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.

  Chapter 6

  Theo O'Keefe

  The early meeting with Ace before practice is a colossal waste of time. We’re in a film room with last night’s game on the big screen and he asks me to walk through my thought process. It’s not my fault my teammates are slow and clumsy. In every instance, I show him, plain as day on the tape, where someone made a mistake, and I was there to gain possession of the puck.

  At the end, he asks me to play my zone and let the coaches point out other player’s mistakes so I don’t accidentally hurt them when I’m going for the puck.

  What-fucking-ever.

  King enters the locker room ahead of me, smiling at his phone. The bastard is so smug and acts like I’m the issue, but he’s worse than I am. It’s not a secret I can be a dick, and I own it. I don’t walk around pretending I’m a pacifist and an ally like King does.

  The fire in his eyes shows his true nature. I heard what he said about me to Brant during the last game. The fucker should know voices carry on the ice. He pretends he’s mild mannered but there’s a beast in him.

  A little push and he’ll go over the edge, revealing his dark side. I can’t fucking wait, but I need to be patient.

  Our locker room smells gross but it’s home. Being in here means I get to play the sport I love. Without hockey, my life would be meaningless. Here, there are rules and expectations. The rest of the world is a cesspool of chaos. The thought of having to find another job makes my hands tremble as I put on my gear.

  A hand clutches my shoulder and I jump, dropping my pads.

  “Sorry, man. You need a partner for the weight room?” Ace asks.

  “Sure.” I’m his pet project, but it saves me the hassle of finding a teammate who won’t talk my ear off.

  We do a circuit and work up a sweat. When we take a water break, Ace asks King to switch with him.

  King trudges over, and I’m not any happier than he is. “It’s blind date day with your bro,” I deadpan.

  “Hilarious.” King takes his position behind the bench to spot me.

  I do a rep then ask, “What’s your deal with Brant?”

  “There’s no deal.” His aqua eyes meet mine, and he twists his braids around his index finger.

  “You know he’s jonesing for your dick. Right?” I wait for him to lose his hypocritical homophobic mind.

  He tips his head back and laughs. It’s throaty and hits me right in the gut. I swear his eyes sparkle like goddamn gems or some shit. The fact that I can’t look away pisses me off.

  “Concentrate on your reps so we don’t fall behind.” King moves closer, and I inhale his sweat and shea butter scent.

  I breathe it in deeper and have to cover my mistake by pretending I’m struggling with the weight. He inches closer, arms outstretched as if he’s afraid I might drop the weight on myself.

  I’m acutely aware of the vulnerable position I’m in. King could press the bar into my neck, cutting off my airway, or into my chest to break my ribs. He wouldn’t get away with it with the team around, but he might try. Hell, half the guys would probably high-five him.

  “Back up,” I growl. “Don’t hover.” What I really don’t need is to keep breathing him in like some psycho. I can’t pinpoint his smell beyond the shea butter, and even the thought of death isn’t enough to stop me.

  “Are you this rude to everyone, or am I your favorite?” he snarls back.

  “Are you going to keep giving the other team tips on how to beat us?” I push the bar up forcefully.

  “I don’t help our opponents.” His face settles into a sneer.

  “You were spoon-feeding the farm team. I couldn’t pass to you because you’d let them have the puck and score like Mav tried.” I set the bar on the rack and sit up.

  “They aren’t our competition. We’ll never play against them, but some of them might get moved up to our team.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “They’re my bros. I want them to succeed.”

  “Your bros? How convenient.” I stand to switch places with him. He treats me like I’m shit, but losers in the AHL are his bros? Fuck that. “Did you learn your concept of family from your fancy European boarding school?”

  He bumps his shoulder into mine in a dick move before he positions himself on the bench. “Now you’re a comedian.”

  “It’s not comedy when it’s true,” I quip. Either he’s a great actor, or he’s genuinely confused, as if he didn’t spend years overseas at an overpriced school, only coming back to a prep school in the States to make it easier for himself in the draft.

  King doesn’t change the weights on the bar, and I smirk. If we were friends, I’d bet him he wouldn’t complete all the reps. He lifts the bar on an exhale, and my eyes are drawn to the way his arms bulge and flex with large veins popping out from exertion.

  I stalk away from the bench to get a drink. My morbid fascination unravels me. Now I have no excuse and need to get it together. Behind me, the bar slams into its cradle.

  “What is so hard to understand about spotting someone, asshole.” The fury in his eyes fills me with exhilaration.

  There it is. The other side of his two faces. He’s not the nice guy he pretends to be.

  “You were fine,” I scoff, annoyed he’s invading my space.

  “We have partners for a reason. You can’t—”

  “What’s going on?” Our do-good captain gets in the middle.

  “We’re fine.” King storms away.

  “Between you and me, he’s not fine.” I shake my head as if I’m disappointed.

  “Hmmm.” Ace points over to Benz, my new partner.

  The rest of weight lifting goes fine. Benz tackles each rep with determination and focus, and he keeps talking to a minimum.

  “Great lift.” Benz fist-bumps me and pulls me in for a hug.

  I’m so surprised, I stand stiffly for a beat before I return the gesture.

  “Listen,” he whispers, “King’s an awesome dude once you get to know him. He’s shy.”

  My mouth falls open. “If you only knew.” I clench my hands until my nails bite into my palms, so I don’t tell him exactly who Jamal King is, and it’s not an awesome dude. But I let a detail slip. “He says horrible things about me behind my back and to his father.”

  Benz reminds me of a confused puppy. “He’s not like that, and his parents are great; they aren’t the trash-talking type of people.”

  “Not them, his actual father,” I mutter, and walk away.

  Benz follows me, huffing as if it’s his job to make this right. “Last season, King said he hasn’t spoken to the sperm donor in years. He won’t give the guy the title of parent.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  I race toward the locker room, trying to make sense of what Benz said. It’s clear Benz is clueless, but why would King lie about talking to his father? To cover up his selfishness or hide his past as he fakes being a good ally?

  A petite figure steps into my path. “Hey, handsome, miss me?”

  “Sarah!” I pick her up and spin her around, breathing in her vanilla scent. It’s like she knew I was losing my shit and came to save me from myself.

  Her laughter fills the hall. “Look what I brought you.” She dangles my car keys from her finger.

  “I have never loved you more.” Giving her an extra squeeze, I let her down when I feel her stiffen.

  Sarah’s face goes into bitch mode as she says, “Are you going to introduce me?”

  King leans against the wall, waiting for us to move out of the doorway.

  “My teammate, Jamal King.” I jerk my thumb at him, but she knows exactly who he is, and she’s about to shred him to pieces. I can’t do it, but she can.

  “King, you got a second?” Ace steps out of the training room and beckons him over.

  “Nice to meet you.” King reaches out to shake Sarah’s hand but turns away when she recoils from him and loses her chance to beat him down.

  “The dickhead in the flesh.” Sarah rolls her eyes.

  I tickle her and grab her waist, hoisting her up so her feet dangle a foot above the floor. “You should’ve told me you were coming. I would’ve prepared.” I’m so fucking happy to see her.

  “Where’s the fun in that? You know I like messy Theo way more than proper stick-up-his-ass Theo. It’s why we’re friends.”

  I tousle her new purple hair, ready to be the escape she needs. “We’re outta here.”

  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.”