With a closed-lip smile, Darius slowly nods as he watches me eat. “Told you.”
He takes a small bite, the satisfaction of flavor washing over his face. “You gotta trust me more often, Harry.”
I roll my eyes but smile as the flavor bomb continues detonating in my mouth. Darius has a way of making me feel at ease, even when something is outside my comfort zone. At the semi-final game. In the hotel room. On the ice rink. At my apartment. I’ve never had a thing for guys like him. Athletic guys. Sports guys. Guys who wear baseball hats like their head will float away without it. But with him, I can’t deny it. He’s sweet, kind, and completely unique to anyone I’ve ever known.
We finish the basket of wings, and when the waitress brings the check, I grab it and take my wallet out.
“Harry, no.” Darius reaches for the check, but I pull it back. “Let me get it.”
“You bought the tickets. Dinner’s on me.”
And then he stands. He’s next to me, and even though I’m sitting, we’re still pretty much eye to eye.
“Harry.” He holds his hand out. “I asked you out for wings and a hockey game. I want to pay. Let me pay. Please.”
“You have to let me take care of something,” I say.
“Later.” He dips in, kissing me on the cheek and gently taking the bill out of my hand.
His touch is light, but there’s something firm in the way he does it—like he needs this. Like letting me pay would somehow chip away at the evening he's trying to build. There’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—pride, maybe, or hope—and it catches me off guard.
My pulse quickens as we approach the arena just across the street. It’s massive. I’ve never been, and I’m taking in every single detail. The lights are blinding, and the crowd is buzzing with excitement. The air smells like popcorn, beer, and cold metal. People are wearing jerseys and team colors, faces painted, carrying foam fingers and giant cups of soda. It’s like I’ve landed on a distant planet and am witnessing the ritual of a completely different species.
Darius leads me to our seats, and I can feel the energy of the crowd surrounding us. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and I can’t help but feel a little out of place. This is all so . . . not me. But so him. Them. Hockey fans. Straight folks. Big, loud, rough-and-tumble.
My father used to take my brothers to games all the time. Not just hockey, all the sports. I never went. I was never really invited. Being here, my body feels off-kilter, as if I’m walking on one of those rides where the floor shifts beneath you.
“Relax,” Darius says, as we sit down. He pats my shoulder reassuringly. “It’s just a hockey game.”
“Yeah, just a game,” I mutter, glancing at the surrounding people. Everyone’s chatting excitedly, giving high-fives to strangers, laughing. And then, just as I’m about to settle in, I see them.
Two guys approach us. They’re big, loud, andwearing matching Mariners jerseys. They sit next to us, and before I can speak, Darius is up, greeting them like long lost brothers.
“Joey! Chuckster.” He hugs them both, but in that hetero bro-hug way that’s not too intimate. “Didn’t realize you boys were coming.”
After they finish, they bump fists, and my stomach swirls. I wasn’t expecting his friends.
“Joey, Chuck, this is Harry,” Darius says casually.
He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t mention who I am. And who am I anyway? This is our second actual date—I don’t count the hotel room. What would he call me other than Harry? I have no idea if they know Darius is gay. Or who they think I am to him or what they think of me in my button-down shirt and khakis.
“Hey, man,” Joey says, giving me a handshake that feels more like a slap.
“I’m Chuck,” the other guy adds, nodding.
The three of them talk about the game. Hockey. Making jokes I don’t get and I’m just . . . sitting there. I have nothing to add to the conversation, and all I know about hockey was taught to me by ten-year-old Johnny Rodriguez on the bench of the semi-final game in Rhode Island.
I do my best to follow the conversation and show interest, but my mind keeps floating back to the fact that these men are so different from me. The way they laugh, the way they talk, and the way they all feel are so foreign.
I glance at Darius, expecting him to notice, but he’s completely lost in the conversation with his buddies. He’sjoking, laughing along, like he’s one of them. Because he is.
I felt so optimistic about the night, but now I feel like an outsider here. Because I am.
The game starts, and Darius settles next to me. He leans forward, intent on the game, but every so often, he pats my leg, alternating between my knee and thigh. Joey and Chuck either don’t notice or don’t care, but I still worry about showing affection here.
During the first break, Darius leans in close, his arm draping across my shoulder as if he has all the time in the world. I can feel his warmth, and his breath brushes the side of my neck. He grins at me, wide and casual.
“Well, I need to hit the bathroom. I’m going to grab us some popcorn and drinks. Want a soda? Beer?”
