Chapter 11
Jamal King
We’re playing great as individuals, and O’Keefe still acts like he’s trying to rack up his individual stats versus being a team player. I skate over our black-and-purple logo on center ice and focus on the puck.
Tonight’s home crowd keeps us in the game, but we’re trailing by one. Mav passes to Griff, who rounds the goal. I’m in position, getting space from the defender. Griff shoots a rocket past me, and it’s too far out to get my stick on it. The goalie smirks as I chase the errant pass.
But Griff’s shot goes directly to Brant’s stick, and he fires from the blueline so fast I can’t track the puck. Neither can the goalie because it flies over his right shoulder. It’s Brant’s first in-season goal with our team.
We meet for helmet bumps and hugs, then Brant skates to center ice, makes a slow circle, and salutes the crowd. I try to follow his eyes, but I don’t see anyone cheering like he’s talking to them. Our team box is in the vicinity, but no one is visible.
The game’s tied with three minutes left.
As I vault onto the bench, Gray hands me a water bottle.
Mav teases, “I want some of that magic juice.”
“I only spoil you guys with that on special occasions.” Gray grins and hands him water.
“I’d love to be spoiled.” Mav sighs dreamily.
“No, no, no, no.” I stand and watch in horror as Liska’s screened and the other team gets a shot off on his blind side. Skating like a man possessed, O’Keefe swings his stick at the puck, and it connects.
Brant clears the puck to Drake, and Liska helps O’Keefe up.
“Holy shit.” Mav grabs my arm. “O’Keefe saved the game.”
We’re still tied, and I pray for some boyfriend telepathy between Lucky and Drake. Their defenseman makes the mistake of shoving Lucky into the boards because Drake is right there to retaliate, and Ace snags the puck.
They make quick passes back and forth, and I’m positive Ace will shoot, but he passes it to O’Keefe, who smacks it to Drake. It’s hard to see whether Drake hits it or if the puck ricochets off his stick into the goal.
There’s only seven seconds left on the clock, so they do a quick celly and line up for the face-off. Griff, Mav, and I huddle, fisting each other’s jerseys, waiting for the clock to run out.
Drake wins and passes the puck directly to Brant. Brant races toward the goal only to pull up and pass to Lucky, who never takes possession before dishing it off to O’Keefe.
Each second takes an hour to click by. Finally, the buzzer ends the game.
We’ve won our first regular season game. We pile onto the ice to celebrate as the fans cheer wildly.
I meet my parents near the tunnel as usual. From their seats, they can access the front row after the game.
“Great game, son!” My dad leans over the rail to hug me.
“The team’s looking good.” Mom bends over to kiss my sweaty head.
“You two are brave today,” I joke, knowing I smell like musty socks.
We talk for a few minutes, but they have plans tonight and need to get going. They have a better social life than I do.
There’s yelling in the tunnel, which makes no sense. We won, and the other team and fans don’t have access to us. My parents can’t even meet me here. It’s not a total shock to recognize O’Keefe’s voice. If anyone would be mad after a win, it’d be him.
The man he’s arguing with has his back to me. “I spent years on coaches and training, and you still aren’t scoring goals. Number fifty-nine scored, and he’s a defender.”
O’Keefe pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s his job. My job is to save goals, like the acrobatic move I made to ensure they didn’t break the tie. Did you see that?”
The man must sense someone behind him because he says something so low I can’t hear it, but O’Keefe flinches.
“I need to know where my mom is. She hasn’t returned any of my calls in over a month. That’s a long time, even for her.” His voice sounds ragged and pained, as if this admission will cost him.
I’m beside them when I realize it’s my sperm donor. It’s been years, but being so close, I nearly trip on my skate guards.
My instinct is to flee and make myself small so he doesn’t notice me. This is the opposite of how I imagined reacting when I saw him again. I planned to be locked and loaded to tear him up. He shouldn’t be here. This is supposed to be a safe place for players.
Fortunately, they’re staring at each other and don’t glance my way.
“Why would your mother want to talk to her loser of a son?” John spits out.
The malice in his voice ignites the anger I keep stuffed down. “O’Keefe,” I bark, and it echoes in the tunnel. “Coach wants to talk to you now!”
My father locks eyes with me for the first time in fifteen years but has nothing to say. Every inch of my skin itches, and there’s a roaring in my ears. I dreamed of and dreaded this day, but most importantly, I figured he’d acknowledge my existence. Stupid childhood fantasy.
“Go!” I shout at O’Keefe to get him away from the sad excuse of a man before me.
He rushes the rest of the way down the tunnel.
I wave over a security guard. “Darnell.” I close my hand around John’s arm, finding it smaller than I’d thought.
“This man is harassing a player. Can we get him banned from the stadium?”
Darnell’s eyes get comically wide. “Do you know him?”
“John King,” I answer, and his eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “Is there a way to ban him from other sports arenas?”
“I’ll take care of this right away, Mr. King.” His gaze cuts to my father. “But you might need a restraining order for other places. I’ll check and let you know.”
“This is preposterous! I wasn’t harassing anyone. My stepson and I were having a conversation before you interrupted.” He points his finger at me. “I’ll be calling my lawyer.”
“You do that,” I sneer. Turning away, I pat Darnell’s shoulder. “Thanks for your help. I owe you one.”
Darnell grins, and I make a mental note to grab him some premium hockey seats—at the very least. He leads John away, and I shake as I lean with my back against the wall and focus on deep breaths.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” O’Keefe storms at me, still in his gear.
“You’re welcome.” I push off the wall and start walking.
“Does Coach really want to talk to me?” he asks through clenched teeth.
“Nope.” I’m spiraling from seeing the man who I assumed abandoned me, but in reality, my mom took me. That isn’t straight in my head yet, and O’Keefe is the last person I need right now.
“I’ll never see my mother again,” he mutters. “You’ve been ruining my life for years. Why should I expect any different now?” O’Keefe barges into the locker room, swinging the door shut so it hits me.
Instead of going into the locker room, I sit in a dark film room.
Nothing makes sense.
My heart races, but it has nothing to do with the game or physical activity. I get lightheaded and know the signs of an oncoming panic attack. Peeling off my jersey and pads, I rub my sternum and regulate my breathing.
I’ve been able to avoid a full-blown panic attack for years, and I don’t plan on losing it now.
Not with him in the building. I name as many words starting with A as I can think of and move on to B words.
The trick is to slow my mind and let the words filter in.
But they’re coming fast and furious, so I mentally think of each syllable to slow myself down.
I limit one word to my inhale, hold, then think of another word for my exhale. It takes a long time to work. Words pop into my head so fast I can’t remember them when I need a new word. My mind’s on warp speed, and the brakes are failing.
My heart slows first, and I bend over so my head is between my knees.
My mom always made it clear she loves me, and my heart knows it’s true. I had a harder time believing we were better off without his money. John was cruel and dismissive to O’Keefe, and whatever is going on with his mom, he’s afraid.
I can’t imagine growing up with a stepfather like John.
DeAndre loves me like his own son. He’s the only one who has given me an extended family of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.
My mom’s family stopped talking to us after my auntie died.
It was so lonely. It was the two of us against the world.
We didn’t have much, but I never questioned her love.
DeAndre would cut off his own arm before he spoke to me the way John spoke to O’Keefe. He hasn’t heard from his mom in a month. A month. I text with my mom almost daily. During the season, it can be difficult with traveling and time changes, but she’s there when I need her.
I hear a loud whisper that can only be Benz. “I found him. He’s in here.”
Benz, Mav, and Brant sit in the chairs around me without a word. The major panic has passed, and my body functions are in a high-normal range.
“What do you need?” Brant asks.
“A lobotomy.” I scrub a hand over my face and huff.
“Recap,” Mav says. “We won a tough game. Everyone played out of their minds. O’Keefe barreled into the locker room, hyperventilating, and smashed his phone. The security guy came in asking for you and the ban on John King.”
“We put two and two together and figured that’s your bio dad and O’Keefe’s step-demon. What the hell happened?” Benz rubs circles on my back.
“I’m not sure,” I say honestly.
“We got you, man,” Brant says.
“Coach lost it when we realized you were missing, and O’Keefe hurled himself over a cliff.” Mav puts his hands up. “Metaphorically speaking. Are there cliffs in the city?” he asks seriously.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask, and get questioning glances. “I mean O’Keefe. You think he’s alright?”
“He wouldn’t talk to anyone and left,” Benz says.
“I need a shower.” I stand, and we check the locker room. It’s empty except for Ace, Gray, Leo, and an assistant coach.
The guys make me promise to text in the team chat when I get home. There’s no way I’m celebrating tonight. All I want to do is find O’Keefe. It’s not a want but a soul-tugging need that if I don’t satisfy, it will rip me apart.
I don’t know where he lives, and his broken phone is sitting on the bench in front of his locker.