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“You’re afraid of sheep,” Eriksson fires back.
“But not deep fried sheep,” someone else adds.
They glare at each other.
“So—one order of chapulines, coming up!” the waitress says. And when she walks away, she’s laughing to herself.
I can’t resist leaping into the fray. “A hundred bucks says Blake won’t eat two grasshoppers.”
“Are you eating them?” Blake demands.
“Sure, dude. Jamie and I will match you bug for bug. They come with dipping sauces. Just pretend you’re eating a crunchy pecan.”
“A pecan with six legs,” Jamie adds cheerfully. Our eyes meet, and his are twinkling. I feel such a rush of love when I see his smile. I want to throat-punch his boss for shafting him on that promotion. I really do.
It’s fun teasing Blake, and we do it on the regular. But Jamie knows that the real measure of a man isn’t whether he can eat a fried grasshopper. The real measure of a man is whether he can be a good partner, a hard worker, and a role model all at the same time.
Jamie is all those things. Why can’t Bill Braddock see that?
“A hundred bucks from me, too,” Eriksson says, tossing some bills onto the table. “Who else is in?”
The betting escalates. And soon the server is back with a new platter of food. She plops it down in front of Blake. “¡Buen provecho!”
“Does that mean—nice knowing you?” Blake grumbles. “Who’s going first?”
Jamie reaches over, plucks a fried brown grasshopper from the plate and shoves it into his mouth. “Mmm. Nice chili flavor.” He grabs a second one, dips it in the sauce and pops that one in his mouth too. He chews, smiling.
“Let’s go, Blake!” I prod. “There’s seven hundred dollars on this table that says you won’t eat two of them.”
“Seven hundred dollars, and your manhood,” Eriksson taunts, picking up a grasshopper and dipping it in sauce. “But no pressure.” He eats his in one bite.
“Fine,” Blake says with a scowl. “Just a second.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up to frame his own face. “J-babe, if for some reason I don’t make it back, I just wanted you to know that I love you. I know you’ll raise Puddles to be a fine dog. Oh, and your birthday present is in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.” He taps the screen and looks up at us with a serious expression. “Make sure she gets that video, fellas.”
“Will do,” I say with as much gravitas as the moment calls for. Which is none.
Blake reaches toward the plate as if it might bite him. But he grabs a grasshopper between his big fingers. No—two of them. He’s going with the all-at-once strategy.
“Do it! Do it!” I chant. And then everyone else starts chanting, too.
Suddenly we’re that table—the loud, obnoxious one that other diners despise. And we’re not even drinking.
Blake closes his eyes and opens his mouth. The grasshoppers go in. He chews…
We all lose our minds.
He swallows. Then he grabs Jamie’s beer out of his hand and chugs it.
Our table erupts with applause.
I have the best job in the whole damned world.
* * *
We have to be at the rink pretty early. But they let Jamie into the players’ entrance with me so that he can pick up comp tickets for himself and his parents.
“What are you going to do until game time?” I ask him.
“Heading back to the hotel. Returning some calls.” His eyes dip.
