Page 33 of Chess Not Checkers
I grab one of the chess pieces and throw it at him. It bounces weakly off his shoulder while he shakes with laughter.
“Let’s play again before I decide to quit chess forever,” I huff.
He smiles and begins to reset the board. “You’re getting better. You can’t expect to start winning overnight.” His smile morphs into something impish. “Especially against a prodigy.”
I give him an unamused look. “You have no idea how annoying it was for him to call you that.”
“I’ve got a little idea, based on your resulting scowl.”
I reach for a pastry, because there are only two left, and I have a feeling he’s going to want them. “You do realize how annoying in general it is to hear people talk about you all the time, right?”
I take a bite of the pastry. It’s good, but it could have used a little more salt to make it really pop. I glance over at Shepherd’s kitchen. It might be worth sprinkling a little on top. I doubt he has finishing salt, but even some plain table salt could do the trick.
His mouth hitches up on one side in a wry smile. He takes the first move. “Almost as annoying as it is to be under a microscope twenty-four seven, I assume.”
I tilt my head to this side. “Is that what it feels like?”
I use my free hand to make my move.
He shrugs. “A little bit, yeah. I love football, and I know I’m blessed to be in this position, but the spotlight isn’t as golden as it seems.”
He reaches for the last pastry.
“Wait!” I exclaim. He pauses, eyebrows raised. “Do you have salt?”
“Uh, yeah, in the cabinet above the stove. Why?”
“These will be better with salt,” I reply as I stand.
“Did you not hear me when I said I’d eat a dozen?”
I shoot him a smile as I walk into the kitchen. “It’ll be even better, trust me.”
“If they get any better, you’ll have to classify them as a drug,” he says, making me laugh.
I open the cabinet he directed me to. It’s…abyssmal.
“This is your seasoning cabinet?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong and he meant a different one.
There’s salt, pepper, bagel seasoning, and garlic powder. That’s it. No onion powder, or even an Italian seasoning blend.
“Not all of us are chefs.” His voice sounds slightly defensive. “We eat in the cafe mostly except for some meals we prep at the beginning of the week.”
I grab the salt and go to his fridge, then open it.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
My mouth drops at the sad sight. An entire shelf is dedicated to protein drinks of various flavors. The next shelf has a series of plastic storage containers that look to be all the same meal, and the bottom shelf is entirely empty save for a half-drunk gallon of chocolate milk. In the door there are a few electrolyte drinks, ketchup, and teriyaki sauce.
“This is the most depressing fridge I’ve ever seen,” I say as I close the door.
“That’s a bit dramatic. We don’t keep much in there, but it’s still good stuff.”
“So if I said I was hungry and wanted to heat up one of those meals, you’d…?”
He cringes. “Ask if you wanted takeout.”
I laugh as I sit back down across from him. “You may be a football star and a chess prodigy, but I’ve got you beat when it comes to food.”
