Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

I expect the disappointed expression on his face. The mirror feeling in my chest, not so much. “It’s not personal. But I promised myself that I’d keep chess at a distance.”

“Yes. He had to go home.” “Well, that’s understandable.” I nod, looking for my pajamas. “He must be very busy. He’s the number one chess player in the world, after all.”

As much as I’d love to deny it, he is undeniably the same guy who just raided our meat loaf stash. I blink.

My eyes fall on the title of the page: Who is Mallory Greenleaf, chess’s new breakout player? “Fuck.” “There’s a whole article about you.” “Fuck.” “And pictures.” “Fuck.”

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Of course this shit’s online. The press was everywhere— what did I think they were going to do with the footage, scrapbook it? “Fuck.” “You should stop swearing in front of twelve- year- olds. Mrs. Vitelli says that my brain’s still all squishy. I’ll probably end up in juvie if you swear just once more.” “Fuck.” “Here goes another promising young woman.”

She’s right that we don’t really discuss Dad, or what happened to him. Maybe we should? Maybe I should be talking about Dad to her? Not Mom— it would be painful for her. It would be my responsibility.

And I want to have a secret with you. Something just ours!” I study her hopeful, shining eyes, wondering if she’s been feeling isolated.

I don’t hear about him, either, with the exception of a Tuesday afternoon when he trends on chess Twitter, after forgetting about a virtual tournament and showing up on camera five minutes late while still pulling a Henley over his chest (#KingkillerSoHot).

The fact that I notice his absence from my life has me slightly rattled.

“It suits you better— learning by doing,” she tells me. She’s right. My game improves quickly, positions and strategies easy at my fingertips.

I spend a hazy hour drifting through the grocery store aisles, wondering if Salov could have unpinned his knight in ’95. I’m training so much, I can’t seem to turn it off, not even in my sleep. Chess positions are taking over the back of my head, and after nights spent tossing and turning to Karpov’s end games, I almost welcome fleeting dreams of dark, deep- set eyes glaring at me in frustration.

How egotistical can you— ” “Sabrina.” Mom’s voice, usually gentle, cuts like a whip. “Apologize to your sisters.” “I didn’t say anything that’s not true— ” “Sabrina.”

I shake my head. Deep down, I know Sabrina is right. After all, I’m the one who keeps reminding her how fragile Mom’s health is. I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s freaking out at the idea of me leaving.

Sabrina’s words a hateful ring in my ears. I am angry. Guilty. Furious. Sad. Egotistical. Does she not understand the sacrifices I’ve made for the family? Does she think that I wanted to stop going to school? Does she think that I enjoy it, knowing that in four years Easton will have a degree and a career and I’ll be stuck in some minimum-wage dead-end job? That we’ll grow further and further apart as time goes on, as I fall behind, forgotten? Screw Sabrina, honestly.

I turn around, but my body already knows, like my atoms vibrate differently when he’s near. Which probably just means that his presence gives me radiation poisoning.

“Hi, Mallory,” he says. He’s wearing sunglasses and a dark shirt, but his voice is the same. He looks the same: Tall. Unsmiling.

It’s been over two months since I was in his presence. Two months of chess, chess, chess. Wrangling my sisters, taking Mom to the doctor, then more chess. Being glared at by Oz, putting off checking Tinder, then chess.

I won the Nashville Open and another online tournament. I haven’t lost a match yet, but my rating’s not even in the nineteen hundreds. There’s a little engine in a corner of my skull, constantly working on positions, pawn structure, square theory.

“Greenleaf, this is Tanu Goel. She also has no idea what fantasy football is,” Emil says. “And of course you know Nolan. From trashing him back in the summer.” I glance at Nolan. He doesn’t seem to mind being reminded— the opposite, in fact. Which, in itself, is annoying.

I want to be the thorn in his side that he is in mine. I want him to dream of my stupid eyes.

“You guys know each other?” I say, glancing between Nolan and Emil. “Unfortunately,” they say at the same time, before exchanging a long, brotherly look, and that’s when it occurs to me. Nolan is on the team. Nolan is ...

I’m not the self- conscious type, but I feel like the odd man out with these three. They’re warm (except for Nolan, who’s his usual inscrutable self) and try to involve me in conversation (except for Nolan, who’s his usual quiet self), but it’s clear that they’ve spent years memorizing each other.

Their inside jokes are indecipherable, hidden behind a thick bramble of unparseable references. Their dynamics, too, seem to be a well- beaten path— several paths, made of shifting alliances and a healthy dose of roasting.

She’s half leaning back against Nolan’s chest, his arm casually wrapped around her waist. I’ve been avoiding looking at them, telling myself that I don’t care what they’ve been murmuring about in hushed, intimate tones.

Tanu groans. “Oh my God. Excuse me, Mallory, can we switch seats? I need to tell Emil how wrong he is. I need it right now.” Which is how I find myself in the window seat next to Nolan,

So Emil and Tanu broke up because of distance, but they’re still into each other?” “And refuse to do anything about it.” “Lots of pining, I bet.” “I do get several angsty late- night phone calls asking why Tanu just liked the shirtless picture of some Stanford swimmer on Instagram, or who’s the skank who keeps dueting Emil on TikTok.” “I bet you’re great at talking people off the ledge.” “I’d be better at it if I knew what the hell a TikTok duet is.” I laugh. Emil and Tanu glance at me, then exchange a glance I cannot decipher.

“Yeah. I mean, you guys seem close. And they’re both really attractive . . .” My cheeks heat. I think he notices because the corner of his mouth twitches. “I wasn’t jealous. I couldn’t understand how someone could be so enthralled by the idea of being alone in a room with another person without a chessboard.” “But now you can?” He gives me a long look through his sunglasses. “Now I can.” He turns away. “But if you are interested in either of them— ” “That’s not why I asked,” I blurt out.

“Messy?” “Yeah.” “How’s that?” “Too much proximity. People get ideas. They think I’m interested in giving them my time. My mental energy.” He studies me. “And you’re too busy taking care of your family for that.” “How do you know that?” He doesn’t reply, just studies me through those dark lenses for several seconds, until I can’t stand the stretching silence anymore

“Curious about my plans?” The obvious answer is: yes.

“You’re doing both tournaments?” He gives me his best What, like it’s hard? shrug.

A thought occurs to me. “You’re not here because I . . . ?” You’re not here because I’m here, are you? Come on, Mal. He’s not here because he’s still into that idea of playing against you. No way. He wants to hang out with his friends. Maybe he lied and he is into Tanu. Or Emil. Or both. Not my business. Who cares— “Yes,” he says.

My internal monologue halts. “What?” “The reason you’re thinking.” His stupid, deep voice. Argh. “That’s why I’m here.” “You don’t know what I’m thinking.” He smiles. “True.” “No, really. You don’t.” “Okay.”

I don’t even mind Nolan’s long, thoughtful, lingering looks. He always defeats his opponent quickly. Then he finds something warm to drink for the rest of the team, sets it by our boards, and comes to stand somewhere behind my opponent. His eyes alternate between me and my game, dark and focused and greedy in a way I don’t fully understand.

He doesn’t fist- pump when I win. He doesn’t even tell me that I did good. He just nods once, like every single one of my victories is expected and his faith in me is as solid as a boulder. As though he couldn’t marvel at me playing well any more than at the sun setting at night.

The pressure that comes with it should be irritating. But I find the unwavering confidence from a player of his caliber flattering, which irritates me even more. So I d...

I went to bed early, and then spent hours listening to the soft, intimate tones of the others chatting, feeling vaguely jealous.

I wake up tucked in my bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Someone took off my shoes, connected my phone to the charger, put a glass of water on my bedside. Someone took care of me. I don’t ask who.

“She has other talents,” Nolan says, locking eyes with mine. “Like drawing guinea pigs.” I hide my smile in my hand, but I’m feeling more comfortable with these three.

Nolan is more approachable when consumed through the Brita filter of his friends, even if there’s still something intimidating about his unignorable, often quiet presence. Something that keeps me on edge.

then come to stand right behind Nolan. It’s the first time I’ve finished before him— the first time I get to watch him play.

I have yet to study his games. Defne chooses what plays I analyze, and I’ve found none of Nolan’s in my list. Still, it’s impossible to know anything about chess without having some theoretical notions about him as a player: he is famously cunning, aggressive, versatile. Active. Always doing something risky to raise the pressure.

His strategies might seem impulsive, spontaneous, but they are long- sighted and convoluted, nearly impossible to thwart. He relentlessly exploits every advantage, position, distraction.

I remember reading about a quality of chess players called nettlesomeness: the ability to not just play well but also trick others into playing poorly. Nolan, by all accounts, has it in heaps. And when the adversary has blundered their way in...

The Kingkiller,...

I feel breathless. Light-headed. Confused. That’s how beautiful his moves are. Cruel and unstoppable.

I won against him once, but I also know I might not win again—he’s that good.

And there’s more: I’m a practical player, always focused on finishing off my opponent as quickly as possible rather than on the art and elegance of the game. But Nolan’s play is stunning. In five...

“You okay?” Tanu asks. “I— yes.” I hadn’t noticed her. Even though she’s right beside me. “You looked . . . entranced.”

“Yeah, Nolan’s play will do that. Nolan, in general.” She laughs softly. “I used to be so in love with him, I’d thought I’d die if we didn’t get married and have four chubby kids named after opening gambits no one uses anymore.”

“I thought he was incapable of caring at all before . . . well. On paper, he should have tons of game, but in reality he has very little.” She smiles reassuringly. I want to ask her why she assumes that I’d worry, or what before means, but Nolan buries his fangs into the Polish king and Tanu is too busy cheering.