Page 18 of Two for Roughing

“It’s on the meal plan.” Damir took a bite and closed his eyes in bliss. Americans didn’t understand there was a whole world of delicious foods not involving dairy.

And fine, perhaps the trainers hadn’t envisioned the amount of oil that had gone into the marinade for the slow-roasted lamb or the copious drippings the meat had left in the pan, forming the base of the sauce. But so long as it was on the plan, it counted. Damir even used wild rice.

“Okay, well, if hockey doesn’t work out, I am hiring you as my personal chef.”

Damir raised his eyebrow. Of the two of them, Damir was not the one who ought to be concerned about his hockey career not working out.

Ketchup shot him the finger with the hand not occupied shoveling more food into his mouth. “Yeah, no, bro, sorry. My roommate just made the most delicious meal. God-tier food. Lamb something. With spices and rice and…I’ll ask him. Hey, Denny, my friend wants to know what this is.”

“Your friend.”

“Yeah, my friend, Geo. We’re on Discord.”

“Ah, yes. The gaming friend.”

“You don’t need to say it like that.”

Damir would say it however he pleased. “Braised lamb shanks in stewed vegetables. Would be better if the grocery store had any decent okra.”

“What’s okra?”

“Never mind.”

“Okay, did you hear him, Geo? Lamb shanks and stewed vegetables.” Then Ketchup continued to Damir, “Is there a recipe, or are you just magic?”

Damir looked up. He’d thought his contributions to this conversation were finished. “It’s how my mother makes it. Balsamic vinegar and pomegranate juice. A lot of recipes say to use wine. I’ve never tried for obvious reasons.”

“No shit. Wow.” Ketchup shook his head in wonderment. “Pomegranates. Crazy stuff, dude.”

Not for the first time, Damir wondered if this was his actual personality.

“I got something on my face?” Ketchup asked as Damir continued staring at him.

“No, I just…” Damir took another bite, chewed slowly, and then came right out with it. “Did you tell Howard to talk to the press?”

“Did I who with the what now?”

“Howard. I know you’re friends; did you tell him to talk to the press about the…” Damir waved a hand to indicate “rampant Islamophobia in sports media.”

“Hey, Geo? Yeah, I’m gonna mute myself for a second. Don’t go into the dungeon without me. I gotta see how you crack the minigame on the lock.” Ketchup took off his headset, pressed a button on the side, and laid it down on the table. Then, he said, “I haven’t talked to Howie since that time he asked for your room number.”

Damir eyed him. “Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

There went the only reasonable explanation for Howard’s behavior.

“Why? Did Howie say something?”

“Yes. To the press.”

“Good for him! I knew he was a cool dude.”

“What—he’s not—it’s none of his fucking business,” Damir sputtered.

Ketchup shrugged. “Yeah, but someone needs to say something. It’s a really big deal, and it’s messing with your game.”

“It’s not messing with my game. I’m the leading scorer on the team. And drawing attention to it only makes it worse.”