Chapter 18
Theo O'Keefe
Jamal falls into a fitful sleep on the plane that doesn’t seem relaxing. Our seats are leather with extra legroom, but he’s curled into himself.
I deep-dive into the cultural significance of Black hair. The guilt over my curiosity about his hair eats at me. I’m no better than anyone else who made Jamal feel “other” by my fascination, like he’s some zoo animal.
Innocent seven-year-old me didn’t have a clue, but adult me should’ve known better.
I worry that he’s crashing after his panic attack and might need a ride home. He bolts from his aisle seat, and everyone gets out of his way.
We’re at a hangar in New Jersey for private planes, so I’m sure I’ll catch up.
He runs away before anyone notices he’s gone. If I were smart, I’d let the whole thing go and keep my head in the game. Hockey is the only game I should be concerned with. Yet, I follow Jamal out of the parking lot.
Jamal is nothing like his father and doesn’t deserve my anger.
I hope nothing I did contributed to his panic attack.
He scared me, but thankfully I realized before I made a scene that he had anxiety and not a medical emergency.
He’d never forgive me if I involved Grayson and the coaches.
I did the best I could, but I felt so helpless watching him struggle.
At least now I know what to do if it ever happens again. My search emphasized that the most important thing is to stay calm. Easier said than done.
After today, I’m positive everything John said about his son was a lie. It’s a relief that Jamal doesn’t hate me and didn’t create a rift in my family, but that makes me a villain right alongside John. Gullibly, I believed every lie about Jamal, eager to blame someone else.
John financially abandoned his responsibilities to Jamal and fabricated hateful things Jamal had said. I played the willing victim to Jamal, the bad guy.
I’ll make sure he gets home safely so I won’t worry. It would be too weird to text him.
This is payback for him following me home. I’m returning the favor. That sounds much more reasonable than stalking.
Traffic isn’t bad, and I’ve gotten used to the drive in and out of the city to New Jersey. It’s fascinating to me, wondering what all these people could be doing driving around in the middle of the day. The city legitimately never sleeps.
I’m all turned around once we cross the bridge to Manhattan. The city is surrounded by a maze of boroughs, and I have to choose between following Jamal and reading the signs. If I get lost, I’ll use my map app to get home.
Jamal parallel parks in three seconds, and I wait to see which building he enters. Parking is going to be an issue for me. My car isn’t made for the city. I drive around for ten minutes, then it takes me three attempts to fit into the spot.
The rational part of my brain is launching a valid argument that I’m crazy. Jamal doesn’t want to see me, and forcing myself on him isn’t the answer.
I told myself I would leave, but I’m still here. The man is an adult capable of getting to his apartment.
I’ll have a quick convo and leave.
Really.
I don’t believe it.
I jog up to Jamal’s building. There’s no security, and his last name is on a mailbox, giving away his apartment number. Doesn’t he know he’s famous? This is batshit crazy.
Jamal doesn’t answer his door even though I bang hard enough for the neighbor to appear.
“He’s not home,” says a lanky Black man in sweatpants and a thick gold chain.
“I’ll wait.” I sit on the floor in front of Jamal’s door.
The man shakes his head and calls into his apartment, “It’s some white dude who looks like he stepped out of a fashion magazine.”
“Oh, is it the sweetie who couldn’t keep his hands off you?” I recognize Jada’s voice from the phone last night and saunter into the apartment uninvited. “It is sweetie. What’s your name again? Thad?” Her hands are in Jamal’s hair, and I’m irrationally mad about it.
“Theo,” I say, and Jamal’s lost expression stops me in my tracks a couple of feet inside the door.
The entryway has three large paintings with similar colors, as if part of a set.
But the subjects are very different—a woman, half in oranges, reds, and yellows and half in black and white.
The next is abstract shapes, and the last, a man praying.
The walls are a neutral beige. There’s a gray couch with colorful accent pillows, and a throw rug under a glass coffee table.
“Jada,” she says as if I could forget. Winking, she shows off her thick rainbow lashes.
“Does it live up to your standards?” Jamal asks sarcastically.
“Don’t take your frustration out on him. He did an outstanding job of getting the gum out of your hair. I figured I’d have to do damage control, but you’re all good.” She swats him.
Jamal sits on a high-back stool, and Jada has hair supplies all over the kitchen island.
“Tyrone, get the man a drink. What do you like, sweetie? Beer, coke, water, ice tea?” She waves her arms, and Tyrone opens the fridge. She’s clearly in charge.
My manners finally kick in. “I’m not staying. Came to check on Jamal, but he’s in good hands,” I reply, but my feet won’t move.
Jada grins as if she knows I don’t want to leave. “You sit right there and distract J while I rebraid his hair.” She points a comb at the chair next to Jamal, and when I don’t move, she motions again, so I obey.
“What kind of hockey player are you?” she asks as she combs Jamal’s loose hair.
“What?” I have no idea what she means, but I guess. “I’m a defender.”
“But do you fight? It’s the best part, and J refuses to do it.” Jamal snorts, and she smacks him. “Stay still.”
“I’ve gotten into a few fights,” I admit.
“See, J, it’s normal.”
“I refuse to be labeled the angry Black man of hockey.” Jamal’s back is rigid.
She scoffs, but it’s something I never had to worry about. Teams have their enforcers, and it’s accepted, but Jamal stands out.
“Is that true?” I ask, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “Was that rude?” I rush to say, thinking about the nuances I don’t understand.
“It’s not rude, but it’s exhausting.” Tyrone sets a glass of water in front of me. “Our boy worries about everything, and he’s decided fighting would be a bad look for him.”
I sip the water for something to do, but the aftertaste gets me. I’m spoiled with bottled water. “That makes sense,” I agree.
Jamal raises an eyebrow, and I’m sure he would say something else if we were alone.
Jada dominates the conversation as she works. “Your cousin will probably cuss me for this, but it was an emergency.” She stands back and surveys her work.
“You have a cousin?” I blurt out. For an instant, I think there might be family I don’t know, but that’s stupid. We’re not actually related.
“She’s talking about DeAndre’s niece. They’re my family now.” Jamal stands and walks through an open bathroom door off of the kitchen. He holds his phone to see the new braids. “Don’t worry about Nevaeh; you saved my life. Thanks.”
Tyrone walks into the bathroom behind him and traces the new braid with his finger.
Jamal has no problem with Tyrone touching his hair.
Everything I learned online about Black hair means nothing as I fight the urge to break Tyrone’s wrist. It’s a tiny half bath with a toilet and sink, so there isn’t enough room for two grown men.
Jamal turns, and they’re chest to chest as they make dinner plans.
“I’m gonna nap first.” Jamal steps out of the bathroom, and my mind is a haze of fury imagining them napping together. “Later.” Jamal leaves the apartment, and I follow like a goddamn dog.
He stops at his door. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate you.” He turns away from me. “See ya tomorrow.”
“You’re not inviting me in?” I manage to keep the anger out of my voice.
His eyebrows practically hit his braids, but he opens the door and motions for me to enter. I’m met with a riot of colors and textures. The walls are covered in art and bookshelves with books and sculptures.
But he’s the only thing I see. The only thing that matters.
As soon as the door shuts, I crowd him against the wall, barely an inch away. “Are you sleeping with him?” I growl.
Jamal’s mouth drops open, but he recovers. “None of your damn business.”
“I just made it my business.” Our faces are inches apart, and we’re breathing the same air. I’m being a controlling asshole like I have a right to demand who he’s sleeping with. I don’t, but I have to know, and I’m not leaving until he tells me.
Somehow, my sanity hinges on his answer. It’s not at all rational, but reason left my brain a long time ago.
“Who do you think you are?” Jamal puffs his chest out so we’re closer. Heat radiates off him, and it takes all my restraint not to press him into the wall.
“I’m the guy who spent hours getting gum out of your hair only to be told I need consent to touch it.
I bought you two things to help you cover your hair, and you discarded them like trash.
Meanwhile, Tyrone touches you without issue, and you practically stuck your tongue down his throat making dinner plans.
Are. You. Sleeping. With. Him?” I grit out, my control gone.
“What if I am? What are you going to do about it?”
His challenge scrambles my brain. One second, I’m inhaling his breath, and in the next, my lips smash to his.
His lips are softer than his skin. Like warm pillows parting for me. He tastes forbidden and like home—as if I finally belong somewhere. I explore his mouth, desperate to lick him everywhere. There’s a faint taste of the cola he drank, but the underlying sweetness is all him.
Then he gasps for air, and I’m afraid he’s having a panic attack again. “Theo,” he croaks, but I can’t face what I’ve done. Apparently, I have huge consent issues.
He’s probably sleeping with Tyrone, and I kissed him. He’ll hate me now for sure.
I fly down the stairs, wishing the elevator works. When I get to the street, I’m so disoriented I can’t find my car.
Jamal will kill me tomorrow.