Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

For the first time since the match started, I realize that a dozen people are standing around us, whispering to each other. I want to ask them what they’re looking at, if I have a nosebleed, a wardrobe malfunction, a tarantula on my ear, but I’m too busy staring at Sawyer....

Though, surprisingly, he seems content to just study me. Lips slightly parted and eyes bright, like I’m simultaneously something odd and familiar and puzzling and larger than life and— He looks. After ignoring me for twenty- five moves, he just looks. Calm. Inquisitive. Upsettingly not angry.

The Kingkiller leans forward, ever so slightly, and his intense, awestruck expression feels much more threatening than a folding chair to my head. “Who— ” he starts, and I cannot bear it. “Thank you for the game,” I blurt out, and then, even though I should shake his hand, sign the scorecard, play three more games— despite all of that, I leap to my feet.

Not to brag, but I’m good at compartmentalizing.

That’s how I made myself get over chess years ago. And that’s how I manage to survive day by day without hyperventilating about all sorts of stuff. It’s either compartmentalizing or going broke buying inhalers.

They asked for you by name, not for the head of the household.” “Okay.” I scratch my forehead. “Okay— tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

It’s nice to meet you. I’m a fan.” I let out a laugh. Then realize she’s serious. “Excuse me?” “Anyone who trounces Nolan Sawyer like you did gets a lifetime supply of admiration from me.” She points to herself with a flourish. “Free home delivery, too.” I stiffen. Oh, no. No, no. What is this? “I’m sorry. You have the wrong person.” She frowns. “You’re not Mallory Greenleaf?” I take a step back. “Yes. But it’s a common name— ” “Mallory Virginia Greenleaf, who played yesterday?” She takes out her phone, taps at it, then holds it out with a smile. “If this is not you, you have some serious identity theft issues.”

She has pulled up a video. A TikTok of a young woman checkmating Nolan Sawyer with her queen. There are wisps of whiteblond hair falling across the side of her face, and her eyeliner is smudged.

I can’t believe Easton didn’t tell me that my eyeliner...

Also, I can’t believe that this stupid video was taken and it has over twenty thousand likes. Are there even twent...

“Yeah. I know that it looks like I’m some kind of . . . chess talent, but I don’t play. Sawyer must be in some kind of funk, and— ” I stop. Defne is laughing and laughing. Apparently, I’m hilarious. “You mean, the current world chess champion? Who also happens to be the current rapid and blitz champion? In a funk?”

I press my lips together. “He can be the current champion and still be having a bad month.” “Unlikely, since he won Sweden Chess last week.”

“You won against the best player in the world. You completely blindsided him in a damn good game— the way you feinted a feint? How you got yourself out of that pin? Your queen? Stop putting yourself down and take credit for it— you think Nolan would be half as reticent? You think any guy would be?”

“No, but it’s been a while. And when people win against him, it’s because he makes dumb mistakes— which he didn’t, not that I could see. It’s just that you were . . . better.”

For most of my childhood, the greatest hit in the Greenleaf household was Dad insisting that someone as good as I was at manipulating numbers and pattern recognitions should be cultivated into a pro; Mom replying that she didn’t want me dealing with the hyper- competitive, hyper- individualistic environment of rated chess from a young age;

She smiles like she’s giving me a gift. Like I’m about to be happy. Like the idea of making me happy makes her happy.

Did she just offer to pay me to play chess? This is wild. Incredible. This fellowship— it’s like the stuff of dreams. Life changing. Everything fourteen- year- old Mallory Greenleaf would have wished for. Too bad fourteen- year- old Mallory Greenleaf is nowhere in sight.

“I told you, I don’t play anymore.”

I like her. I really like her, and for a moment I almost consider explaining things to her. Stuff. Life. My sisters, and Mom, and roller derby fees. Bob, and changing windshield wipers, and the fact that I don’t need a one- year fellowship but a job that will be there next year, and the year after, and the one after that. Dad, and the memories, and the night I swore to myself that I was done with chess. Forever. It seems like too much for a first meeting,

She’s instantly subdued. Her brow furrows in a slight frown and she studies me for a long while, as though realizing that there might be something she doesn’t know about me. Ha.

She ignores me. “People are talking about your game. They’re analyzing it on ChessWorld.com. They’re using words like masterpiece, Mal. Zach keeps sending me links!”

“Hey— at least Zach didn’t leave me without a player because he freaked out when Nolan Sawyer winked at him.” I huff. “First of all, I seriously doubt Nolan Sawyer has ever winked, will ever wink, or even knows the meaning of the word wink.”

Okay, maybe in the past week I’ve had three separate Nolan Sawyer dreams. So what? Sue me. Send the sleep police.

My eyes are scratchy from staring at a screen all day, and for a moment— a horrible, terrifying, disorienting moment—I am angry with her. With my beautiful, intelligent, talented fourteenyear- old sister who doesn’t know, doesn’t understand how hard I’m trying.

“Mal, can you please not screw this one thing up for me?” The “unlike everything else” is unsaid, and the swelling bubble of anger bursts into guilt. Guilt that Sabrina has to ask for what is due to her. If it hadn’t been for my stupid decisions, we’d have had no problem affording her fees.

My feelings about chess, for one, which I cannot disentangle from my feelings for Dad. They are twisted, knotted together. There’s pain. Regret. Nostalgia. Guilt. Hate. Above all, there’s anger. So much anger inside me. Mountains of it, entire blazing landscapes without a single furyless corner in them.

I’m angry with Dad, angry with chess, and therefore I cannot play it. Pretty straightforward.

And setting that aside, am I even good enough? I know I’m talented— I’ve been told too many times, and by too many people not to. But I haven’t trained in years, and I honestly believe that beating Nolan Sawyer (who in my latest dream broke off a piece of his queen and...

“You can take the money for a year and play your best, but also not care about chess. Don’t think about it after hours. It doesn’t have to be obsessive or consuming like it used to be before your dad . . . Just clock in, clock out. In the meantime, you can get those mechanic certifications.”

“You have to come visit,” Easton says. “Yeah,” I say, knowing that I won’t. “When I’m back, we’re going to New York. Get that macaron you don’t deserve.” “I can’t wait,” I say, knowing that we won’t.

This is a job. Just a job. I won’t think about chess one second past 5:00 p.m. Chess and I broke up years ago, and I’m not some simpering girl who’ll take back her cheating ex after being dumped during the slow dance at prom. I’m only going to do the necessary amount of it. I just didn’t expect the necessary amount of it to equal a bajillion craploads.

On the train back home, I think about Easton’s fake your way advice. It won’t be hard. I’m not going to fall in love with chess again— not if I’m not playing and just reading about distant, abstract scenarios.

There is a specific reason I’m lying to my family about my new job, and that reason is: I don’t know.

She knows what she left behind, but I have no clue what she’s doing, what I’m competing with, whether she’s already forgotten about me.

Because I realize soon enough that this is nothing like my game against Sawyer. I can’t immediately tell the difference, but after thirty minutes or so, when the pieces are developed and the play’s underway, I know what’s missing. There was specific tension with Sawyer. A tight, heart- stopping dance made of aggressive attacks, slithering ambushes, obsessive outthinking. This . . . It’s nothing like that.

You were playing . . .” “Conservatively.” “What?” “I was playing safe. Cautious. Even when I was in the position to push for an advantage, I didn’t. I was defensive. Which confused you, then frustrated you, then had you making basic mistakes because you were bored.”

But there are some basics that all top players know. And if you don’t know them, any opponent with a solid technical foundation will easily exploit them against you. And you won’t even get to use your talent.” I digest what she said. Then nod, slowly. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m running behind. As though I’ve wasted the past four years. Which . . . No. It was a decision I made. The best decision. Running behind on my way to where, anyway?

My cheeks redden. I swallow something bitter and rusty, suddenly remembering how much I hate losing. So. Much.

The more effort I put into learning technical stuff, the harder it hits me how little I know, and how much I need a sounding board. I guess that’s why GMs have coaches and trainers and whatnot.

Philly Open is nothing like the NYC charity tournament, and my first clue is that there’s press.

“They’re covering the tournament.” “Are they under the misconception that this is the NBA?” “Mallory, at least pretend to have some respect for the sport that is your livelihood.” He’s not wrong.

“Twenty in the world.” “Twenty in the world of . . . ?” “Chess.” “Ah, right.” Defne smiles encouragingly.

Defne never makes me feel like I’m a total idiot, even when I ask totally idiotic questions.

I was fine till ten minutes ago, looking around the crowded room, staring down at my lilac sundress, wondering if it’s proper chess attire or whether I care.

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: Dude, are you at Philly Open??? MALLORY: maybe.

I’m moving to the next round because I was at a disadvantage. I know draws are exceedingly common in chess, but I am distressed. Frustrated. No— I’m furious. With myself.

I consider watching a movie. Then I consider whipping out my phone, pulling up dating apps, looking for matches in the Philly area. Perfect no-strings- attached opportunity. Plus, orgasms do improve my mood.

I’m not sure what I expected from a chess party. Easton aside, I never hung out with the PCC people, but they always struck me as quiet and escapism- driven. The players here, though, look more like businessmen, wearing tailored suits and laughing over champagne glasses.

They all seem boisterous and confident. Young. Wealthy. Sure of their place in the world.

He glances at me— first distracted, then appraising, then lingering. An unpleasant shiver travels up my spine.