Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

Oh, yeah—the people in this room? They’re 98 percent male.

“Why the hell would she be my sister?” Oz asks. “I dunno, man.” He shrugs. “She’s blond. You’re blond. And she’s way too hot to be your girlfriend.” I stiffen. Surely I misheard. “Mallory is a chess player, man.” Oz’s tone drips disdain. Whatever antipathy he may harbor toward me, the Office Intruder, it’s nothing compared with what he feels for this guy. He doesn’t hate me, after all. I might even be his best friend. How heartwarming.

Everyone laughs, and I am . . . paralyzed. Mortified. They’re staring like I’m a barely sentient slab of meat, and I feel like a daft child, on display, out of place in my flowy lace sundress. I’m no withering flower, and over my years with Bob I’ve had my fair share of sparring with older, sexist men, but these people are just so— so blatantly, openly rude, I’m not even sure how I should be responding to—

Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, an emotional eater.

“Koch and his gang love it that you made a fool out of Sawyer, because they hate him. But they also hate that you beat him in one go, because Koch fancies himself to be Sawyer’s lifelong rival.” “But he isn’t?” “He cannot compete. No one can compete with Sawyer, really. He’s been dominating for nearly a decade.

“Koch’s an excellent player, if inconsistent. He has moments of brilliance. He’s forced Sawyer into draws, and once even came close to beating him. But ultimately they’re not comparable.”

I’m not gonna make a friendship bracelet for him, but I’ll take a sphincter- clenchingly scary asshole like Sawyer over a slug-slurping-moisture-after-a-rainstorm slimy asshole like Koch any day.” They both sound uniquely horrible,

I stop dead in my tracks. I’m not alone anymore. Someone is standing right in front of me. Someone barefooted, who’s wearing swim trunks. I look up, and up, and up, and up even more, and—

My stomach drops. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me, a faint scowl between his eyes. I’m dumbfounded by the fact that he’s . . . fit. His chest. His shoulders. His biceps. No one who spends hours a day moving one- ounce pieces around a chessboard has any business looking like that.

“I— Hi,” I stammer. Because he’s standing right there, and I don’t know what else to say. But he doesn’t answer. Just stares down, taking in my nowsee- through bra, my panties with little rainbows all over them. The temperature in the pool incre...

Then I remember what Koch’s friends said: Does he know she’s here? Well, she’s still alive, so cl...

Nolan Sawyer despises me. Nolan Sawyer wants to murder me. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me with the sheer soulcutting intensity one reserves for those he hates with...

Sawyer is staring at me, lips parted, eyes darker than dark. So I do the only sensible thing: I slam the door in his face, and don’t stop running until I’m in my room, dripping on my bed. It’s the second time I’ve met Sawyer. And the second time I’ve retreated like a pinned knight.

I sleep poorly, stuck in dreams of chess blunders surveyed by dark, judgmental eyes, and wake up too early with a cramp in my left leg.

I straighten. “Mallory Greenleaf.” “I know.” His smile is open and warm,

There’s something familiar about him, and it doesn’t occur to me what it is until three moves in.

“Greenleaf,” he says with a self- deprecating smile when I take his queen, “show some mercy, will you?” He’s the first player to talk to me during a match, and I have no idea how to reply. Clearly chess is destroying my social skills.

“Well, well, well.” I have him cornered, and he almost sounds pleased. “I see why he’s been going on about you now,” he murmurs.

I want to be his friend.

“Are you a Grandmaster?” “At this stage of the tournament, every player is. Except for you,” he says, with no malice and a lot of relish. “You’re going to send several of them weeping into the men’s restroom.” “They seem to be more likely to key my car.”

I let out a laugh— a real one, my first since the tournament started, maybe even since Easton left. Emil stares with a kind, curious expression. “He has no chance,” he says cryptically.

I’d rather work in finance and play the occasional tournament for fun. It also doesn’t help when your closest friend is the best player the sport has seen in a couple hundred years.

Benul Jackson is at least three years younger than me, and pulls out of me some of the best chess I’ve ever played. There is an elegance to his moves, a beauty to his attacks, a class to his defense, that have me nearly forgetting that I’m in the most public moment of my life.

I record my moves and scribble in the margins. Flowers. Hearts. Deep- set, dark, intense eyes. I stop myself, flushing. Thankfully, Jackson chooses that moment to take my rook and fall into my trap. Too much of an artist, not enough of a warrior. I win in four moves, and he shakes my hand with a confused, befuddled smile.

“Impressive,” he says. “Remarkable. Your style reminds me of . . .” His gaze drifts somewhere past my shoulder. He trails off with a head shake before leaving the dais. When I look around in search of Defne, several journalists eye me curiously.

I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer to the pantheon of chess demigods: Don’t let my next match be against Sawyer. Please. I will gut an abducted...

“What are you doing here? Came to see how it’s done?” Koch’s tone is low enough that the mics won’t pick it up. He’s not talking to me. “She’ll have you in less than five moves,” a deep, assured voice says from behind me. I recognize it but don’t turn around, not even when I hear footsteps fading away.

“Why? Are you annoyed by it?” “Yes!” I smile. “Then yes. I tricked you.”

My next match is against Sawyer. And because my brain is made of applesauce, I can’t stop thinking about his stern expression. The chlorine- thick air curling the hair on his neck. His full lips almost moving, as though he was ready to say something—

“Damn child prodigies.” “I’m eighteen,” I point out. “You are a chess child. An infant. I could shove my nipple in your mouth and you wouldn’t be able to latch on to it.” Defne’s eyebrow lifts. “I didn’t know you lactated, Oz.” “All I’m saying, she’s unjustly brilliant.

People like you and Sawyer, with your gifted brains and boundless talent are the real plebs.” I exchange an amused look with Defne. Maybe I’m not growing on Oz, but he’s sure growing on me.

“When he lost to Mallory, he just sat there and stared after her and . . .” Defne shrugs and holds my eyes.

“No need to hold back, Mal. He’s a big boy. Whatever you’ll dish out, Nolan can take it.” Her smile is faint. “He probably wants it.” I doubt Nolan No Emotional Regulation Skills Sawyer wants anything from me.

I’m probably working myself up for nothing, and he barely knows that I exist, doesn’t remember we ever played, and stared at me last night only becau...

The match will be fine. Uneventful. Not a big deal. A micro deal. Nano deal. I’m probably going to lose, because Nolan Sawyer is Nolan Sawyer, and although the competitive part of my brain (i.e., all of it) hates the idea, it...

Sawyer is already there. Waiting. Sitting on Black, tracking all my movements. His eyes on me are unsettling. There’s something too sharp, too ravenous, almost acquisitive about them. Like the match is an afterthought, and I am what he came here for.

The only possible explanation is that he does hate me. He’s thrilled to have me where he can easily rip me to shreds— revenge for that time I defeated him. He’s going to chop me into pieces, smear me with balsamic vinegar, and relish every bite.

Sawyer is an intense guy. He probably does dislike me, but just a little. Leisurely. As a side gig.

Sawyer stands. I extend my hand. He takes it immediately, almost eagerly. Holds it for a touch too long. His palms are warm, unexpectedly calloused.

“Mallory,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, somber against the shuttering of the cameras, and I shiver. Something hot and electric licks down my spine. “Hi,” I say. I can’t tear my gaze from his. Am I out of breath? “Hi.” Is he out of breath? “Hi,” I repeat, like a total idiot. I should just sit down, I really should—

“What was she drawing?” Sawyer asks, deep voice almost lazy. Because to make things cherry-on-top unpleasant, Nolan Sawyer and his manager— a sharp- looking redhead in her thirties— are part of this conversation. He stands tall, arms crossed on his chest, black blazer over a white button- down open at the collar. Stupidly attractive, an unwelcome, inopportune voice inside me blathers.

At least seeing Sawyer interact with Koch is tangible proof that he absolutely abhors him. I’m still not sure how he feels about me, but even if he hates me, I’m a distant number two in his disaffections.

“If you eliminate Mallory,” he says, like he has a right to my name, like he can say a word and make me blush, “I won’t play.” Russel pales. Having the best player step away from your tournament is probably not a good look.

“He’s . . .” Defne’s grin unfurls slowly. “Oh, Nolan. You little shit.” “What’s he doing?” “Giving Koch a two- moves odds.” “What’s that?” She covers her laugh with one hand. The room is a mess of whispers. “He’s telling Koch that he can beat him, even with a handicap.” “That’s . . .” “Some serious shade.”

“And reckless. I mean . . . what if he loses?” He doesn’t. Lose, that is. He wins in a number of moves that can only be described as embarrassing— mostly for Koch, who’s still flushed with rage during the awards ceremony,

“It’s a bucketload of money!” I nearly choke on my saliva. I hadn’t expected the prizes to be this high.

but a raised hand from him has them instantly backing off, like they’re alarmed by this historically mercurial, unpredictable twenty- year- old. And then . . .

I see him drape an arm over her shoulder and head for the exit. I look away, because . . . wouldn’t want to meet his eyes and end up with my soul devoured.

I’m musing over how miserable his girlfriend must be, what with the temper and Baudelaire rumors,

God, how I want this money. So much so, I need to get rid of it. Immediately.