If more hockey means more Darius, then I guess it’s more hockey for me.
16
HARRY
There’s a giant,avocado-sized pit in my stomach as I follow Darius down a side street in downtown Portland. It’s one of the small ones I’ve walked a million times but never really paid much attention to. I couldn’t tell you the name of the street or any of the shops on it, but I can tell you it’s four blocks from the library. He’s taking me to some place he swears has “the best wings in the city.” I’ve never been. Or heard of it.Wing connoisseurisn’t a title I aspire to. But I’m trying to be open-minded. Darius has been nothing but kind to me since Rhode Island, so the least I can do is pretend I didn’t pack little pink chewable tablets in anticipation of the nightmare these wings will do on my stomach. The recommended dose is two. I’ve got six. He’s probably going to need them, too.
Darius smiles sweetly and grabs the door, holding it open for me. I’m not usually one to fall for the gentlemanly schtick, but in his case, I’m buying it hook, line, and sinker. He’s wearing only part of his uniform—the tracksuit jacket. He’s replaced the coordinating pantswith jeans. Which I think is his attempt at being slightly more dressed up. It’s ridiculous. And totally hot.
Entering The Sauce Boss, the aroma of condiments and fried food smacks me like a flavor explosion to the face. The noise makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle—people laughing, shouting at the TVs mounted on every wall in the place, the clink of bottles and silverware. These are not my people.
Darius fits right in.
And I fit with Darius.
He takes my hand, pulling me to a high top in the corner. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet the house we’re the only queer folks in here. And yet, Darius doesn’t seem to care about the tiny display of public affection.
He holds the chair out for me, and I really could get used to this kind of doting.
The waitress comes over and hands us water and menus. Mine is sticky, and I sure hope it’s hot sauce. “Be back in a few, boys.”
I shoot Darius a look. “This is your idea of fine dining?”
“Settle down, Peterson. It may not be fancy, but it’s delicious. Trust me.”
Trust him. What I’ve been pushing myself to do for the last week. I’m here. Having wings. About to go to a professional sports game. I’ve clearly crossed the threshold.
“Yeah. I trust you.”
He gives me a wink, and I guess I’m a wings guy now.
I glance at the menu quickly, trying to make sense of all the options. I’m totally out of my league here.
Darius catches my confusion and chuckles. “You’re looking at the menu like it’s in Latin, aren’t you?”
“Latin, I could handle. But this?” I hold up the menu, doing my best to avoid the sticky corner. “What’s the difference between dry rub and wet wings? And why are there so many flavors?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never had wings before?”
“Nope. You’re looking at a rookie.” I laugh awkwardly.
He leans back in his seat, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Alright, Peterson. I got you. Let’s start simple. Wings. Buffalo sauce. Mild or medium?”
“Mild,” I say quickly, patting the medicine in my pocket.
When the waitress returns, Darius nods and she leans down to hear him over the noise. He orders for us, which strangely makes my insides simmer.
The food arrives fairly fast, which is a blessing, as I’m starving.
“Go on,” Darius prods. “They won’t bite you. Actually, you’re supposed to bite them.”
He laughs at himself, and feeling brave, I take my first taste, and—wow.
“Well?” He’s holding a wing but hasn’t taken a bite yet.
The flavor floats around in my mouth. It’s crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside, and the sauce? It’s theperfect balance of sweetness and heat without burning my mouth.
“These are . . .” I take another small bite. “Ridiculously good.”
