Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

We don’t quite kick Russia’s ass, but we spank it a little bit.

I feel part of something. Like I haven’t in a long, long time.

It’s a stupid chess tournament. I swore I wouldn’t care, and yet I feel happy.

“She doesn’t want to,” Nolan says, tone calm but final. I send him a grateful look. He stares back like either he didn’t notice or he doesn’t care about my gratitude. I’m pondering my frustrating, utter inability to read him, when someone taps my shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s true.” Am I feeling defensive on behalf of Nolan Sawyer? It’ll start raining frogs any minute. “He’s made chess visible and popular.”

This man, his hawkish gaze, and the odd things he says about Nolan are making me uncomfortable.

DARCYBUTT: You and Nolan got the most points in the whole Olympics. You guys should get married and have a child. She’d be so good at chess.

MALLORY: what present do you want from canada? DARCYBUTT: A mate for Goliath.

She’s very pretty, and a great player to boot, and a-couple-of-monthsago- Mallory would be making a move on her.

There’s a girl, for instance, who’s almost as blond as me, curled up next to Nolan. Hard to tell how he feels about it, since he’s so focused on his game. He must have run a hand through his hair, because it’s vaguely mussed, unbearably attractive. Something else I’d rather not talk about.

She chuckles, low and smoky. She’s really my type. “All geniuses are. I heard he has an IQ of 190. Maybe higher, but tests cannot measure it.” “He doesn’t eat meat loaf like someone with a 190 IQ,” I mutter, resentful. “Sorry?” “Nothing. Um, checkmate, by the way.” I stand, wiping my palms over my leggings and abandoning my half- hearted seduction plans. My heart’s not really in it, or maybe I’m too tired to get laid.

His hand snatches my wrist. I’m too surprised to wiggle out. “Let’s play a bit, Mallory.” I freeze. I stiffen. And this time I do wiggle out. “I told you, I don’t— ” “— play outside of training and tournaments. Yes. But you’ve been playing all night, outside of training and tournaments. With five different people.” I scoff. “Did you count?” “Yes.” He looks up at me.

“I was sure you’d end the night in Bandara’s room.” “Bandara?” “Ruhi Bandara. You two were just playing.” I take a step back and refuse to admit that I entertained the same thought.

Instead I say, “I don’t want to play against you.” “A problem, since I really want to play against you.” I shiver, because it feels like he’s saying something else. Like . . . I don’t know.

“You already have.” “Once.” “Once was enough.” “Once was not...

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d love to play. Who’d probably pay just to sit across from you.” “But I want you, Mallory.” I swallow heavily, then look away. He’s right— I already broke all my no-ches...

Maybe it’s because I’ve seen him play. I’ve seen him be brilliant, read positions with a glance, do things I can’t even understand. If we played, I’d lose. And yes, I hate losing, but this is hardly a fair match. So the number one player in the wor...

Maybe something else bothers me, then. Not that I’ll lose, but that he’ll know that I lost. Yes. This . . . interest, obsession, fascination he seems to have with me came because I beat him. Once. I’m innately good at chess, but I’m not better than someone who’s just as innately good and has had decades of professional training.

We’d play, he’d win, and then I’d be just like everyone else: someone Nolan Sawyer defeated.

His captivation with me would instantly wane, and— That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? I don’t like Nolan Sawyer showing up to my house and talking Riverdale with my sisters, do I? I should agree to play, an...

“If I win, I get to ask you a question, any question, and you answer. And vice versa.” “What could you possibly want to ask me that— ” “Deal?”

The fourth goes to me, and I smile ferociously. I do love to win.

“It’s the tournament that determines which player will face the current world chess champion.” “Which would be you?” “At the moment.” I snort softly. “And for the past six years.” “And for the past six years.” There is no boast in his voice. No pride.

And that if I’d only stuck around a couple of years longer, we’d have met much earlier. In completely different circumstances.

“The one whose prize is two million dollars?” “Three, this year.” My heart skips a beat. I cannot even conceive what that money would do for my family.

when I win the twenty- fourth game, and Nolan channels his most traditional self by slapping his palm on the table. Honestly, it feels nice.

“What’s the question? Who do I have sex with?” I nod quickly. My cheeks are on fire. I’m already regretting this. “No one.” Uh? “Excuse me?” “I don’t have sex. Or at least, I never have.” It takes a few moments for the words to penetrate. For it to really sink in: Nolan Sawyer, the Kingkiller, blithely admitting that he’s a virgin at the age of twenty. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But.

“You’ve never had sex,” I repeat. “Nope,” he says, confident, calm, like he has nothing to prove to anyone, like he doesn’t care to be anyone but himself, fully himself. At least here, tonight, with me.

“Do I wish I were having sex?” I nod again. Jesus, I can speak. I am better than this. “No.” He doesn’t even think about it. “Not until recently.” “What . . . what changed recently?” He stares for a long moment. “No follow-up questions, I was told.”

The corner of his lip twitches into a smile. “Besides, I hear you have enough sex for the both of us.” I groan. “I’ve barely been— You should never believe anything Darcy says. ”

“What about chess? Are you going to just stop playing?” “Yeah.” I steal the pen from his hand. “There’s no future for me in chess.” He snorts. “You can’t just— ” “Question answered. Next round.”

He gives an annoyed, stubborn look, and immediately wins. How? He’s drinking and I’m not, but I’m the one slipping. “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “No follow-up questions.”

He leans toward me over the table, dark eyes earnest, stars traveling on his skin. “Do you kn...

“I am serious. Do you realize how exceptional you are, Mallory?” “What are you— ” “I have never seen anything like what you do with chess. Never.” “I— You are ten times better than me. I beat you once, while playing White, and you were probably expecting an easy game.”

“Do you know how fucking good you are?” My eyes hold his. “Yes, I know.” It almost hurts to admit to it. To this boundless talent I have, for something that I swore to myself I wouldn’t pursue— a promise I fully intend to keep.

“Does it bother you, that I’m that good?” “No.” He’s not lying. Does he ever lie? “Maybe it should. But.” He lets that but dangle mysteriously. “Why?” He clucks his tongue. “You haven’t earned a question.”

New victory for Nolan. It’s my turn to slam my fist on the table. Nolan’s bottle, now empty, clinks against the cheap plastic, and irritation...

“Are you cheating?” I ask, acid. Angry. “No. But it’s fascinating how your performance suffers when you lose your composur...

“I’m not losing my composure, and my tic- tac- toe performance is hardly— ” “Question,” he interrupts, a new edge to his voice. “Why do you pretend you don’t want this?” “This?” He gestures around himself. But then he says, “Chess. Why do you pretend you don’t want to play it?” “You don’t know me,” I bristle. “I just don’t like chess that much.”

“You feel it, too, don’t you, Mallory?” His tone is pressing. Low. “When you play, you feel the same thing I feel.” I grit my teeth. “I have no idea what you feel. Chess is a stupid board game, and— ” “It is a stupid board game, but it’s yours. I see the way you look at the pieces. It’s your world, isn’t it? The one you choose for yourself, well within your boundaries. You can be the queen in it. The king. The knight. Whatever you want. There are rules, and if you learn them well enough, then you’ll be able to control it. You’ll be able to rescue the pieces you care about. So unlike real life, huh?”

How dare he act like he knows me, like he— I hate him. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this angry. There’s bile churning in my stomach. I tear the flier from his hand and make another grid, almost ripping the paper in the process. It takes seven tries, but I finally win.

“What the hell do you want from me?” I snap, leaning closer with a glare. He lifts one eyebrow. “Because I don’t understand,” I nearly yell. “Why are you here when you have a tournament next week? Why do you presume to know anything about me? Why do you even care about my thoughts on chess— ” I end with an angry, beastly noise.

If Nolan is affected, he doesn’t show it. “I thought you were starting to get an idea.” “I’m not. Just tell me what you want and— ” A loud sound.

I realize how close I am to Nolan and pull back. He keeps staring at me, the ghost of a sad smile on his lips.

All in all, though, I come back from my trip to the puzzling revelation that no life- threatening emergencies occurred, and that without me, my family . . . did just fine. I’m half shocked, half relieved.

I hope to never see him again. Probably won’t. But I do want to study the aggravating masterpieces that are his games, and my hands itch to pull them up on the chess engine.

I’m developing a more- than- mild obsession, and that’s probably why I’m thinking of him when I match up with a guy named Alex on an app on Sunday night.

Instead, I wonder how Nolan would do this. Be online. Hook up. Poorly, probably. Isn’t he a virgin? Useless in the sack. But it’s so hard to picture him doing anything poorly.

With his dark, attentive eyes; the precise, purposeful way his large hands close around the chess pieces; his voice, always so careful; his beautiful, brilliant strategies.

He’d murmur indiscernible words under his breath at the Olympics, when he made a mistake or regretted a move. Sometimes the hairs at the nape of my neck would rise...