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Chapter no 7

Check & Mate

โ€ŒOz doesnโ€™t talk to me for two weeksโ€” then he does, and I want to kill him. Itโ€™s a Thursday morning. Iโ€™m at my desk, staring at the Zen garden,โ€Œ

replaying a Fischerโ€“ Spassky 1972 game in my head, when he says, โ€œSo youโ€™re coming to the Philly Open.โ€

I startle. Then hiss: โ€œWhat?โ€

Iโ€™m supremely, virulently, irrationally annoyed that heโ€™s interrupting me this close to a breakthrough. Earlier today, while making Darcyโ€™s oatmeal (Call it what it is: Nutella with oats sprinkled on top,ย Sabrina muttered while biting into a Granny Smith) I realized that Fischer made a mistake, one that Spassky could have exploited. Iโ€™ve been thinking about it ever since, sure that if Black used the knight toโ€”

โ€œIโ€™ll drive,โ€ Oz says. โ€œWe leave at six.โ€

Whyย is he talking? I amย soย irritated. โ€œDrive where?โ€ โ€œTo Philly. Whatโ€™s wrong with you?โ€

I ignore him, go back to focusing on my replay until my afternoon session with Defne. Iโ€™ve started looking forward to my meetings with herโ€” partly because sheโ€™s the only human adult I interact with aside from Mom, but also because I genuinely need her to parse chess stuff with me. The more effort I put into learning technical stuff, the harder it hits me how little I know, and how much I need a sounding board. I guess thatโ€™s why GMs have coaches and trainers and whatnot.

โ€œCan we go over a play?โ€ I start the second I step into the library, sliding my notebook in her direction. โ€œIโ€™ve been stuck onโ€” โ€

โ€œLetโ€™s first talk about Philly Open.โ€ I stop. โ€œPhilly what?โ€

โ€œPhilly Open. The tournament. Your first tournamentโ€” this weekend.โ€ I blink. โ€œI . . .โ€

She cocks her head. โ€œYou?โ€

Oh.ย Oh?ย โ€œI doubt . . . Thereโ€™s no way . . .โ€ I swallow. โ€œDo you think Iโ€™m ready?โ€

She smiles cheerfully. โ€œHonestly, not at all.โ€

Lovely.

โ€œBut, itโ€™s too good an opportunity. Phillyโ€™s close by, and this is a very reputable open tournament.โ€ I only have a vague idea of what that means, which must be why Defne continues. โ€œIt attracts elite players, the top ten in the world, but also allows unrated players like you in the rated section. And itโ€™s a knockout tournamentโ€” the loser of each match is eliminated, the winner moves forward. So you wonโ€™t be stuck with mediocre players just because youโ€™re currently unrated. Provided that you keep winning.โ€ She shrugs. The single feathered earring sheโ€™s wearing tinkles happily. โ€œIโ€™ll come with. Worse comes to worst, you just make a fool of yourself.โ€

Super-duper lovely.

And thatโ€™s how I find myself in the passenger seat of Ozโ€™s red Mini Hatch on a Saturday morning. In the back seat, Defne lists tournament rules as they come to mind, her voice too loud for 7:00 a.m. โ€œTouch- move and touch- take, of courseโ€” if you touch a piece during your turn, youโ€™ll have to move it. You must record all your moves on the score sheet, in algebraic notations. No talking to your opponent unless itโ€™s your turn and youโ€™re offering a draw. When castling, use only one hand and touch the king first. If thereโ€™s a conflict or a disagreement, call one of the tournament directors to solve it for you, donโ€™tย everย fight withโ€” โ€

โ€œWhat do you think youโ€™re doing?โ€ Oz barks. I follow his eyes to the foil- wrapped PB&J I just took out of my bag.

โ€œUmโ€” want a piece?โ€

โ€œEat thatโ€” or anything elseโ€” in my car, and I will chop your hands off and boil them in my urine.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m hungry.โ€ โ€œThen starve.โ€

I bite the inside of my cheek. Honestly, I think Iโ€™m growing on him. โ€œBut this is my emotional support sandwich.โ€

โ€œThen have a mental breakdown.โ€ He turn- signals and swerves to the right so hard, I almost hit my head against the window.

Philly Open is nothing like the NYC charity tournament, and my first clue is that thereโ€™s press. Not a ridiculous amount, like the paparazzi on Taylor Swift ca. 2016. But a sizable gaggle of journalists with camerapeople and photographers in tow crowds the hall of the Penn State engineering building, where the tournament will take place. Itโ€™s vaguely surreal.

โ€œWas there a homicide or something?โ€ I ask.

Oz gives me his usualย youโ€™re too dim to liveย glance. โ€œTheyโ€™re covering the tournament.โ€

โ€œAre they under the misconception that this is the NBA?โ€

โ€œMallory, at leastย pretendย to have some respect for the sport that is your livelihood.โ€

Heโ€™s not wrong. โ€œThe tournament wonโ€™t start for another hour, though.โ€ โ€œTheyโ€™re probably just hoping to get a glimpse ofโ€” โ€

Someone enters the lobby and Oz turns that wayโ€” together with everyone else. Thereโ€™s some commotion as the journalists spring into action. I canโ€™t see much: a tall head of dark hair, thenย anotherย tall head of dark hair, both peeking through the cameras and the boom mics and heading straight for the elevator. I canโ€™t quite make out what the press is asking, only vague words that make little sense togetherโ€”ย in shape,ย prize, Baudelaire, win, breakup, candidates, World Championship. By the time Iโ€™ve pushed to my toes, the elevator doors have swished closed. Journalists murmur their disappointment, then slowly scatter about.

Part of me wonders who that was. Another part, the one thatโ€™s been having odd, invasive dreams of dark eyes and large hands wrapped around

my queen, is almost certain thatโ€”

โ€œYour registrationโ€™s all set, guys.โ€ Defne appears to hand us lanyards with name tags. โ€œLetโ€™s go to the hotel, leave our stuff, then come back for the opening ceremony.โ€

I nod, hoping to sneak in a micronap, when an older man with a mic takes a few steps toward us. โ€œGM Oz Nothomb?โ€ he asks. โ€œIโ€™m Joe Alinsky, fromย ChessWorld.com. Do you have time for a short interview?โ€

โ€œOz is currently number twenty,โ€ Defne whispers in my ear while Oz affably answers questions about his shape, training, hopes, favorite pregame snacks (surprisingly: gummy bears).

โ€œTwenty?โ€

โ€œTwenty in the world.โ€ โ€œTwenty in the world of . . . ?โ€ โ€œChess.โ€

โ€œAh, right.โ€

Defne smiles encouragingly. Considering that I lived and breathed chess for nearly a decade, and how much I still remember about the game itself, I know surprisingly little about the nitty- gritty of professional chess, probably because of Momโ€™s moratorium on rated play. But Defne never makes me feel like Iโ€™m a total idiot, even when I ask totally idiotic questions. โ€œThe top twenty in the world is important. Theyโ€™re the ones who manage to make the shift from competitive chess to pros.โ€

โ€œAre those not the same?โ€

โ€œOh, no. Anyone can be a competitive player, but pros make a living from chess. They support themselves through cash prizes, sponsorships, endorsements from companies.โ€

I picture a Mountain Dew Super Bowl ad featuring a chess player.ย Mtn Dew: The Drink of Grandmasters.ย โ€œIs Oz also a fellow?โ€

โ€œThe opposite. Heย paysย some of the GMs at Zugzwang to train him.โ€

โ€œOh.โ€ I mull it. โ€œDoes he have a side job?โ€ Maybe he does Instacart deliveries from 2:00 to 5:00 a.m.? It would explain the perennial bad mood.

โ€œNope, but he does have a dad whoโ€™s an exec at Goldman Sachs.โ€

โ€œAh.โ€ I notice that theย ChessWorld.com journalist is taking a picture of Oz and quickly step out of frame.

Itโ€™s stupid. Sabrina and Darcy are with friends till tomorrow; Mom has been better and is working on a few technical writing pieces, which should bring in some needed cash; I told them that Iโ€™d spend the day in Coney Island with friends, then stay at Giannaโ€™s place for the night. So Iย amย lying to them about what Iโ€™m doing, but thereโ€™s no way theyโ€™ll find out where I really went from the background of Ozโ€™s picture onย ChessWorld.com.

Iโ€™m being paranoid. Because Iโ€™m tired and hungry. Because Oz didnโ€™t let me eat my PB&J. Monster.

โ€œHey,โ€ Joe Alinsky says, suddenly ignoring Oz, eyes narrow on me, โ€œarenโ€™t you the girl whoโ€” โ€

โ€œSorry, Joe, we gotta go freshen up before the tournament.โ€ Defne grabs my sleeve and pulls me outside of the building. The morning air is already too hot.

โ€œWas he talking to me?โ€

โ€œI feel like Starbucks,โ€ she says, walking away. โ€œDo you want Starbucks? Itโ€™s on me.โ€

I want to ask Defne whatโ€™s going on. But I want an iced kiwi starfruit lemonade harder, so I jog after her and drop the subject altogether.

 

 

WHEN I SIT DOWN FOR MY FIRST MATCH, IN FRONT OF A MANย who could be my

grandfather, my heart pounds, my palms sweat, and I cannot stop nibbling at the inside of my lip.

Iโ€™m not sure when it happened. I was fine till ten minutes ago, looking around the crowded room, staring down at my lilac sundress, wondering if itโ€™s proper chess attire or whether I care. Then the tournament directors announced the start, and here I am. Afraid of disappointing Defne. Afraid of the sour flavor in my throat whenever I lose.

I donโ€™t remember the last time I was this nervous, but itโ€™s okay, because I still win in twelve moves. The man sighs, shakes my hand, and Iโ€™m left with forty- five minutes to kill. I walk around, studying interesting positions. Then I snap a picture of the room and text it to Easton.

MALLORY:ย i blame you for this

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS:ย Where are you?

MALLORY:ย some tournament in philly.

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS:ย Dude, are you at Philly Open???

MALLORY:ย maybe. howโ€™s higher ed treating you?

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS:ย Iโ€™ve been sleeping three hours per night and joined an improv group. Put me out of my misery.

MALLORY:ย LMAO tell me about the improv

The little dots of Eastonโ€™s reply bounce on the bottom of the screen, then disappear and never come back. Not in five minutes, or ten. I picture a new friend walking up to Easton, her forgetting about me. Sheโ€™s already posted a handful of selfies with her roommates on Instagram.

I slide my phone into my pocket and move to the next round, which I also win easily, just like the third and the fourth.

โ€œFantastic!โ€ Defne tells me while we share a Costco bag of Twizzlers on the campus quad. Sheโ€™s surreptitiously smoking a cigarette, which she lit saying,ย FYI, I amย notย modeling good behavior.ย โ€œBut itย isย an elimination tournament. The more you win, the better your opponents, the harder itโ€™ll get.โ€ She notices my frown and bumps her shoulder against mine. โ€œThis is chess, Mallory. Painstakingly engineered to make us miserable.โ€

Sheโ€™s right. I get a taste on my last match of the day when I find myself dropping a rook, then a bishop against a woman who looks eerily like my middle schoolโ€™s librarian. Not- Mrs.- Larsen is a fidgety, anxious player who takes ages to make a move and whimpers whenever I advance on her. I alternate between doodling on my score sheet and feeling like Iโ€™m at the zoo, staring at the slothโ€™s cage and waiting for it to move. The game drags until the end of the round, when weโ€™re both out of time.

โ€œItโ€™s a draw,โ€ the tournament director says dispassionately, surveying our board. โ€œBlack advances.โ€

Thatโ€™s me. Iโ€™m moving to the next round because I was at a disadvantage. I know draws are exceedingly common in chess, but I am distressed. Frustrated. Noโ€” Iโ€™mย furious. With myself.

โ€œI made tons of mistakes.โ€ I tear angrily into the dried apricots Defne handed me. I want to kick the wall. โ€œI should have played rook c6. She could have had me three timesโ€” did you see how close she came to my king with her bishop? It was such aย shitshow. I cannot believe I am even allowed within ten feet of a chessboard.โ€

โ€œYou won, Mallory.โ€

โ€œIt was aย disaster. It qualifies for federal reliefโ€” I didnโ€™t deserve to win.โ€

โ€œLucky for you, in chess deserving and undeserving wins count the same.โ€

โ€œYou donโ€™t understand. I messed up so manyโ€” โ€

Defne puts a hand on my shoulder. I quiet. โ€œThis. This feeling you have right now? Remember it. Bottle it. Feed it.โ€

โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œThis is why chess players study, Mallory. Why weโ€™re so obsessed with replaying games and memorizing openings.โ€

โ€œBecause we hate to draw?โ€

โ€œBecause we hate feeling like we did anything less than our absolute best.โ€

The hotel is a five- minute walk from campus. My room is nothing to write home about, except that it is because: privacy. I cannot remember the

last time I had access to a bed without the audience of a twelve- year- old goblin and the three- thousandyear- old demon who possesses her guinea pig. I should take advantage of it. I consider watching a movie. Then I consider whipping out my phone, pulling up dating apps, looking for matches in the Philly area. Perfect no-strings- attached opportunity. Plus, orgasms do improve my mood.

Instead I stare out the window, replaying my last game as the sun sets slowly.

Itโ€™s like that time I accidentally s*xted Mom. Like that day the entire cheering team walked in on me while I pretended to open the automatic sliding doors with the Force. Like in middle school, when I walked into the teachersโ€™ restroom to wash my hands and found Mr. Carter sitting on the toilet doing a sudoku. Whenever I do something really embarrassing, for days after the incident I live in a state of utter mortification. At night I close my eyes and my brain will yank me back to the deep well of my shame, projecting cringeworthy scenes in excruciating detail against my eyelids.

(Overdramatic? Perhaps. But I s*xted my mother. I amย allowed.)

My neurons cling to every splinter of embarrassment, wonโ€™t let go of the mistakes I made during my matches. I won, fine, but in my second game I left my knight open likeย that. Gross. Disgusting. Appalโ€”

Someone knocks.

โ€œDefne asked me to take you to the social and introduce you around,โ€ Oz says when I open the door. Heโ€™s staring at his phone.

โ€œThe social?โ€

โ€œThereโ€™s a reception downstairs, for players who moved to day two. Defne canโ€™t go, since itโ€™s only for players. Thereโ€™s free food and booze.โ€ He glances up, assessing. โ€œHow old are you?โ€

โ€œEighteen.โ€

He mutters something about babysitting toddlers and not being Mary Fucking Poppins. โ€œThey probably have Sierra Mist somewhere in a cooler. Come.โ€

Iโ€™m not sure what I expected from a chess party. Easton aside, I never hung out with the PCC people, but they always struck me as quiet and

escapism- driven. The players here, though, look more like businessmen, wearing tailored suits and laughing over champagne glasses. There are no sweater vests in sight, and no one is bemoaning the untimely end ofย Battlestar Galactica. They all seem boisterous and confident. Young. Wealthy. Sure of their place in the world.

One of them notices Oz and leaves his group to approach us. โ€œCongrats on breaking the top twenty.โ€ He glances at meโ€” first distracted, then appraising, then lingering. An unpleasant shiver travels up my spine. โ€œI didnโ€™t know we could bring a plus-one.โ€

Oh, yeahโ€”the people in this room? Theyโ€™re 98 percent male.

โ€œIs this your sister?โ€ He must be around my age, and theoretically he should be handsome in a classic, wholesome way, but thereโ€™s something waxy about him, something unsettling in his blue gaze that lifts my hairs.

โ€œWhy the hell would she be my sister?โ€ Oz asks.

โ€œI dunno, man.โ€ He shrugs. โ€œSheโ€™s blond. Youโ€™re blond. And sheโ€™s way too hot to be your girlfriend.โ€

I stiffen. Surely I misheard.

โ€œMallory is a chess player,ย man.โ€ Ozโ€™s tone drips disdain. Whatever antipathy he may harbor toward me, the Office Intruder, itโ€™s nothing compared with what he feels for this guy.

He doesnโ€™t hate me, after all. I might even be his best friend. How heartwarming.

โ€œIf you say so.โ€ His English is perfect, if slightly accented. Vaguely Northern European. โ€œWell, honey, this party is for people who won all their matches, so . . . wait.โ€ He leans back, making a show of studying me. โ€œAre you the girl who trashed Sawyer at the charity tournament?โ€

โ€œIโ€” โ€

โ€œYes, you are. Guys, this is the chick who humiliated Sawyer!โ€

Iโ€™m not sure whatโ€™s happening, or why, but the group of people (men, all men) Northern Europe was chatting with give us interested glances, then make their way to us.

โ€œWhat did you do before the game?โ€ a tall man in his thirties asks. His accent is so thick, I can barely make out the words. โ€œI need that kind of

luck.โ€

โ€œWas Sawyer having a really bad day?โ€

โ€œWere you wearing something low- cut? Is that the trick?โ€ โ€œDoes he know sheโ€™s here?โ€

โ€œWell, sheโ€™s still alive. So, clearly no.โ€

Everyone laughs, and I am . . . paralyzed. Mortified. Theyโ€™re staring like Iโ€™m a barely sentient slab of meat, and I feel like a daft child, on display, out of place in my flowy lace sundress. Iโ€™m no withering flower, and over my years with Bob Iโ€™ve had my fair share of sparring with older, s*xist men, but these people are just soโ€” so blatantly,ย openlyย rude, Iโ€™m not even sure how I should be responding toโ€”

โ€œExcuse usโ€โ€” Oz grabs my elbow and tugs me awayโ€” โ€œweโ€™re going to go find some food and maybe people who arenโ€™tย total assholes.โ€

โ€œOh, come on, Nothomb!โ€ โ€œLearn to take a joke.โ€

โ€œLet her stayโ€” bet she wants to get to know us!โ€

I stumble after Oz, mouth dry, hands shaking. He drags me all the way to the other side of the room, to a table laden with hors dโ€™oeuvres. I think Iโ€™m shell- shocked. โ€œWhoย wereย they?โ€

โ€œMalte Koch and his minions.โ€

I shake my head. Rack my brain. His name sounds familiar, but I canโ€™t quite pointโ€”

โ€œHeโ€™s been world number two for the last couple of years. And an asshole since birth, one can only assume. The slightly older guy who asked if Sawyer knows youโ€™re here is Cormenzana, number seven, the tall Serbian is Dordevic, somewhere around thirty, but the others are about as consequential as a block of concrete with googly eyes. Little shits whose claim to fame is licking Kochโ€™s anus.โ€ He rolls his eyes and reaches blindly for a bacon- stuffed mushroom. Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, an emotional eater. โ€œI had no intention of introducing you.ย No oneย should ever talk to them. Their place is on a top- secret mining colony on Mars, if you ask me. Sadly, no one ever asks.โ€ He chews on his mushroom for a moment and then mumbles a stilted โ€œSorry about that.โ€

I wonder if itโ€™s the first apology of his life. It sure sounds like it. โ€œItโ€™s not your fault. But that was . . . I think I hate them?โ€

โ€œYeah, Iโ€™ll get you the clubโ€™s laminated badge.โ€ He studies me. โ€œAre you going to cry?โ€

โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œAre you going to pass eye water?โ€

โ€œNo. Iโ€™m fine. I just . . .โ€ I lean against the wall behind me. โ€œAre they like that with all women?โ€

Oz snorts. โ€œLook around. How many women do you see?โ€ I donโ€™t need to look around. Instead I reach out for a piece of Brie melted on a crust of bread. โ€œMost women in chess decide to skip these events and compete in women- only tournaments. I bet youโ€™re wondering why.โ€

โ€œTotal mystery.โ€ I put my cheese on a napkin. I have no appetite. โ€œWhat did it mean, that thing about me being alive?โ€

He sighs. โ€œKoch and his gangย loveย it that you made a fool out of Sawyer, because they hate him. But they also hate that you beat him in one go, because Koch fancies himself to be Sawyerโ€™s lifelong rival.โ€

โ€œBut he isnโ€™t?โ€

โ€œHe cannot compete. No one can compete with Sawyer, really. Heโ€™s been dominating for nearly a decade. I meanโ€โ€” he pops half a deviled egg in his mouthโ€” โ€œKochโ€™s an excellent player, if inconsistent. He has moments of brilliance. Heโ€™s forced Sawyer into draws, and once even came close to beating him. But ultimately theyโ€™re not comparable.โ€

Must be miserable, losing game after game. โ€œKochโ€™s not aware?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m sure heโ€™s plenty aware, but youโ€™ve seen the kind of people he holds court with. Their narrative is that Sawyer is some superevil villain who made chess predictable by being unbeatableโ€” as though he isnโ€™t the reason chess got so big among younger people in the last few years. They make it sound like Sawyerโ€™s Thanos and Kochโ€™s Tony Stark.โ€ He rolls his eyes. โ€œObviously, theyโ€™reย bothย Thanos.โ€

Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, a Marvel guy. โ€œAre we . . . in middle school again?โ€

Oz shrugs. โ€œClose enough. Kochย isย just a child, salty because he always ends up dead in FMK. Meanwhile Sawyer gets all the attention, makes serious bank, ends up onย Timeโ€™s Most Influential, and sleeps with Baudelaires or whatnotโ€” โ€

โ€œBaudelaires?โ€

โ€œYeah. Itโ€™s this experimental rock bandโ€” โ€

โ€œI know who the Baudelaire sisters are.โ€ Sabrina is obsessed. I like their music, too. โ€œSawyerย sleepsย with them?โ€

โ€œYes. And Koch wants that for himself. As if.โ€

My head is exploding. โ€œDid heโ€” Which Baudelaire did Sawyer . . . ?โ€ โ€œI donโ€™t know, Mallory. I doย notย watch reality television.โ€

โ€œRight.โ€ I look away, chastised. Iโ€™m going to have to google this. Iโ€™mย dyingย to whip out my phone right now. โ€œWell, the top ten sounds pretty crowded with assholes.โ€

โ€œMostly just Koch and Cormenzana. And Sawyer, but heโ€™s a better brand. Iโ€™m not gonna make a friendship bracelet for him, but Iโ€™ll take a sphincter- clenchingly scary asshole like Sawyer over a slug-slurping- moisture-after-a-rainstorm slimy asshole like Koch any day.โ€

They both sound uniquely horrible, I think as a man plucks custard- filled beignets off the table and quickly scurries away, unimpressed with the anus talk.

โ€œAnyway,โ€ Oz concludes, โ€œeveryone else in the top ten is less punchable.โ€

I smile faintly. โ€œIs โ€˜less punchableโ€™ Oz-speak for โ€˜niceโ€™?โ€ He arches one eyebrow. โ€œAnd what doesย thatย mean?โ€

โ€œWell, youโ€™re not the nicest guy Iโ€™ve ever met.โ€

โ€œI am a motherfuckingย delight, Greenleaf. And for the record, you and I areย equallyย hot.โ€

I only stay at the reception for about thirty minutes. Oz is right, and not everyone in chess is a dick: he introduces me to several people who do not insult me, s*xually harass me, or act with a messianic- grade superiority complex. But his group of friends is a few years older than me, and I drift out of conversation when it falls on their wives and graduate education. I

feel the occasional side glances from Kochโ€™s gang on me, and cannot quite relax, so I wave goodnight and head back to my room, ready to spend the rest of the evening berating myself over my mistakes.

Until I see the sign in the elevator. Three little words next to the fifth floor:

Indoor Pool & Gym.

I head there without thinking it through. The entrance for the pool slides open under my keycard. When I peek inside, Iโ€™m instantly enveloped by heat, chlorine, and silence.

I love swimming. Or whatever that thing I do that passes as swimming is

โ€” float for hours, occasionally move about like a drowning puppy. And hereโ€™s this amazing, deserted pool.

Problem: I donโ€™t have a swimsuit. The tattered bikini that barely fit me a cup size ago is somewhere in my dresser at home, and Goliath is probably using it at this very moment to wipe his butt. What I do have, however, is underwear thatโ€™sย basicallyย a bikini. And a strong yearning for a swim.

So I donโ€™t think about it too much: I pull my dress over my head, shrug off my sandals, and toss them on the nearest bench. Then I jump in with a loud, messy splash.

I need to minimize my blunders, I tell myself fifteen minutes later, drifting over the water and staring at the ceiling. The reflection of the waves on the ceiling is a mangled, distorted chessboard.ย I should aim for breadth of knowledge, since Iโ€™m unlikely to achieve much depth in one year. I should play more offbeat lines.

By the time I lift myself out, Iโ€™m in better spirits. I screwed up today, but Iโ€™ll focus on improving. If I know my weaknesses, I can tailor my training. I train a ridiculous amount anyway.

You are faking your way through this fellowship, a voice reminds me. Itโ€™s either mine or Eastonโ€™s.

Well, yes, I reply defensively, grabbing my dress and shoes, rubbing chlorine off my eyes.ย But Iโ€™ve signed a one-year contract, so I might as well

โ€”

I stop dead in my tracks.

Iโ€™m not alone anymore. Someone is standing right in front of me. Someone barefooted, whoโ€™s wearing swim trunks. I look up, and up, and up, and upย even more, andโ€”

My stomach drops. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me, a faint scowl between his eyes. Iโ€™m dumbfounded by the fact that heโ€™s . . . fit. His chest. His shoulders. His biceps. No one who spends hours a day moving one- ounce pieces around a chessboard has any business looking like that.

โ€œIโ€” Hi,โ€ I stammer. Because heโ€™s standing rightย there, and I donโ€™t know what else to say.

But he doesnโ€™t answer. Just stares down, taking in my nowsee- through bra, my panties with little rainbows all over them. The temperature in the pool increases. The gravity, too. Iโ€™m concerned that my legs wonโ€™t hold me.

Then I remember what Kochโ€™s friends said:ย Does he know sheโ€™s here? Well, sheโ€™s still alive, so clearly no.ย Fear pops into me.

Nolan Sawyer despises me. Nolan Sawyer wants to murder me. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me with the sheer soulcutting intensity one reserves for those he hates with the strength of a million bloodthirsty bears.

Didnโ€™t he once break another playerโ€™s nasal septum? I remember hearing some stories. Something had happenedย afterย a tournament, and . . .

Is he going to tear me to pieces? Will the local morgue not know how to put me together? Will they have to call in a professional makeup artist, one of those YouTube beauty gurus who are always making callout videos about each otherโ€”

โ€œCoooooming throuuuuuuuugh!!!!โ€

Someone runs past us, a blur of dark skin and red trunks, and cannonballs into the pool with a tsunami- like splash. Sawyer mutters something like โ€œShit, Emil,โ€ and itโ€™s the escape chance I was waiting for. I scamper away, feet slapping against the wet floor. Iโ€™m at the door when I make the mistake of looking behind me: 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 donโ€™t stop running until Iโ€™m in my room, dripping on my bed.

Itโ€™s the second time Iโ€™ve met Sawyer. And the second time Iโ€™ve retreated like a pinned knight.

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