“Same old, same old.” We clasp hands and pull in for a bro hug.
“You up for grub?” We walk to the elevator. Broken.
I sigh, and we take the stairs. “Gonna call my moms. Text you later.”
