Chapter 3
Jamal King
“Quick question.” Brant pulls his jersey on over his pads. “Is Mr. Dimon a hard-ass or what?” We’re doing a full-pad practice scrimmage in the Manhattan arena for the new guys to cap off the never-ending week.
He’s met with incredulous stares and silence. Mr. Dimon is a players’ manager. He wants the best for us as men and players. We’re not treated like cattle to be bought and sold at will, unlike some other teams.
The locker room has custom-built dark wood lockers, which have the new players’ nameplates already installed. The modern professional look reflects the way we’re treated well and respected.
“He’s a great guy,” Ace says. “He has his players’ backs.”
“Must be me he hates.” Brant grins as if he’s already moving on, but there’s a vein throbbing in his forehead. I don’t know him well enough to tell if it’s a sign of anger or stress.
“No way.” Benz bounds over and slaps his back. “He loves us. You’ll see.”
“Sure,” Brant mumbles to placate Benz.
Lucky, our first line right-winger, blasts the music and the bass throbs in my chest as the drumbeat takes over the room. “Listen up, newbies. We have a rule here at the Enforcers. The team that dances together…” He puts his hand to his ear for the team to respond.
“Wins together,” we yell in unison.
Lucky twerks in front of his boyfriend Drake, the first line center, who smacks his ass. As the team joins in the dancing, I side-eye O’Keefe to see his reaction. He’s blank-faced.
We are the first NHL team with openly gay and bi players.
O’Keefe knew this before he got here, but seeing it is not the same as knowing it.
I pride myself on my ability to read people, but he keeps his emotions on lockdown.
His face is a bland mask of neutrality, and I haven’t figured out his micro-expressions yet.
My heart rate accelerates at his indifference. Playing with O’Keefe will put me six feet under. Every time I think we’ve made progress, he flips a switch and turns on me. He’s too smart to do anything overt, but he pretends he can’t hear me or I don’t exist.
He’s his own worst enemy. He purposely antagonizes our teammates, then runs his mouth about all his success as if he needs an “Atta boy” for doing his job.
It could be me projecting, but there’s an underlying tension in the locker room this season.
Ace officially welcomes the new players to our home arena and gives an impassioned speech about his belief in this team.
When our trainer, Gray, enters, Ace lights up. “And I have some personal news.” Ace clears his throat.
“Is this where you explain the ring on your finger?” O’Keefe blurts out.
Gray saunters over, ignoring O’Keefe with his eyes on Ace. “It’s true. On vacation, I asked this guy to marry me and he agreed.” He looks like he’s won the lottery as he takes Ace’s left hand and kisses his ring finger.
The team claps and wolf-whistles their approval.
“Technically, I asked you first.” Ace picks up Gray and twirls him around.
“But I had the rings ready.” Gray pecks him on the lips.
They’re surrounded by everyone for congratulations and high-fives. Benz whispers to Ace, “I didn’t tell anyone.” Ace folds him into an appreciative hug.
O’Keefe was listening when Ace specifically said he and Gray wanted to tell the team together. One more way O’Keefe is making his transition to this team harder.
Liska, our starting goalie, pounds his stick on the floor. “I also have an announcement. Trevor and I have set a vedding date. July 10th this summer.” His Czech accent is most noticeable on words starting with W. “Ve are not telling anyone yet to avoid a media circus.”
Benz careens into him. “You’re making an honest man out of Trevy! Finally,” he says, ignoring Liska’s attempt to block his hug. “I’m planning the sickest bachelor party for you!”
“I vill need to check vith Trevor on that.” Liska frowns.
“Obvi, he’ll be there!” Benz does a happy dance.
“Listen up, team.” Coach commands the room.
“Instead of scrimmaging each other, I brought in our AHL team for the day.” He holds up his hands, expecting the grumbles.
“You’re all excellent players, but great players don’t win championships, great teamwork does.
” It’s bad luck to say you intend to win The Cup, but that’s our goal.
“The expectation is that you wipe the floor with these AHL guys, and do it as a team.”
I control my excitement over seeing my friends from the farm team. There’s not as many guys as I used to know, but it’ll be great to share the ice. Most guys are nodding, but then O’Keefe opens his mouth.
“What if we don’t?” he jokes, looking around for a laugh. No one laughs.
Coach scowls at him. “Then I’ll sit down with Mr. Dimon and decide who we should demote to the AHL and who deserves to be brought up. Everyone on the ice.” He stalks out of the room without a backward glance.
“Dude.” Brant gives O’Keefe a friendly shoulder squeeze. “You gotta read the room.” The tension is thick enough to choke on.
Rhys Brant is a tamer version of Benz, more self-aware and socially adept. He’s the type of guy who invites you in with self-deprecation, and he has a calmness about him that puts me at ease. Those characteristics seem in direct conflict with his fiery red hair.
It’s solid advice given with good intention, but O’Keefe knocks his hand away and slams the door as he walks out.
“Okay,” Ace says. “You heard Coach, let’s play some team hockey.”
We follow him onto the ice and greet the AHL team.
A few of their veteran players surround me with backslaps and fist bumps.
The head coach, who had been their assistant when I’d skated with them, also thumps my back and pulls me into a hug.
They won’t make it easy for us, especially me.
They’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain by standing out and playing well against us.
The Enforcers are surprised at how friendly I am with the AHL guys. I haven’t told them that I trained and played with this team. It never came up.
Coach puts in who he expects to be the first line starts. At center, Drake, flanked by his boyfriend Lucky and Ace. Liska’s in goal with defenders O’Keefe and Brant.
Lucky and Drake are so in sync on and off the ice, I swear they can communicate telepathically; they leave the AHL guys far behind. They volley the puck around, practicing no-look passes in an elaborate game of keep-away. When they know their shift is about to end, Ace shoots and scores.
I’m over the boards for my shift with Mason Griffin and the new guy at center, Maverick, making his NHL debut.
Mav, as he likes to be called. He’s a fun goofball, so I had some reservations about him.
But on the ice, he’s a killer. Mav easily wins the face-off and follows the example set by the first line by passing the puck immediately to me.
Muscle memory kicks in, and we race down the ice.
The defenders hurl good-natured insults when they can’t keep up.
Usually, I’d find Griff right away to score, but today I circle around the back of the net to run a screen play by blocking off the goalie’s sight lines and pass the puck to Griff. Griff dishes it to Mav and he scores.
We meet for a celly hug, and Mav does a jig on the ice. He’s gonna fit right in and level us up.
“Let the D-line get some action this time,” Coach yells.
“Watch this.” Mav grins and takes his position for the face-off.
He wins it again but passes it directly to the AHL winger.
The winger is so stunned he almost loses the pass that hits his stick.
It’s a mistake that, in a regular season game, I would recover the puck, but I don’t.
I let them test our defenders and Liska.
I hang back to keep their winger out of the mix. “Assume at any second the puck is coming your way and be ready. You’re better than letting the new guy beat your ass,” I tease my old friend, and he shoves me into the boards for my tip.
Coach pulls my line, and Gray checks on us to ensure we’re all in top shape, spending extra time questioning me about the hit I took. He’s a relentless trainer and knows when we’re lying. “A push among friends,” I assure him. “I’m all good.”
On my next shift, I replace Ace on the first line, which means I’m playing with O’Keefe. Drake doesn’t pass to the other team but hesitates half a second to give them a chance.
O’Keefe’s ready for the attack and easily strips the puck. That’s when things go sideways. I’m all alone waiting by the blue line, and O’Keefe has an open lane to send me the puck. He doesn’t.
Instead, he keeps the puck and charges through the AHL players in a spectacular spin move. As if he’s insulted the AHL team, they go into a hive mode and attack him all at once. O’Keefe continues to battle for the puck even with Lucky and Drake calling for the pass.
My itchy skin makes my movements feel clunky, and my heart gallops in my chest. But I skate to stay in O’Keefe’s sightline. I’ve spent years practicing a friendly facial expression so no one thinks I’m an angry Black man. It helps now as I bang my stick calling for the puck.
I doubt he’ll pass to me, but I do what I’ve been trained and keep open. Finally, he realizes it’s a losing battle and passes to Lucky, even though the smart pass would be to me.
Coach screams at O’Keefe, and his voice echoes, bouncing off the ice. “Is that what you call teamwork? King positioned himself so you could easily fucking pass.” Coach isn’t one to swear, so it seems he’s fed up with O’Keefe.
I thought O’Keefe being reprimanded would flood my system with relief, but it doesn’t happen. My muscles stay tense, and my mind whirls. Usually, I leave my anxiety on the bench and dedicate all my mental activities to playing. I won’t let O’Keefe take that from me.
Playing with Lucky and Drake makes me work harder. I’m not delusional enough to think I’ll take Ace’s spot anytime soon. I’m happy with my playing time and role on the team. My nerves would’ve overloaded in a bad way if I’d stepped into a starting position my rookie year like O’Keefe did.
For the rest of the game, Coach configures the lines so O’Keefe and I are together.
My movements are three steps behind because the noise in my brain is so loud. The other team knows me well enough to take advantage.
I’m letting everyone down.
I promised Ari Dimon that I could play with him, but now I’m doubting my abilities. I’m not holding my own, and I’m playing worse than everyone else on the ice. Coach’s threat of being demoted to the AHL swims in my head.
Using every calming technique I’ve learned, I refocus.
The AHL guys continue to chirp at me, and I encourage them. They’re my boys, and I’d love to see them succeed.
Through it all, O’Keefe never passes to me.
If we can’t work this out, the entire team will suffer. After being shoved into the boards, I steal the puck and pass it to O’Keefe. It’s the smart pass and hopefully shows my willingness to be a team player. I need to prove I’m not the problem and do everything I can to win games.
He streaks down the ice, and I feel Brant’s frustration.
Brant is a scoring defender, not O’Keefe.
It’s not that O’Keefe isn’t allowed to score; it’s about the role they serve.
He’s our best defender, should be the last man between our goalie and the other team.
Today he’s playing like he wants Brant’s position.
Brant chirps O’Keefe but maintains a defensive position as fury radiates from him.
We win, but Coach is angry. “That type of play won’t get you to June!
” he shouts. “A couple of you understood the assignment. Maverick, while sending a pass directly to an opponent is a horrible idea, you fast-tracked the defensive player’s engagement.
Brant, you covered the defensive side and protected our goalie. ”
Brant’s death grip on his stick loosens, and his forehead vein decreases in size with Coach’s praise.
“O’Keefe, in my office as soon as you shower and change,” Coach barks.
O’Keefe shrugs as if he’s unbothered.
No matter what happens, I have to put the team first. We need capable defenders, and O’Keefe could be great for us.
I won’t be the one to let the team down and let our personal issues sabotage our potential.
Closing my eyes, I practice rhythmic breathing to bring my system off high alert.
This team has fully accepted me for who I am, and going somewhere else feels wrong and possibly unsafe after coming out.
I will do whatever it takes for this team to succeed, with or without O’Keefe.