Page 8 of Misconduct Zone

Dylon bounces in his seat. “Lars, let’s practice. We can start dressing the same, and how hard can it be to finish each other’s sentences? I want a plaque with Best Roommates engraved on it.”

“No,” I say simultaneously with Grayson.

“Aww, you can’t do that with Gray. He’s taken.” Dylon pats my arm.

Ace sits back down. “How do I respond to that?”

“Ignoring him is the best option,” I say.

“I’m ignoring you first.” Dylon slips his headphones over his ears but doesn’t turn anything on. It’s his silent protest, and I fight a chuckle.

“You’re the worst,” he grumbles.

“King, why didn’t you tell us we’re playing your stepbrother?” Richardson yells from the back.

Jamal doesn’t stir or respond.

“King, I’m talking to you,” Richardson, my least favorite teammate, says louder.

Either Jamal has noise-canceling headphones, or he’s purposely not paying attention to Richardson. I confided to Dylon that Richardson’s an asshole and a selfish player.

Richardson gets out of his seat, and Ace halts him with his leg in the aisle as if he senses trouble. But Richardson leans forward and shoves the back of Jamal’s seat to get his attention.

“We’re playing your stepbrother. Give us inside info on how to take him out.” He acts like his actions aren’t offensive.

King’s jaw clenches, and he spits out, “I don’t know him. We don’t have anything to do with each other. The media loves exploiting our random association.”

“Disloyal liar.” Richardson puffs out his chest.

King rises to his feet, and he has an inch or two over Richardson.

“Try to keep up. Theo O’Keefe lives with my sperm donor. We don’t know each other. I’m sure your stupid ass can understand the situation. Don’t ever call me disloyal or a liar again.” Jamal’s eyes blaze with fury.

Someone mumbles, “Burn.”

It’s the most I have heard Jamal speak, and he’s not a pushover.

“Go sit down,” I say to Richardson.

“He must know something.” Richardson won’t back down.

Jamal’s face contorts. “He’s an entitled rich guy who went to an Ivy League school and thinks he’s the best at everything.” He steps into the aisle. “Sound familiar, Richardson?” He says his last name like it’s a swear word.

“Fuck off,” Richardson says with spit flying from his mouth.

“That’s enough. Everyone in their seats,” Coach orders. It’s too late in my opinion. He let Richardson harass King.

After a staring contest, Richardson returns to his seat. Dylon nudges my shoulder, and in an unspoken agreement, we’re going to King’s room to check on him. His family relations sound toxic, and we’ll be playing his stepbrother, Theo, on his home turf.

We need to make sure Jamal is mentally ready for this and that he won’t start something with Theo on the ice. Or worse, off of it.

Our rivalry with Boston goes back decades, and playing here is always tough. But our team is solid, and our bench is deep. Their starting line can compete with ours, but our depth chart is stronger. As soon as the puck drops, everyone dials in.

I control the face-off and pass to Ace since they expect me to pass to Dylon, and we’re off. Their goalie deflects the shot, but it lands near Ace’s stick and the red lamp lights up. They score five minutes later, but we’re controlling the puck.

Jamal’s stepbrother, Theo, gets called for icing, and Jamal cannot hide the smirk on his face. The way our lines are set up, King and O’Keefe should spend the majority of their ice time together, but they don’t. Coach might be avoiding it after King’s outburst, but he cannot control Boston’s coaching decisions.

Next time they’re on the ice, O’Keefe shoves King and takes a swing behind the ref’s back. Jamal skates away, and during my next shift with O’Keefe, he hits the boards hard thanks to my hit.

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