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 still struggle 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.”
Tyrone gives me an up-nod and unlocks his door.
In my apartment, I take my shoes off right inside the door and place them on the rack.
My living room is a riot of colorful paintings on dark-gray walls with a maroon accent wall.
My stepdad’s niece, my cousin, is a painter, and between me and my parents, we might be keeping her gallery in business.
I take comfort in the purple and yellow throw pillows on the dark-green couch.
The bland whitewashed world bores me, so I need my space to come to life. The living room is separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar, and my bedroom and bathroom are beyond that in a single-file block of rooms.
My bedroom is my sanctuary and the opposite of the living room. Light earthy-green walls, cream bedding, and no art. This is where I decompress.
I dial my mom as I flop down on my bed and sink into the comfort.
“What’s wrong?” Mom answers after the first ring.
Suppressing a groan, I pretend to be offended. “Can’t I call my favorite person?”
She clucks her tongue but starts talking about her job. After telling me every detail about her new coworker, she asks, “You ready to tell me why you called?”
There’s no point in delaying the inevitable.
“I’m tripping. My entire life, I’ve hated John King for abandoning us, leaving us to live in poverty, and ignoring my existence.
But you’ve said you thought things worked out for the best. It’s like you knew if we stayed with the sperm donor, life would’ve been worse. Why?”
“Oh, baby.” She lets out a slow breath. “I was young and foolish when I met John, but things changed after you were born. You were my responsibility to love and protect.”
“And you think I needed protection from him,” I state as a fact, not a question.
“Are you sure you want to know this? I’ll tell you the truth, but I never want to hurt you,” she says, and from the background noise, I can tell she’s cooking.
“I need to know.” I throw an arm over my face as if it will shield me.
My mom skips the details of their whirlwind romance because I’ve heard it before. He promised to introduce her to his friends in the music industry and pay all her bills so she could sing. She declined an offer from a historically Black college to move in with him.
“He said he wanted to marry me, but something held me back. Always trust your intuition, J. I made excuses about a proper wedding, but he insisted we go to the courthouse. John planned to exclude our families, and alarm bells went off. I’m putting you on speaker.” I hear her set the phone down.
“Once you were born and it was clear you were mixed race, he changed.” I hear the flicker of a flame from the stove burner lighting.
“When I brought it up, he dismissed my concerns and said he was just surprised because he’d assumed you’d be whiter.
As in white-passing. I knew we couldn’t stay, and a visit from his family confirmed it.
I took you in the middle of the night to your Auntie in New York and never looked back. ”
Her account is more direct and basically calls the King family racist—in her nice way.
“Why did you want to talk to Theo O’Keefe the other day?” My heart beats faster in anticipation.
“Has he done something?”
“Nothing out of the usual. I saw him today with his girlfriend, and he was a totally different person. Most of the time, he looks like there’s a bad smell in the air, but with her, he transformed to reasonable and…
and happy? Maybe even nice. It’s hard to describe.
” I hold back from asking my mom if she thinks he could’ve been abused because she doesn’t have much more information than I do.
“It’s good he has someone he trusts.”
“Yeah,” I say noncommittally.
“But to answer your question. He looked angry, and I wondered if it was me or his general attitude.” She sighs, and I hear her fill a pot with water.
“I hope he’s had a good life, but I doubt he has.
The thing is, Jamal, hurt people, more often than not, hurt other people, and Theo’s carrying a lot of anger. ”
“What does he have to be angry about? He has everything!” I burst out, all in my feels. “He hates me for no reason. I’m your son.”
“No reason that you know of. You think he has everything, but I bet he disagrees.”
I hear the door open through the phone.
“Your dad’s home. We can keep talking, but our dinner’s almost done.”
“Hey, my darling Kenya,” he says, and my mom shrieks. I can picture him kissing the side of her neck where she’s ticklish.
“DeAndre.” She smacks him. “I probably deafened Jamal.”
“Hi, son. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone.”
“No big deal. Gonna run and get food with friends,” I say. DeAndre probably hasn’t stopped kissing my mom. They are true #couplesgoals.
“Are you sure? I can still talk,” Mom says, and there’s a slap.
“Love you.” I hang up so they can do what they do and I don’t have to listen.
An irrational spike of anger rips through me, and I wish Theo never came to New York.
Ace hasn’t asked me any more questions about O’Keefe, and I wish he would. I want to talk it over with someone. After our skate, I get lost in my head, and almost everyone is out of the locker room, which means I’m going to be late for film.
Rushing into the film room, Benz immediately starts in. “Kingy, King, King. My man, one thing here is not like the others.”
It takes my overworked brain a few seconds to catch on, and everyone is trying not to laugh.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Theo bellows. “You can’t talk to him like that, and the rest of you laugh like it’s a joke. This team is a bunch of hypocrites.” He slams his fist on the desk.
Poor Benz is so pale he’s almost translucent. “I…I…I.” He gulps and turns to me. “You know that’s not how I meant it, right? I mean, you’re my work husband once removed. I’d never intentionally disrespect you.” His arms flail, and he can’t contain his nervous energy.
“I know, man,” I automatically reassure him. Benz calls Griff my work husband because we’re on the same line, and since he’s Griff’s best friend, I’ve become his work husband once removed.
“What bullshit is that?” Theo’s voice is strained, and his fingers twitch as if he’d like to hit someone.
I have an out-of-body experience as I realize that I’m prioritizing Benz’s comfort over calling him out. Although it was unintentional, I let things like this go all the time. Never standing up for myself.
“I got him,” Ace yells to someone down the hall while standing in the doorway. “C’mon, King, you’re already late. No socializing.”
I follow Ace and am too confused to look back at Theo. It’s the first time this year I’ve gone to the wrong room, and Benzy’s comment wasn’t malicious but sadly ignorant. They all say things out of pocket sometimes.
I’ve been making everyone comfortable with my Blackness so I’m not “that guy” or a problem.