Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

That is, until the day we play for the first time. And I wipe the floor with him.

“I am a motherfucking delight, Greenleaf. And for the record, you and I are equally hot.”

When Koch was sixteen and decided to grow a goatee? Everyone took pictures. No one told him that he looked like his own malnourished evil twin with an iron deficiency.”

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.

My family moved to the United States when I was little so I’d have the best training available. But unlike all these people”—he gestures around the room—“I only love chess a reasonable amount. 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. You keep losing your Spider-Man action figures to him. Makes you rethink your priorities.”

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.

“It has its ups and downs. I used to love it, but a little…sameness set in, and I actually thought about quitting. Then Mallory arrived.” His knee suddenly pushes back against mine. “Now I love it again.”

“Mostly that. Only secondarily because he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from my most oblivious daughter.”

“It should have been you, yesterday. It was…I had you there. In front of me, across the board.” His lips press together. “It should have been you.”

“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.”

“Is it very expensive, Malte?” I ask, plucking a chocolate-covered strawberry from a tray. “What?” “The vintage sexism you wear all the time.”