King must pity me for accusing him of going to a boarding school like it was a bad thing. Because I’m an asshole, I called his school pretending to be a reporter doing an interest piece on King. The ladies in the office were more than willing to pass the phone around and tell stories about him.
That had to violate some privacy acts or some shit, but it’s true. The internet isn’t as reliable as we need it to be. His old school is known for its good academics, but it’s in the projects. The worst projects in New York City.
John, his father and my stepfather, told me I had to go to boarding school because King did. He lived out of the country, per John, because King’s mom thought it was best. It was a convenient excuse for why he didn’t live with us or visit.
When I was ten, he told me that King didn’t like me and refused to visit if I was there.
“You look like you’re brooding.” King stands next to me at a high-top table.
“What are you doing?” I outright ask. There isn’t a reason to pretend we’re friends.
“I’m being nice.” His eyebrows scrunch.
“I’m not falling for your act. You might have fooled everyone else here, but not me.” I motion to our teammates with my beer.
“What act?” he demands.
“See, the mask crumbles around me. You hate me as much as I hate you. Don’t forget you throat-punched me after the playoff game last year.” I smirk.
“I threw you into the wall, but it wasn’t a throat punch,” he argues. “Besides, you were implying some fucked-up shit.”
He thought I avoided playing him last year because he walked out on Pride Night, and in his words, “I can’t catch gay.” I won’t tell him that hearing he was queer fucked up my head, but since he’s not, there’s no reason for me to stress out.
“Details.” I set my beer down and cross my arms.
Mav saunters over to our table. “I’m trying to rally the single guys to go out and take advantage of the puck chasers. Whad’ya say?”
“He’s got a girlfriend,” King answers for me.
“No, I don’t.” He’s lost his mind. Who could he mistake for my girlfriend?
“Sarah?” he asks.
“Nah. Best friend, not a girlfriend,” I reply, and pick up my beer bottle for something to do with my restless hands.
“Does she know?” Mav laughs.
“I’m not her type,” I say instead of outing her. Her parents are still in denial, and I don’t want them to put more pressure on her. “What’s your type?” I ask King because he’s being weird, and I don’t like it.
“Oooh.” Benz crashes into our table out of nowhere. “We’d all like to know that.” He puts his elbows on the table to support his face as he stares at King. “He won’t give us anything,” Benz complains.
“None of you saw him hook up last year?” I ask, then mutter, “Suspicious.”
“I guess it would be suspicious, but they already know I’m gay.” He turns to Mav. “Sorry if you didn’t know. I don’t usually blurt it out.”
I’m a hundred percent sure I’m having an aneurysm. Or my hearing is bad.
Mav shrugs. “I assumed you were at least bi. Straight guys don’t usually walk on Pride Night for support or publicly flirt on social media.”
As if summoned, Brant appears. “Who’s King flirting with?”
“We’re trying to figure out who he wants to flirt with besides you.” Benz straightens to his full height.
“Tell us,” Brant chants in a deep voice.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening? Jamal King cannot be gay.
He said terrible things about the possibility of my being bi. Things I could never repeat, truly reprehensible.
