Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

Why the hell am I thinking about Nolan right now, while setting up a meeting with another person? Why is he in my head?

That’s it. I’m done. This is upsetting. Confusing. Stupid. Unprecedented. No more Nolan games. No more Nolan. I need to— I can’t keep thinking about him.

Starting tomorrow, I tell myself as I wait for the shower jet to warm up enough. I won’t look at his games anymore. I’ll purge him. Starting tomorrow. I a...

It’s a photo of Nolan and me on our last night in Toronto, playing tic- tactoe in a semi- dark room. My head is bent, pencil in hand. He’s staring at me, an oddly soft expression on his usually unreadable face. Who took this? When? Why?

And because the internet is a scary place that doesn’t believe in boundaries, there is an address. Apparently I don’t believe in boundaries, either: I’m going there to talk to Nolan. It’ll take over an hour.

“Mallory?” He rubs the heel of his palm in his eye. His voice is hoarse with sleep and something else. “Another dream, huh?” “Nolan— are you okay?” “You should come to bed. This is a stupid setup. I like it much better when we— ”

“Nolan, are you sick?” He blinks. His expression clears. “Are you really here?”

“Nolan, you— ” I push up my toes to reach his forehead. He’s burning. This close, he smells like sleep and fresh sweat. Not unpleasant.

“Your hand is so cool,” he says, closing his eyes in relief. I make to take it away, but he traps it under his.

“Stay.” He leans into me, breath warm, chapped lips against my temp...

He doesn’t, though. Take a nap. He sits at the kitchen island and watches me in a glazed- over, pleased way as I move around quietly. It doesn’t bother me, really. His eyes on me usually do strange, uncomfortable things, but today . . . maybe I just love this kitchen. It’s large and cozy and modern, and I want to use it every day. I want to common- law marry it and adopt an entire pack of incontinent shar- peis with it.

and now whatever small nerdy percentage of the world cares about chess thinks that we have a thing.” “And we don’t?” I turn to glare at him. “You don’t have things. You told me so.” “I also said ‘until recently.’ ” My heart skips a beat.

we’ll have to set the record straight.” “Sure. Feel free.” “What does that mean? Together. We’ll do it together. We can release a press statement. Invest in skywriting. Something.” “I won’t. But you can.” I scowl. “What do you mean, you won’t? My sister, my friends, they’ll read the article and think it’s true.”

I’m not ashamed of it.” “You shouldn’t be,” he says, but I can tell that he doesn’t completely get it. That sex, desire, are something he’s still wrapping his head around.

“Kasparov was there.” “The former world champion?” “Yes. He wanted to play with me.” “And?” “What do you mean, and? I went to play.” “Let me get this straight. You chose playing chess with an old man over getting laid?” He looks at me like he’s a cloistered nun and I’m explaining Bitcoin to him. “Did you get that it was Kasparov?” I laugh. Then I laugh again.

Then I laugh some more, forehead against my palms, thinking that when he’s not a total dick, Nolan is actually kind of cute.

When I look up, he has taken a strand of my hair and is rubbing it between his fingertips like it’s mulberry silk. His eyes a...

“Was it at least the best game of your life?” I ask. He stares into my eyes. “No. It wasn’t.” “Which one was, then?” More staring. A stray shiver travels...

“Not as good as your mom’s meat loaf, but— ” I pinch him on the biceps, where there’s almost no yield because his muscles strain the sleeves of his T-shirt, and his lopsided smile appears.

“There is a familial variant of frontotemporal dementia, did you know?” I open my mouth, then I close it. There’s a faraway feeling to him that seems to have little to do with his fever. I should tread carefully. Nolan Sawyer, needing care. Sounds fake. But. “Are you afraid it’ll happen to you?” He huffs out a humorless laugh.

He’s not meeting my eyes. He stares down into his empty mug, elbows on the marble counter, and I feel myself leaning closer. Nolan seems raw, and I don’t want to risk touching him, but I’d like to be here. With him.

“This apartment he left you . . . It’s big for one person,” I murmur. “Want to move in?” His tone matches mine, intimate.

“I’m surprised you have dinner at all. And don’t just sustain yourself on the tears of your rivals.” He smiles again, and God. He is offensively, uniquely, devastatingly handsome.

And have someone come over so if you pass out, they’ll notice before the rats eat your intestines.” “You’re here.” “I was here. I’m leaving now.” Nolan deflates visibly, and something like compassion bites into me.

“Someone else, then.” He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.” “You won’t. You were half dead when I got here.” “Then stay.” “I’m already late for Zugzwang. I . . .” He’s staring at me with those dark, clear eyes, and I just can’t go. I can’t leave him.

“Since both our jobs consist of playing chess, we should play a game,” he says while I text Defne that something urgent has come up. “Just to be productive members of this capitalistic society.” “Nice try.” “Did it work?” “No.

THE EARLY AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT IS BRIGHT, BUT I DON’T care. I get to ignore it because the most delicious blanket is wrapped around me. Flawless, A+, 12/10, five- star Amazon review. It keeps me toasty and presses me into the back of the couch, solid and heavy, the perfect mix of hard and soft. Mostly hard, but in a good way. It even slipped a leg right between mine, and its arms are looped around my rib cage. It makes it nearly impossible for me to move, but I don’t mind, because I feel protected from attacks from all sides. Like the king during good chess.

Nolan is right here. Looking at me. And something within me tells me I should panic, but all I can do is say: “Hey.” “Hey,” he says back, and I nearly feel the gravel of his voice against my lips. He smells of something ineffably rich and good.

“Hey,” I say again, stupidly, and we’re both smiling, and the air between us is sweet, and his eyes, his nose, his lips are suddenly closer, and— Something buzzes and I splash back into reality. I wiggle inside of Nolan’s grip, shooting up to a sitting position. “Ignore it,” he orders, but I ignore him.

What just happened? Oh God. I’ve never slept with someone else. Never. Not like this. N...

“This has nothing to do with Nolan.” “Oh.” Phew. “What then?” “It’s the Challengers, Mal. They chose you as one of this year’s participants.”

November has been sucking: everyone thinks I’m some Nolan groupie who slept her way into chess.

Sullen is now my defining personality trait. I’m more sulk than woman, ready to brood with reckless abandon at a moment’s notice.

because he’s been texting me. Initially stuff like Ran away again, did you? and Mallory. Are you okay? and I just want to talk to you.

Cormenzana always opens with the Ruy Lopez. It was followed by many similar messages, with little advice (Kotov vs. Pachman, 1950) and big (Make sure you hydrate). I don’t reply. I never reply, because . . . Because I don’t want to. Because we’re not friends. Because I woke up on his couch and my first instinct was to burrow into him. A horror story in fifteen words.

I don’t reply, but I do read. And in between bouts of sulking, I do what he recommends, because it’s irritatingly good advice.

Do you know how incredible you are? Nolan asked me in Toronto. I told him yes, while still believing deep down that I wasn’t anything special after all. Which one is it, then?

That’s how big of a deal the Challengers is. So big, I have to wonder if the current world champion is present. Then promptly slap myself for it. Since thinking about Nolan has only been a source of problems.

“You don’t belong here, Greenleaf. You’re the only player who didn’t earn her place in the Challengers. You’re nobody.”

“School, shmool.” Tanu waves her hand. “We live freely. We’re not chained by the obligations of modern mundanity.” “Winter break,” Emil explains. “Ah.”

“Oh. Is Nolan here?” “Mal, we’d love to help you, too,” Tanu says. Not answering me.

DARCYBUTT: How can the entirety of your hair be as straight as a limp noodle except for one single curl smack in the middle of your forehead? I laugh.

“You’re the daughter of a GM. What would he say if he were here?” Breaking news: I officially hate giving interviews. “I don’t know, because he’s not here.” Darcy better never see this.

The list has three different handwritings on it, but I pretend not to notice. Their analyses are sharp, on point, brilliant, brilliant past what I’d expect from two talented players who never quite got to the top. I pretend not to notice that, either.

I’m exhausted anyway, exhausted from worrying and second- guessing myself and hating the opportunities I’m missing. I’m not good, after all. I’m a mediocre player. Defne was wrong. Nolan was wrong. Dad was wrong. CNN is suddenly less interested in interviewing me.

so I hang up and sit on the edge of the mattress, head in my palms like some tortured action hero from a nineties movie, thinking that I will have to tell her.

“Basically,” Davies cuts through the others, “we despise him as a human being and we’d revel in any unhappiness you could provide for him.” “Please, Greenleaf, don’t doodle on the score sheet.” This time when everyone laughs, I join in. “Wow. And there I was, thinking I was alone in my revulsion.”

I shake my head, laughing. “I’d love to win. I just don’t know if I can.” “You are an alchemist,” Thagard- Vork says kindly. “You can do anything you want, Greenleaf.” I feel myself flush.

“The messaging app. We have a server with most of the toptwenty players. We talk chess, gossip about FIDE, the usual. I’d love to send you an invite.” “Oh.” I scratch my neck, looking around. These guys range from my age to late thirties. Would I even fit in? “I’m not in the top twenty.” They laugh. Someone says, “Yet,” and they laugh harder.

“Why would I tell . . . Oh. Oh. No, Nolan and I . . . we’re not really dating. We’re barely friends. Don’t believe the press.” “I usually don’t. But I thought that might be true, since he showed up for the Challengers. He usually doesn’t.