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Chapter no 20

Check & Mate

โ€Œโ€œโ€” if you go rook g5โ€” โ€ โ€œโ€” then the bishopโ€” โ€ โ€œโ€” but that pawnโ€” โ€ โ€œโ€” in g7โ€” โ€โ€Œ

โ€œโ€” no, if you want to keep your king safeโ€” โ€ โ€œโ€” thereโ€™s this thing calledย castlingย thatโ€” โ€ โ€œUm . . . hey, guys?โ€

Nolan and I turn to Tanu with two aggressive, annoyed, simultaneous, โ€œWhat?โ€

She leans in, hands on the doorframe, more skeptical than intimidated. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and an oversized koala onesie hangs from her tall frame. Sheโ€™s wearing glasses, which means she took out her contacts for the day, which means that . . .

โ€œItโ€™s eleven forty. Youโ€™ve been in the same position since two and seem to be doing great, but in case you decide that the heroic feats of a midcentury Ukrainian Grandmaster are not nourishing enough, thereโ€™s chicken potpie in the fridge.โ€

Nolan scowls. โ€œWhy didnโ€™t you guys call us for dinner?โ€

โ€œWe did. Three times. Each time, you both just grunted. I recorded it and mixed it with Dragostea for TikTok. Wanna see it?โ€

โ€œGoodnight, Tanu,โ€ he says. She knows him well enough to scurry away when he stands. โ€œLetโ€™s eat.โ€

โ€œWait.โ€ I stop him with a tug of his shirt. โ€œWe need to finish thisโ€” โ€ โ€œYou need toย eat. Come on.โ€

When I told Darcy that Iโ€™d be spending part of December and January at Nolanโ€™s house in upstate New York (yes, he owns one; yes, I did mutter โ€œEat the richโ€ when he informed me), she gave me a skeptical look and asked, โ€œIs it wise, to go to a cabin in the woods with the Kingkiller?โ€ Itโ€™s been weeks, and Iโ€™m still not sure what the answer is. I sit on the kitchen counter and observe Nolan as he eats standing up, businesslike, brisk, as though shoveling coal into a furnace, mind clearly still on the game we were analyzing.

Itโ€™s awe inspiring, his discipline.

He wakes up earlier, falls asleep later, works harder than anyone Iโ€™ve ever seen. The rigors he puts himself through, the single- minded, indefatigable stubbornness as he stares at the engines, dissecting, retracing, combining, projecting. Heโ€™s tireless, unshakable. Driven in an indomitable, near- obsessive way. This iron- hard tenacity of his is an oddly attractive quality.

Not that he needs more of those.

He has five other seconds: Tanu and Emil, who are staying at the house, and three other male GMs in their thirties, experts on openings and pawn structure, who come and go a few times a week. Nolan trains with all of us

โ€” problems to solve, Koch games to analyze, his own old games to run through software and mine for weaknessesโ€” but his time with the others seems almost like an afterthought. Brief interludes in the sea of his days, which are spent with me.

Itโ€™s because there are things they donโ€™t see. Combinations and tactics that elude them and seem to click only in my and Nolanโ€™s heads. โ€œLetโ€™s just go watchย Doom Patrolย while the grownups work,โ€ Emil said one night, after it became clear that no one could keep up with us.

But thereโ€™s something else, too. I pad barefoot across the hardwood floor first thing in the morning, knowing Iโ€™ll find him in the breakfast nook, ready to tell him about whatever revelation I had during my sleep; his eyes scan every room he enters, quiet only when they settle on me, and

sometimes I have the urge to lean forward to flatten the curls growing on the nape of his neck.

We still donโ€™t play against each other. We study, analyze, dissect, reenact other peopleโ€™s chess, but we never play a match thatโ€™s ours. And yet . . . Something is happening, but I donโ€™t know what. This thing between us is layered, complicated, fractured unlike anything Iโ€™ve experienced before. It lacks the coziness of a friendship, the ease of a hookup, the distance of everything else.

Maybe Nolan should just be some guy: not a rival, not a friend, not more than a friend, just some guy who plays good chess. Some guy whoโ€™s in my head and acts as though I live in his own.

โ€œCan I borrow your car tomorrow?โ€ I ask. Weโ€™re about one hour from Paterson. Iโ€™ve been visiting home once a week or so. Christmas, New Yearโ€™s. Whenever Mom needs meโ€”which, with the new meds weโ€™ve been able to afford, is not a lot. She thinks Iโ€™m making good money and sparing myself the commute by taking night shifts at the senior center, and . . . well. The money part, at least, is true. Nolan pays his seconds well.

โ€œSure. Where are you going?โ€

โ€œHome for the day. Darcyโ€™s birthday.โ€

He reaches for a dinner roll. โ€œCan I come?โ€

โ€œDonโ€™t you have to, like, analyze Capablancaโ€™s first- grade macaroni art?โ€

He shrugs. โ€œItโ€™s my free day.โ€

โ€œAnd you want to spend it at a thirteen- year- oldโ€™s birthday dinner.โ€ โ€œWill there be meat loaf?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m sure Mom can scrounge up some.โ€ I scan his face. His handsome, ever-so-familiar face. โ€œDonโ€™t you want to spend your free day with Tanil?โ€

He looks pained. โ€œNot you, too, with the ship name. Besides, my room is next to theirs. They wonโ€™t miss me at all.โ€

Emil and Tanu are on againโ€”as all non-hearing-impaired individuals on the East Coast no doubt know by now. โ€œTheyย areย loud.โ€

โ€œThat, or they have s*x to whale noises.โ€

I laugh. โ€œStill. You could . . . go skiing? Wear cuff links? Be positively

aghast? Whatever it is that you rich people with vacation homes do.โ€

He gives me a dirty look, but he does come over, and my sisters are as happy to see him as theyโ€™d be Jungkook. I think about the interview I saw of him years ago, how stern and guarded he seemed, and I can barely recognize the open- smiled boy who gives Darcy a PetSmart gift card, lets Sabrina show him two hours of roller derby videos, raises one eyebrow at the Mayochup on our table.

โ€œHowโ€™s Easton?โ€ Mom asks while I clean the kitchen.

โ€œGreat,โ€ I lie. My heart curls into itself a little. Truth is, I have no idea. She spent the holidays in Delaware with her grandparents, and I havenโ€™t seen her or heard her voice in over four months. Based on my Instagram stalking, I suspect sheโ€™s dating someone named Kim-ly. I could ask, but it feels like admitting how apart weโ€™ve fallen, since once upon a better time she used to text me pictures of all her meals.

โ€œHeโ€™s good with them,โ€ she says, looking at Nolan fixing Sabrinaโ€™s broken Polaroid in the living room. โ€œMust be the caregiving experience at the senior center. I bet heโ€™s great at reading romance novels to the elderly, with that voice.โ€

Of course, I chickened out of telling her the truth. Iโ€™m not going to the World Championship, which means that media interest in me has melted like sugar in hot water. Iโ€™m nobody. Nobodies donโ€™t need to hurt people with uncomfortable truths.

โ€œYeah. He really brings turgid manhoods to life.โ€ Mom laughs softly. โ€œYou guys still not together?โ€ โ€œNope.โ€

โ€œYou sure?โ€

I turn to face her. โ€œOf course.โ€ I donโ€™t have committed relationship experience, but I do know that itโ€™s not a continuum. Either youโ€™re in one, or youโ€™re not. And if you are, youย knowย you are. How could oneโ€”

โ€œExcuse us.โ€ Warm hands close around my waist and shift me an inch to make room in the kitchen door. โ€œDarcy is going to teach me how to make a cup cake.โ€

โ€œMugย cake,โ€ Darcy corrects him with a patient sigh. โ€œMom, do we have any sugar?โ€

Momโ€™s eyes dip to Nolanโ€™s hand, still pressed against my lower back, then lift up to meet mine. She tells Darcy, โ€œIn the cupboard next to the fridge,โ€ her smile knowing and very,ย veryย annoying.

Sabrina doesnโ€™t talk to me once, but I manage to corner her in her room just before leaving. โ€œEverything okay?โ€ I ask. As early as weeks ago, the picture above her nightstand was of me giving her a piggyback ride in a pumpkin patch. Now itโ€™s a collage: her derby team, some school friends, even a Polaroid of Mom and Darcy making faces.

Iโ€™ve been deleted.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry I havenโ€™t been around. But Iโ€™m earning really good money with this overnight thing.โ€

โ€œGood for you,โ€ she says distractedly, rummaging in her drawer, looking for a derby T-shirt she promised Nolan sinceย itโ€™s too big on me anyway.

โ€œHow has Mom been?โ€ โ€œFine.โ€

โ€œRight. And Darcy?โ€

โ€œGood. Sheโ€™s actually almost bearable when you arenโ€™t around. You must be a bad influence.โ€

I stifle an eye roll. โ€œAnd you?โ€ โ€œFine.โ€

I sigh. โ€œSabrina, can I have your attention for sixty seconds?โ€

She finally looks up. Annoyed. โ€œMomโ€™s fine. Darcyโ€™s fine. Iโ€™m fine. The entire damn world is fine.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m serious. I rely on you to man the fort and tell me if Iโ€™m needed, so

โ€” โ€

โ€œOh,ย nowย you care?โ€ Her blue eyes shine with tears. For a second, I see genuine hurt in them, and my heart lurches in my chest. But itโ€™s all gone in a blink, and her expression suddenly turns half uncaring, half hard. Maybe I imagined all the rest.

โ€œExcuse me?โ€ I ask.

She walks to me. I still have a couple of inches on her. Will she grow more? God, sheโ€™sย fifteen. โ€œWeโ€™re fine, Mal. We can function without you.โ€

โ€œWell, last time I left, you seemed pretty upset, soโ€” โ€

โ€œWeโ€™re fine. You can put your power trip away. No one needs to โ€˜man the fort.โ€™ Mom, Darcy, and I areย peopleย and can take care of ourselves. Weโ€™re not pets you need to feed and walk.โ€ She steps past me, T-shirt in hand. A surge of irritation courses through meโ€” seriously?ย Seriously?ย Do Iย deserveย this?โ€” and I slap the doorframe. It only gets me a splinter stuck in my palm.

When we leave, they wave at us from the porch. โ€œCome back soon, Nolan,โ€ Darcy yells.

โ€œAnd donโ€™t feel like you need to bring Mallory with you,โ€ Sabrina adds archly.

โ€œWhatโ€™s up with that?โ€ Nolan asks once weโ€™re on the road.

โ€œYou mean, with the way my sister would love to drown me in a barrel of mead?โ€

His mouth twitches. โ€œI did sense some animosity.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m not sure.โ€ I sigh. โ€œIโ€™m doing my best with her. I make sure she has everything she needs and nothing to worry about.โ€

โ€œMaybe thatโ€™s the problem.โ€ โ€œWhat do you mean?โ€

โ€œWhen youโ€™re with your sisters, you act like theyโ€™re your responsibility. Like youโ€™re their parent, almost. It works with Darcy, but Sabrina might find it infantilizing.โ€ He shrugs. โ€œMaybe she just wants you to be her sister.โ€

โ€œWhat doย youย even know about sisters?โ€

โ€œNothing. What doย youย know about defensiveness?โ€

I cannot help laughing, and then we fall quiet for a while. Nolan drives like he plays, steady and focused, and for once I donโ€™t feel antsy for not being at the wheel. I let my eyes wander over the halo of the streetlights, the snow weighing down the pine trees, his firm hand as he shifts gears, like heโ€™s moving a bishop across the board.

Heโ€™s thinking about chess. Heโ€™s thinking about the Koch game we analyzed this morning, the one with the Queenโ€™s Gambit that he lost to Davies three years ago. I know it. Not sureย howย I know whatโ€™s in Nolanโ€™s head, or when it started, but here I am. Knowing.

โ€œKnight e5 was a stupid move,โ€ I say.

He doesnโ€™t skip a beat. โ€œKochโ€™s attacks backfire a lot. Well.โ€ He shrugs. โ€œBackfired. Before he ate spinach and got an upgrade.โ€

โ€œIt might be a good strategy, luring him into becoming aggressive.โ€ โ€œYeah.โ€

I think wistfully about the tactics Iโ€™d use against Nolan if I were the challenger. Heโ€™s such an unpredictable player, always thinking of long- term advantages, of seemingly silent moves to exploit later, unexpectedly. Iโ€™ve heard commentators say that our styles are similar, but I think weโ€™re oceans apart. I like to strangle my opponent, wear them down slowly, drain them of active play and attack possibilities one by one, until itโ€™s just usโ€” me and their king.

But Nolan would know how to deal with me. What to be on the lookout for. To beat him, Iโ€™d have to learn to let go of minute positional advantages and take more overt risks, earlier on. I watch him stretch his neck, strong muscles tensing under his skin, and think that maybe it would work, seducing him into a blunder. Maybe it wouldnโ€™t, but it would keep him on his toes. Heโ€™d give me one of those long, knowing looks. Smile, even. Heโ€™d smile at me, and Iโ€™d get to smile back as I took his king.

It sounds like a dream. A thing imagined.

โ€œDarcy pulled me into your room,โ€ he says, โ€œand conspiratorially whispered that sheโ€™s โ€˜in the know.โ€™ โ€

โ€œUnlike Mom and Sabrina, she googles. Probably hangs out on the dark web. Signs up Goliath for Piggie- Tinder.โ€

โ€œShe asked me to teach her to play chess.โ€ โ€œDarcy?โ€ I perk up. โ€œFor real?โ€

โ€œShe said itโ€™s . . . hot shit girl?โ€

I laugh. โ€œHot girl shit. You should really try to be online a little.โ€ Most of the other top- ten players have Twitch and You-Tube channels. Nolan:

Twitter and Instagramโ€” both withย NOT DIRECTLY MANAGED BY NOLAN SAWYERย written in all caps in the bio. I bet his social media guy got sick of people DMing him nudes. โ€œWhy are you not online, anyway?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m online way too much.โ€ โ€œWhat do you mean?โ€

โ€œThere are pictures of seven- year- old me mining his nose for boogers while playing Nakamura. Throwing a tantrum like a whiny brat after a loss at fourteen.โ€

โ€œOh.โ€

โ€œWe all have embarrassing phases growing up, but mine were immortalized. Whoeverโ€™sย onlineย looking for me already has plenty to find.โ€

I remember Emilโ€™s words:ย Itโ€™s not easy, growing up as a prodigy in front of the cameras. โ€œDo you mind it? Your . . . troublemaker reputation.โ€

โ€œYou mean, total piece of shit?โ€ He laughs softly. โ€œItโ€™s deserved. I was one. I can only try to be different in the future.โ€

Heโ€™s succeeding, too. I try to recall recent incidents and come up empty. โ€œYou still get mad at the people who beat you.โ€

โ€œIs that what you think?โ€ He shakes his head. โ€œI get furious atย myself. For making mistakes. For not being the best I can be. And every timeย youย blunder, you feel the same.โ€

โ€œNot true. Iโ€” โ€

He gives me a side look, and I fall quiet. Whatever.

โ€œI showed Darcy how the pieces move,โ€ he says quietly. โ€œHow?โ€

โ€œShe had a set under her bed. Pink and purple.โ€

I close my eyes. A knot tightens in my belly. โ€œI thought Iโ€™d gotten rid of that.โ€

โ€œYou should teach her yourself.โ€ โ€œWhat does she need to learn for?โ€ โ€œShe wants to. She idolizes you.โ€

I snort. โ€œShe calls me Mallopee and constantly makes me โ€˜Lamest Greenleafโ€™ graphics in Photoshopโ€” whichย Iย illegally downloaded for her, by the way. Ingrate.โ€

โ€œShe wants to be like you.โ€ โ€œIโ€™ll never teach her.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€

I turn away. The road is deserted, and the pines are becoming thicker. โ€œChess is a bad idea.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€

โ€œLook where it got me.โ€ โ€œIt got you here. Toย me.โ€

Blood rushes to my cheeks, but his tone is matter-of-fact, not suggestive.

He doesnโ€™t mean it like that. He means . . . I donโ€™t even know.

โ€œIt was you who saw him, wasnโ€™t it?โ€ Nolan asks. I look back at him, puzzled.

โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œYour father. Something happened between him and that womanโ€” that arbiter at the Olympics. You found out. Your mom kicked him out. Iโ€™m assuming you were estranged for a few years. And later his accident happened.โ€

I straighten. The seat belt tightens into my sweater. โ€œHowโ€” how do you know? When did youโ€” ?โ€

โ€œI didnโ€™t. But I remembered some rumors going around the tournament circuit at the time. About Archie Greenleaf. The rest . . . I just guessed.โ€

โ€œYouย guessed? How?โ€

โ€œLittle things. Your reaction at the Olympics. You obviously love chess but talk yourself into thinking that itโ€™s a loathsome thing. You feel responsible for your family, not just your sisters but your mother, too.โ€ His tone is even, idle, like heโ€™s reading a boring textbook to the rest of the class. โ€œYou constantly act like youโ€™re guilty of something awful. Like you deserve nothing but scraps for yourself.โ€

Me. The boring textbookโ€” itโ€™sย me.

โ€œBecause Iย amย guilty,โ€ I blurt out. Surprising myself. Itโ€™s not something Iโ€™ve verbalized out loud to anyone before. But if I hadnโ€™t told Mom about Heather Turcotte, if Dad hadnโ€™t left home, if he hadnโ€™t had a reason to be driving drunk at 3:00 a.m. If. If.

If.

โ€œDid you know,โ€ he says conversationally, โ€œthat I was the reason my grandfather was institutionalized?โ€

โ€œWhat does this . . . No. I didnโ€™t.โ€

โ€œHeโ€™d been acting weird for a while. Heโ€™d say and do really inappropriate stuff, sometimes in public. My parents had gotten wind of it, but I think they just chalked it up to my grandfather being old. And I was staying with him a lot at the time, so I covered for him when I could. I honestly thought he just needed to sleep more or some shit like that. But then . . . it was his birthday. I went to his apartment, the one youโ€™ve been to. I walked upstairsโ€” same doorman as now, he doesnโ€™t give a shitโ€” and let myself in. I had a present for him, a chess set Iโ€™d made. Nine months of woodworking.โ€

He signals right and takes the exit. We must be home. Nearly. โ€œWeโ€™d met the day before. We met every single day, but this time he didnโ€™t recognize me. Or he did, but thought I had bad intentions. Iโ€™ll never know, I figure. He wasnโ€™t a violent man, but he had a knife. I saw him take it out of the block and thought he wanted to . . . chop celery? I canโ€™t fucking remember. But instead he stared into my eyes, ran at me, and the cut was deep. I needed stitches, which meant going to the hospital, which meant filing a report, and that was it. My father had the ammo he needed to lock him up. Said it was for the best, and maybe it was, but thatโ€™s not why he was doing it. Heโ€™d always hated his father for caring more about chess than he ever did about him.โ€

His voice is clinical. Like heโ€™s turned this story in his mind so much, told it to himself so often, itโ€™s a memorized thing by now. He thinks about it every day. Every hour. I know this, because Iโ€™m in his head. โ€œIโ€™m the one who gave my father that power. And my grandfather died in that institution, medicated to his eyeballs. Itโ€™s the last thing he wanted, and itโ€™s something I have to live with every second of every day. So when you talk about guiltโ€” โ€

โ€œWhatโ€” no. No.โ€ I twist toward him. The seat belt digs into my breast. โ€œItโ€™sย notย your fault. You did what you could, considering that you wereโ€”

How old were you?โ€

โ€œI was fourteen. How old were you, when you saw your father?โ€

I close my eyes. Because itโ€™s not the same. At all. But he makes it sound like itย mightย be, and I doย notย deserve to be let off the hook andโ€”

Suddenly I am furious. Explosively, incandescently furious.

Heโ€” he manipulated me. He pretended to self- disclose, and instead turned me into . . . whatever the hell this is. He sacrificed his queen to checkmate me, and howย dareย he? How dare he come into my home and analyze my family as though we were aย Morphyย game?

โ€œFuck you, Nolan.โ€

His expression is indecipherable and unsurprised. โ€œDid I say something untrue?โ€

โ€œFuck you. What do you even know about families?โ€ โ€œIs that the problem? That what I said is true?โ€

โ€œStop trying toโ€” toย trapย me. Toย checkmateย me. You might want to play chess against me more than anything, but it doesnโ€™t give you the right toโ€” โ€

โ€œNot more than anything,โ€ he murmurs with a lingering glance. I ignore him, enraged.

โ€œIs that whatโ€™s happening? You want to win against me so bad that youโ€™ll score points however you can? Tic- tac- toe? Taking cheap shots at my family?โ€

โ€œItโ€™s notโ€” โ€

โ€œNobody got stabbed in my family. I could have kept my mouth shut, and things would have been fine. It could have beenย myย secret to keep,ย myย burden, and no one would have known or suffered for it. Mom would have had health insurance, and my sisters would have had the family they deserved, and Dad would be aliveโ€” โ€ I stop. Take a deep, shuddering breath. โ€œYou donโ€™tย knowย me, or my sisters, or my mom, and you most certainly did not know my dad. So donโ€™t try to pretend you and I are similar in any way, or like whatย Iย did is comparable to what happened to you.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re not being fair to either of us,โ€ he says calmly. Maybe heโ€™s right, but Iโ€™m past caring.

โ€œYou know what?โ€ The seat belt cuts into my throat. Iโ€™m overflowing with anger now, anger at . . . at Nolan. Letโ€™s say Nolan. โ€œScrew this shit. Weโ€™re going to play. Tonight. Weโ€™re going to play this stupid chess game, and youโ€™ll quit the armchair psychology.โ€

โ€œIโ€” โ€ He stops, registering what I said. His throat works. โ€œYouโ€™re not serious.โ€

โ€œIf youโ€™re not interestedโ€” โ€

โ€œI am.โ€ He sounds eager. Young. โ€œI am.โ€ Then heโ€™s silent, as though heโ€™s afraid to spook me, that Iโ€™ll change my mind. He barely looks at me until after the car is parked, the passenger door slammed closed, our coats tossed in a corner of the living room. We usually work across from each other, but he sets the board on the coffee table, and we sit side by side on the couch. Because this isย notย an analysis of someone elseโ€™s game, and it needs to be clear.

Itโ€™s midnight. The heat has been off for hours, but I donโ€™t feel cold. โ€œOkay?โ€ he asks, serious, making sure this game is consensual.

You know whatย wasnโ€™tย consensual? The stuff you said about my dad.

โ€œYou can be White,โ€ I say, cutting, expectingโ€”ย wantingย him to be offended.

โ€œThank you,โ€ he replies with no trace of irony. โ€œIโ€™m going to need that.โ€

It makes me hate him even more, and so does his stupid openingโ€” pawn to e4. I answer with the Sicilian. I roll my eyes and put my knight in c6, just to derail him, some niche line I vaguely remember studying with Defneโ€” Rossolimo Variation.

Lots of pressure, very fast, and he doesnโ€™t care, doesnโ€™t hesitate, doesnโ€™t even blink in the dim lights. His forehead is smooth. Hands steady. His knee brushes against mine, not every move, but sometimes. He doesnโ€™t seem to notice, and I hate him. I feel clumsy, a lumbering, unwieldy, broken beast next to him. I feel raw, see- through, broken open, like he can reach inside my skull and pluck sharp, painful shards of my past and make me bleed with them.

Then I lose a pawn, and I feel stupid, too. โ€œFuck,โ€ I mutter.

โ€œItโ€™s just a pawn,โ€ he murmurs without looking up.

โ€œShut up.โ€ I advance my knight with shaky fingers, and then itโ€™s not just a pawn. I left my bishop uncovered, screwed up my castling opportunities. I watch Nolan unhurriedly take my piece and immediately attack him from the side with my rookโ€” Iโ€™m going to make himย hurt. Except, I knock over two pieces and completely overlook the way his queen inches toward my king and fuck, fuck,ย fuckโ€”

โ€œMallory.โ€ His hand covers mine, trapping it on my knee. I look up to his handsome, hateful face. โ€œIโ€™m sorry about what I said. I was out of line.โ€

I donโ€™t want to hear it. โ€œLetโ€™s finish.โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t know how things went with your fatherโ€” โ€ โ€œLetโ€™s. Finish.โ€

He shakes his head.

I laugh, bitter. โ€œYouโ€™ve supposedly been pining for this game for months

โ€” โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s not what Iโ€™ve been pining for, and you can stop lying to yourself about it. I donโ€™t want to play with you like this.โ€

โ€œSo now you need perfect conditions to play? Should I rearrange the furniture? Sage the room? Let me know what yourย esteemed requirementsย are, what you want, andโ€” โ€

โ€œYou know what I fucking want, Mallory?โ€ He leans forward, suddenly furious. โ€œI want you to not be here.โ€

I gasp in outrage. โ€œScrew you!ย Youย asked me to be your secondโ€” โ€

โ€œI want you to be elsewhere. Training with yourย ownย seconds in preparation forย me. So we can play a real match in Italy. The real thing.โ€ His eyes blaze. His hand is still flat on mine. Pressing. Warm. โ€œYour presence in this house might be what gets me up in the morning, but we can stop pretending this situation is anything like what either of us wants or needs.โ€

I close my eyes. He is right. This . . . Itโ€™s wrong. All wrong.

โ€œIt was our only chance,โ€ I whisper. โ€œAnd I fucked it up.โ€ Just like I fuck up everything. Friendships. Families.

โ€œThere will be other tournaments.โ€ Nolan takes a deep, calming breath. โ€œIn two years thereโ€™ll be another World Championshipโ€” โ€

โ€œIโ€™m not going to be doing this past the summer.โ€

He swallows. โ€œOkay. Well . . . It is what it is.โ€ He glances away. Then turns back to me, his expression softer. โ€œIย amย sorry. Youโ€™re rightโ€” I donโ€™t know anything about families. Please, accept my apology so you can stop playing the worst game of your life. Letโ€™s just . . . letโ€™s go to sleep. Weโ€™re tired.โ€

I look down at the board. Blackโ€™s position is an amateurish, reckless mess. โ€œGod, whatโ€™s wrong with me?โ€

โ€œTransient global amnesia, one can only imagine.โ€

I let out a laugh, and my anger melts like snow in the sun. He laughs, too, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. Weโ€™re that close.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry. For this game.โ€

There are little specks of gold in his eyes. He has freckles, light and scattered, just a handful, and they look . . . pretty. Yummy. โ€œYouย shouldย be sorry.โ€

I chuckle. Clear my throat. โ€œYou might want to move away. Since there are other people in this house.โ€

He seems confused. โ€œAnd?โ€

โ€œThey could come in. Think weโ€™ve been making out or something.โ€

He smiles. โ€œTheyโ€™re more likely to think weโ€™ve been murdering each other over an en passantโ€” โ€

My brain short- circuits. Maybe itโ€™s the late hour, or how I just dropped my knight less than ten moves into a mortifying game. Maybe itโ€™s Nolanโ€™s clean, familiar smell. All I know is that one moment Iโ€™m looking at him, and the next Iโ€™m notโ€” because Iโ€™ve leaned forward and pressed my mouth against his in a . . .

A kiss.

Thereโ€™s no way around it. Thatโ€™s what itโ€™s called, this clumsy, juvenile peck. Iโ€™m kissing Nolan Sawyer, andโ€”

I jerk back, appalled. โ€œIโ€™m sorry. Iโ€™m so sorry, Iโ€” โ€ I shoot to my feet. My knee knocks over the board, scattering the pieces. I lift my fingers to my mouth, andโ€” it feels weird.

Different. Changed. โ€œMallory.โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t know why I did that. Iโ€™m justโ€” Iโ€™m so so sorry.โ€ Nolan stares like Iโ€™m the center of gravity of the room, like nothing else ever existed but me in all of space and time. It makes my heart beat in my throat, it makes me want to kiss him again, it makes me want to run the hell away. โ€œSorry, I

โ€” โ€

โ€œTouch- take rule,โ€ he murmurs. He stands, too. Every step back I take is one forward for him.

โ€œIโ€” What?โ€

โ€œYou touched me. Canโ€™t stop now. Touch- take rule.โ€

โ€œI . . . This is not chess.โ€ My back hits an obstacle. โ€œI can always stop.โ€ โ€œThen just donโ€™t.โ€ His hands come up to cup my face. He towers over

me, cages me against the wall, and I . . . I donโ€™t mind. Which scares me. โ€œPlease, Mallory.โ€

โ€œThis is . . . We should finish the game. You said you wanted to play.โ€ โ€œI said there were things I wanted more.โ€

I squeeze my eyes shut, but Nolan is soย hereโ€” I can smell him, feel him in every pore of my being. โ€œWerenโ€™t you the one who chose Kasparov over getting laid?โ€ I say, petulant, whiny. When I open my eyes, his smile is faint.

โ€œAnd you think itโ€™s because I want to play you less than I did Kasparov?โ€

โ€œOf course. Why elseโ€” Oh.โ€ I close my eyes again. โ€œOh.โ€ โ€œCan I kiss you?โ€

โ€œBut our gameโ€” โ€

โ€œI resign. You win. Can I kiss you?โ€ โ€œNo! I mean . . . why?โ€

โ€œBecause I want to.โ€ Heโ€™s being patient. Why amย Iย being a total wreck whileย heย is being patient? โ€œYou donโ€™t?โ€

โ€œI . . .โ€

I do? Itโ€™s not a big deal. Nolanโ€™s easily the most attractive guy Iโ€™ve ever met, and Iโ€™m not one of thoseย kissing is too intimate, letโ€™s do it from behindย Tinder weirdos. Iโ€™ve done a lot of things, and regret none of it. So whatโ€™s stopping me?

Maybe itโ€™s that I want it too much, I think. And then I hear myself say it aloud as my toes push up, and Iโ€™m doing that odd thing againโ€” that light peck on his lips that makes me feel like Iโ€™m thirteen and sneaking behind the gym. But this time I donโ€™t have to slap myself for being a total weirdo, because Nolan kisses me back.

Heโ€™s not good at it. Not immediately. Not bad, but there is an airy moment of hesitance, of suspended disconnect, when I think the kiss just wonโ€™t work out. Not meant to be. Two ships passing in the night, going their separate ways, a narrow miss.

But then he does something. Tilts his head, maybe. Adjusts his grip. Presses more firmly against me, and it all changes. His ship crashes into mine and my back is flat against the wall, andย oh, he wants it. He wants it very, very much. He wants it as much as I do. I can tell from his leg sliding between mine and pinning me to the wall, from the way his hand shifts to my hip, assertive like on a chessboard. From the guttural sound in the back of his throat.

Heย isย good at it. Warm and forceful andย thorough, and he tastes good andโ€”

A door opens somewhere in the house. Laughter. Footsteps. The hallway light turns on. I push on Nolanโ€™s shoulders, and we break apart just in time.

โ€œOh, you guys are back.โ€ Emil. Standing in the entrance, quickly tying his robe closed. โ€œWhat are you doing?โ€

I glance at Nolan, thinking that Emilโ€™sย hisย friend. The burden of coming up with a plausible excuse should fall on him. Problem is, Nolan is staring at me, pupils wide, lips full and . . . kissed?

โ€œUm, we were just . . .โ€ I clear my throat. Smile tentatively at Emil. โ€œTalking about that Koch game thatโ€” โ€

โ€œSay no more, Greenleaf.โ€ He shuffles to the fridge. โ€œI cannot get sidetracked or Tanu will murder me. She sent me to forage.โ€ He piles leftover pizza and three cupcakes in his arms, then disappears with a swish of his robe and a careless โ€œGoodnight.โ€

Iโ€™m alone with Nolan again. Nolan, who hasnโ€™t stopped staring.

โ€œItโ€™s getting late,โ€ I say, not meeting his eyes. I feel flustered. Because of a kiss. Iย amย regressing to thirteen. โ€œIโ€™m tired. I . . .โ€

He nods and does something weird: holds his hand out to me. Calmly. Quietly. As though he expects me to take it. And itโ€™s exactly what I do: I slide my fingers in to his, and when he leads me down the hallway, stopping to turn off the light, I follow him meekly. We walk past Tanuโ€™s door without reacting to the muffled laughter from inside, past Emilโ€™s empty one, past all the others, tooโ€” including mine, until weโ€™re in his room, which smells like clean skin and mind- bendingly good chess and his couch back in the city.

He nonchalantly takes off his jeans, all long, muscled limbs.

โ€œWhat are you doing?โ€ I blurt out. He doesnโ€™t look at me, just smells his shirt, deciding that it belongs in a laundry hamper.

โ€œGetting ready for bed.โ€

โ€œI . . .โ€ What is happening?ย Why did I follow you? What. Is. Happening?

โ€œWhy arenโ€™t you nervous?โ€ โ€œAbout what?โ€

โ€œAboutโ€โ€” I gesture inchoately between usโ€” โ€œall of this.โ€

He glances at me. โ€œI donโ€™t know. It feels right. Besides, I donโ€™t get nervous much.โ€

Darcy once told me about a study they did, monitoring the heart rate of top chess players during important games. Nolanโ€™s was always the slowest. The steadiest. Is that why heโ€™s standing in front of me in boxer briefs and a Coimbra Chess 2019 T-shirt and Iโ€™m shaking like a leaf?

โ€œDo you not want this?โ€ he asks.

โ€œNo. I mean, yes. I mean, I donโ€™tย notย want this. But . . . we just kissed out of the blue, and you seem so okay with it, and . . .โ€

He shrugs. โ€œItโ€™s not out of the blue for me.โ€

โ€œIt isnโ€™t?โ€

โ€œI came to terms with this months ago, Mallory. The first time we played, maybe.โ€

I swallow. โ€œI donโ€™t understand.โ€

He comes closer. In two steps heโ€™s in front of me, and for some indecipherable reason Iโ€™m shaking. A small-scale earthquakeโ€™s happening inside me, twenty kings are being tipped over, and Nolan just cups my face again.

โ€œIโ€™ve got you, Mallory. Nothing bad is going to happen. You can let yourself want this, because you already have it. You have me.โ€

Oh God. Oh God, God,ย God. Iโ€™m shaking harder. โ€œI . . . Are we . . . Are we going to fuck?โ€

Iโ€™m purposely trying to rattle him. And itโ€™s not working. โ€œNo. Weโ€™re going to sleep.โ€

We lie down, and somehow itโ€™s a smooth thing. Iโ€™m wearing leggings and a soft shirt and no jewelry, and thatโ€™s why Iโ€™m so comfortable. Not because my head is pillowed on his chest and his legs are tangled with mine, and I feel his slow, steady heart like a warm clock under my ear.

โ€œI havenโ€™t even washed my face,โ€ I tell him. Iโ€™m still trembling, albeit more quietly. Iโ€™m a mess.

โ€œThatโ€™s okay. Antonov won Coimbra 2019.โ€

I laugh shakily. โ€œI . . . donโ€™t think I can sleep.โ€

โ€œWant a bedtime story?โ€ His hand combs gently through the hair at my nape. โ€œItโ€™s called โ€˜Polgar Versus Anand, 1999.โ€™ It starts with e4. c5.โ€

I groan. But Iโ€™m smiling when I ask, โ€œAnd then?โ€ โ€œKnight f3. d6. d3.โ€

โ€œMmm.โ€

โ€œYup.โ€ โ€œAnd then?โ€

โ€œKnight xd4. Knight f6. Knight c3 . . .โ€

I fall asleep mid- gameโ€” for the second time in my life held by someone, for the second time in my life held by Nolan Sawyer.

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