Bonus – End of June
Jamal King
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stressed about this meeting with Mr. Dimon. To distract myself, I open my social media app. I’ve peeped at Wes, his assistant’s body language, but he’s giving nothing away.
Brant’s responses on our socials have me rolling.
No one can tell whether we’re flirting or being sarcastic.
It’s eased some of the pressure of coming out, as people speculate about our non-relationship.
I’m learning how to let false rumors fly.
It’s so easy when everything is untrue, but it’s good practice for when I actually decide to date somebody.
Dating hasn’t been my priority. But watching my teammates find love has been inspiring. I’ve never known a same-sex couple who are openly out and engage in PDAs. There’ve been guys I suspected of being involved with other men but not confirmed.
“Mr. King, thank you for waiting.” Ari Dimon stands in his doorway, as intimidating as ever. The fact that he called me to his office right before July 1, free agency has messed with my head.
I had a great season, but players get traded all the time. We’re deep on offense and short on defense, so I could be on the chopping block.
Mr. Dimon leads me into his office, across the purple Enforcers logo on the carpet. I wonder if I’ll wear it next season.
“Have a seat. Sorry for the short notice, but as you know, trades are worked out behind the scenes before they’re made public.” His brow is creased, which is a sign of stress for him.
This is not going to be a good meeting.
“It’s not a secret that we need qualified defenders.” He leans back in his chair, but his body is tight with tension.
I sit in the type of silence where you know some shit is bout to drop.
“We drafted a couple of great players, but they aren’t ready to step up and play immediately. My goal is to win The Cup next year. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He steeples his fingers, waiting for an answer.
My mind races for an answer. “That’s the plan for me too,” spills out of my mouth, and I about punch myself in the face. He’s about to trade me, and I tell him I want to win The Cup too.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He smiles and I didn’t see that coming. I’m tripping.
I expect Lucky to jump out laughing. Mr. Dimon isn’t the type for practical jokes.
“Our best strategy is to trade for current qualified defenders. This team is my chief priority, which means I take your physical and mental health seriously. We can’t win if we don’t stand together.”
My head nods in agreement as if on autopilot.
“If this is going to be a problem, you need to tell me now, not after the season starts.” Mr. Dimon flexes his hands, and I brace for the bad news.
“Theo O’Keefe will be a free agent. Can you play with him?”
Nothing in this world could’ve prepared me for his question. Memories of meeting him when we were seven pop into my head. He’d wanted to be my friend until his mother dragged him away.
Every single time we played each other, he came at me like I’d held him back. As if he was the poor Black kid and I was the rich white dude born with a silver spoon. He taunted me and took shots at me as if I’d disrespected him. If anyone should hold a grudge, it should be me.
I had to fight poverty, racism, and homophobia to get where I am. He just had to show up and skate.
“Mr. King?” Mr. Dimon raises his eyebrows.
“He’s the one with beef. I’m not the one you need to worry about,” I say with my chin held high.
Mr. Dimon studies me, and the silence is uncomfortable.
“If we trade for him, can you find a way to work together?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer, and wonder what I’ve done, so I add, “But I doubt he’ll say the same.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. King.” Mr. Dimon stands to shake my sweaty hand. “Nothing is final, but I will keep you informed so you don’t have to find out on the news.”
“Thank you, sir.” My head spins and I’m shook.
Before I leave, he says, “One more question. I’ve heard your father is a difficult man. Is that true?”
“He’s not my father.” I turn back to face him fully, with my feet shoulder-width apart and my hands linked in front of me. “He’s nothing more than a sperm donor. He was never in my life until it looked like my hockey career would blow up. That relationship only exists in his mind.”
I wait for backlash or admonishment, but Mr. Dimon nods, dismissing me.
Theo O’Keefe sits in Mr. Dimon’s waiting area. To prove I’m the bigger person, I give him an up-nod and leave.
He can be the one to trash-talk me and blow his shot on my team. His sorry ass can go somewhere else.
But two days later, I get a call from Mr. Dimon. Now I gotta rock with the same man who tried to tear me down: Theo O’Keefe.
I regret telling Mr. Dimon I can play with him.
Enemies to teammates. You can’t make this shit up.
This season is fucked, and it hasn’t even started.