Check & Mate

by Ali Hazelwood

“I am reliably informed that you’re a Gen Z sex symbol.”

I am expecting to see Zendaya. Harry Styles. Billie Eilish. The entirety of BTS, crammed on the couch of whatever late-night show the YouTube autoplay algorithm decided to feed me

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

The stupid, useless, good-for-nothing king. Can barely move one square, scurries into hiding behind the rook, and he’s so, so easy to corner. A fraction of the queen’s power, that’s what he has. He is nothing, absolutely nothing, without his kingdom.

Nolan Sawyer is a terrible, moody, ill-tempered ball of toxic masculinity. That he’s the poorest loser in the history of chess. In the history of any sport. In the history of history.

top players are always given cutesy nicknames by the press. The Artist. The Picasso of Chess. The Gambit Mozart. Nolan’s nickname? The Kingkiller.

(Overdramatic? Perhaps. But I sexted my mother. I am allowed.)

They make it sound like Sawyer’s Thanos and Koch’s Tony Stark.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously, they’re both Thanos.”

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

Sawyer is staring at me, lips parted, eyes darker than dark. So I do the only sensible thing: I slam the door in his face, and don’t stop running until I’m in my room, dripping on my bed.

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.

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.

“Mal, you have a stalker?” Sabrina snorts. “You didn’t let me watch You because I’m fourteen, and now I find out that you have your own stalker?” “Should we run him over? Does blood stain wood?”

“Are you going to run away?” I frown. “What?” “You usually run away from me. Are you going to?” He’s right. He’s also rude. “You usually lose your king to me. Are you going to?”

“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.”

Mom cocks her head. “You two must work very closely together.” “Not nearly as much as I’d like.”

“I’ll go ahead and ask it, since we all want to know: Are you guys having sex?” “Oh my God.” I cover my eyes. “Oh my God.” “Sabrina,” Mom chides, “that is really inappropriate.” She turns to me. “But yes, are you?” “Oh my God,” I moan. “We aren’t,” Nolan says between bites of meat loaf. Third helping.

My twelve-year-old sister, who sleeps with a stuffed fox, just asked the world’s number one chess player if he came over to bang me. And he just replies, matter-of-fact, “It seems unlikely. And no, it’s not why I came.”

“So,” Darcy interjects, “when are you guys going to have sex?” Nolan’s “Hard to tell” overlaps with my “Never!” and completely swallows it.

“That’s kinda sad,” Darcy says. “I see my family every day of every week of every year.” “That’s also kinda sad,” Sabrina mumbles. “Wouldn’t mind some space.”

She and Darcy flank him on the couch, and Goliath is in his lap. (“What a strangely familiar beast,” Nolan said when she deposited him in his hands.

“I’ve never seen Riverdale.” “Oh my God. Okay, so, that’s Archie and he’s, like, the main character, but everyone likes Jughead better because hello, Cole Sprouse, and there’s this murder that . .

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

He’s asking my sisters “Which one of the characters is Riverdale?”

“Who doesn’t love a good fake dating scheme.” I arch my eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re familiar with the concept.”

“A friend is a huge Lara Jean fan. I sat through, like, six of her movies.” He means his girlfriend. “There are only three.” “Felt like more.”

I’m ready to roundhouse kick him in the chin, but he pushes a loose strand of hair away from my face.

“I want to play chess.” “You couldn’t find someone in New York? You had to drive all the way to New Jersey?”

He holds my eyes. I think his throat moves. “I want to play chess with you, Mallory.”

“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 think about chess all the time, Mallory, and we both know it.”

“Maybe you do. Maybe you are thoroughly addicted. Maybe you wrap chess sets in plastic bags and hide them in your toilet tank because you have nothing else to think about.”

“I want to play chess with you,” he repeats. His voice is lower. Closer. Deeper. “Please, Mallory.”

“If I beat you, you’ll give me fifty thousand dollars.” “I’ll give it to you even if I win.”

“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.”

“Also, there’s tons of fanfiction on AO3, mostly of him making out with some Emil Kareem guy, but—” “What? How do you know what fanfiction is?” “I read it all the time.” “Excuse me?” “Chill. The PG-13 stuff.”

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

“You already have.” “Once.” “Once was enough.” “Once was nothing. I need more.”

“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.”

He leans toward me over the table, dark eyes earnest, stars traveling on his skin. “Do you know how incredible you are?”

“I am serious. Do you realize how exceptional you are, Mallory?”

“I have never seen anything like what you do with chess. Never.”

“Do you know how fucking good you are?” My eyes hold his. “Yes, I know.” It almost hurts to admit to it.

“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?”

I’m still eighteen, but I feel as ancient as the lady from Titanic.

“I once asked you to stop leaving the peanut butter jar open, and you called me a dictator.”

“You have a million seconds, you can’t want me to—” “I have five. And I want you.”

“Nolan?” “Hmm?” “Why did you come to Vegas?” His fingers tighten around mine. My heart cartwheels. “Mallory. I came because you did.”

“Chess is a bad idea.” “Why?” “Look where it got me.” “It got you here. To me.”

Nolan stares like I’m the center of gravity of the room, like nothing else ever existed but me in all of space and time.