“First tournament, and you get to the final,” Oz mumbles, angrily splitting a twig in a million pieces. “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. Wunderkinds are so déclassé. You know what’s in? Hard work. Tribulations. 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
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