Washing my hands in the sink, I inspect them for sticky remnants of gum. His act of covering up strikes me as odd. Hockey players see each other naked on the daily, and Mr. Dimon isn’t a stranger to our locker room.
But Jamal always uses a private shower. I’ve never seen himnaked-naked.
While the water was running, I couldn’t hear their conversation, but now their voices filter through the door.
“Everything’s fine. It was a misunderstanding. Thank you for checking on me, sir,” Jamal says.
“Mr. Brant was adamant that you need assistance,” Mr. Dimon responds.
“I’ve got it. Say hi.”
“Hi, handsome. We have it under control, but if you insist, I’ll take your number and text you back.” Jada’s voice is playful and flirtatious.
“That won’t be necessary. Mr. King, text me or Grayson Ward if you need something.”
After I hear the door shut, Jada says, “That man is a snack and a half. Dayyyummm.”
“Stay out of my pool,” he says sternly, and she cackles.
Jamal reenters the bathroom, and she gets serious. “Sweetie, more peanut butter on the fingers.”
I dip my fingers, disappointed that his top half is covered by the towel. “See, she thinks I’m sweet,” I taunt Jamal.
“She don’t know you,” he says.
“I need a better view before you start,” she chimes in, and I take the phone in my peanut-butter-free hand to hold it up to Jamal’s head. “See the streaks ofgum stuck to his hair? That’s the next step. If we’re lucky, you’ll be able to get it out without undoing the braids.”
“I’m not cutting my hair!” Jamal yells, and a shiver runs up his spine.
“We won’t cut it,” she promises. “What’s sweetie’s name?”
“Theo O’Keefe,” I say formally, like an asshole.
“You ready, Theo O’Keefe?”
I’m not prepared to touch Jamal. He takes the phone because it’s too hard to holdandget the gum out. At first, he’s rigid, every muscle locking in place. I can’t help myself and stroke his neck where his pulse hammers.
Jamal’s skin is supple, and my mind goes to bad places, imagining running my hands down his back and over his chest. His defined V-line rises above the waistband of his pants.
I forget there’s someone on the phone, and she jolts me back to reality with more instructions. If my family had given me any attention, I wouldn’t have crazy thoughts about my stepbrother. He’d kill me if he could read my mind.
It takes a million years to get the gum out, and we have to undo a few braids, which is a project in itself.
The best part is Jamal relaxing into my touch. When I tell him it’s going to be fine, his muscles unclench, and he responds to my fingertip pressure to move or angle his head differently. Our bodies are speaking to each other in a language they already know.
Jamal ducks his head under the water to rinse and hands me a bottle of shampoo.
Then it’s over.
The gum is gone, and my job is done.
There will be peanut oil on my fingers for the next decade. It’s in my pores and part of my DNA.
“Baby, when you get home, come knock on my door and I’ll rebraid you.”
“Much love, appreciate you,” Jamal says, waves goodbye, and hangs up.
I’m afraid he’ll thank me, so I ruin the moment. “I always knew I’d get to touch your hair.”
