Chapter 5
Jamal King
The travel is low-key my least favorite part of being a hockey player. It’s our last preseason game, and we’re in Toronto. It’s so close, but being in another country is a pain in the ass. As we board the bus to the arena, Brant saunters up.
We’ve become unofficial travel buddies. Which helps me to not overthink who I’ll be sitting with or what we’ll talk about. It’s never been a problem, but my brain acts like I’ll be left on the side of the road.
“Grayson wants to show me some film of how I’m overstressing my ankles.” He rolls his eyes. “Sit with Maverick.”
I swallow hard and breathe in slowly. “It’s fine.”
Brant’s face pinches together and he leans in. “He’s the only one who doesn’t know anyone. He could use a friend.”
Embarrassment rushes through me, tangling with my stress and confusing me. Brant isn’t babying me; he’s looking out for Mav. I should be looking out for him too, instead I’m concerned about myself.
“No problem.” I crane my neck, searching for him, and Brant’s shoulders sag in relief.
My mind goes into overdrive. I mentally catalog all the facts for topics to talk about.
Mav sits next to me, his eyes glued to his phone, looking relaxed and calm.
If only I could achieve that. The silence is deafening as I try to think of something to say.
“Have you seen this?” He tilts his phone, showing me slo-mo content a West Coast team put out. “Sounds like they cracked the code to get women interested in the sport.”
“Yeah,” I say lamely. My conversation skills suck.
As the bus rumbles along, Mav’s gaze cuts to me, a question and uncertainty written on his face.
“I don’t bite,” I joke to ease the tension.
He laughs and tilts so our heads are inches apart. “You’re not really related to O’Keefe, are you?”
“By a technicality. His mom married my sperm donor, but we only met once,” I explain. The guys from last year know I don’t talk about our feeble connection but Mav’s oblivious.
“How is that possible? Holidays, birthdays, summer vacation, none of it?” He’s truly confused.
“Some dudes shouldn’t be dads after they donate sperm.
He talks to the media like we have a relationship, but I haven’t spoken to the man since I was seven.
The sperm donor only talks about me to make himself look good.
He’s an asshole.” That’s just the tip of the iceberg, but Mav didn’t ask for messy family drama.
“If O’Keefe grew up with him, that could explain his attitude.” Mav flips his phone over to check a notification.
“Hmm,” I say skeptically.
It’s a quick ride so we get off the bus and walk single file into the locker room while our social media coordinator films our arrival. She swears everyone online loves the content.
Toronto Titan hockey fans are rabid, which makes playing here interesting.
I lose myself in my pregame routine and join in the team dance when Benz drags me over. Most of the guys are stiff when they dance, but I’ve seen them warm up; they know how to move their bodies. It’s funny.
A Burna Boy song comes on and everyone knows it was my pick. I throw in The Weeknd or Kendrick Lamar without them noticing. I put extra sway in my hips as the team looks on.
O’Keefe sneers as he watches us. It’s too bad his generically pretty face got paired with such a rotten personality. My moms thinks his bad attitude covers his insecurities. She tries to see the good in everyone, like Mav and Benz. It’s how she got mixed up with my sperm donor.
We’re booed during pre-skate, but that only fuels our fire.
Ace says a few words about teamwork, Coach drills into us to pay attention to basics and in a blink, I’m on the bench watching Drake win the face-off.
“Do you think I’ll be that good?” Mav leans on his stick.
“Comparisons hold you back.” I lost so much sleep comparing myself to O’Keefe. What he had that my father wanted instead of me. “I’ll never be Ace, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be great on first line. We bring different things to the position.”
We flinch as Brant flies into the boards in front of us. After winning the puck, he gives us a wink and takes off.
“Crazy redhead.” Mav pulls his helmet on, ready to vault over the boards on Coach’s command.
Our first shift isn’t memorable. We don’t score, but neither does Toronto.
Shit goes down on our second shift.
Mav loses the face-off but gets his stick on the puck to interrupt Toronto’s pass. As he gains control, O’Keefe swoops in and takes the puck. Mav’s furious but he doesn’t say anything.
Finally, O’Keefe passes to Griff, who gets it back to Mav, who passes to me, and I score the first goal of the night.
“Great assist. Thanks.” I smack Mav’s helmet, and he headbutts me.
“Hell ya! Let’s gooooo,” Mav shouts. He’s silent when O’Keefe joins the celebration.
During the next shift, I get tangled up on the boards but push the puck toward a waiting Mav.
Mav dodges around a defender and is one-on-one with the goalie. He’s great in this situation, but I skate up the side to give him an outlet if he needs it.
O’Keefe flies up center ice and strips the puck from Mav.
“You’re on the same fucking team, asshole,” Brant yells.
O’Keefe shoots, and the goalie stops it, but the puck ricochets off his leg and Mav taps it in.
Mav purposefully gives O’Keefe his back to hug Griff and me. “We need to figure out a celly for our line.”
Coach screams at O’Keefe to get off the ice, and Mav’s face breaks out in a grin.
“Worth it.” Mav fist-bumps me.
By the end of the first period, we’re up by two and head into the tunnel on a high note. One of the defensive coaches drags O’Keefe into an empty room.
O’Keefe vibrates with anger as he returns to the locker room and doesn’t seem to listen to the coaches. I need to stop worrying about O’Keefe and concentrate on my game.
Toronto scores a goal one minute into the next period, but Drake and Lucky combine for another goal two minutes after that.
My line isn’t on the ice with O’Keefe for three shifts, and it’s a relief. Not for Brant, who’s paired with him. Coach pulls Brant off the ice after he gets knocked into the boards by O’Keefe. Grayson does a vision test on a flaming, angry red Brant.
Winning seems out of reach with O’Keefe’s sabotaging us.
Griff takes the puck around the back of the net, setting up a play we’ve practiced a million times.
We’re in position and Griff sends the pass to Brant as planned.
But Brant is hit from behind by O’Keefe, who steals the puck.
Brant’s kneeling on the ice with his head down and the whistle blows.
I bend down and Brant says, “I’ll rip his head off.” He winces and pants, “His blood will stain the ice.”
Grayson comes in hot, sliding to a stop next to us, ready to assess Brant.
“He’s not hurt. I’m here to prevent a murder,” I say.
Grayson has Brant lie flat on the ice.
In Brant’s ear, I whisper, “You’re at the start of your NHL career, the first year on this team. He’s not worth ruining your shot. Once you’re labeled a problem, it follows you everywhere. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Let us help you up.” Gray pulls him into a sitting position.
“Gray can give you some magic juice on the bench.” I take one side and Grayson takes his other.
Mav hears that and pipes up, “Magic juice?”
“It’s a sports drink. The good stuff,” Gray plays along, and helps me lift Brant.
“Thanks,” he says.
“I got you.” I steer him to the door that Grayson opens instead of letting him go over the wall. “Gotta make it look good. Congrats.” I help him sit on the bench so Grayson can pretend to examine him.
“For what?”
“For avoiding the sin bin and a police arrest.” I take a water bottle and drink.
“Don’t congratulate me yet. The game’s not over.”
We win but O’Keefe manages to piss off most of the team. Only Benz will speak to him because he’s Benz. He’s probably talking O’Keefe into a treatment to align his chakras.
Only Theo O’Keefe can suck the fun out of winning.
My words to Brant ring in my head. Once you’re a problem, it follows you. I don’t want to feel sympathy for O’Keefe. He hasn’t earned it after stealing my life.