‌Oz doesn’t talk to me for two weeks— then he does, and I want to kill him. It’s a Thursday morning. I’m at my desk, staring at the Zen garden,‌

replaying a Fischer– Spassky 1972 game in my head, when he says, “So you’re coming to the Philly Open.”

I startle. Then hiss: “What?”

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

“I’ll drive,” Oz says. “We leave at six.”

Why is he talking? I am so irritated. “Drive where?” “To Philly. What’s wrong with you?”

I ignore him, go back to focusing on my replay until my afternoon session with Defne. I’ve started looking forward to my meetings with her— partly because she’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 that’s why GMs have coaches and trainers and whatnot.

“Can we go over a play?” I start the second I step into the library, sliding my notebook in her direction. “I’ve been stuck on— ”

“Let’s first talk about Philly Open.” I stop. “Philly what?”

“Philly Open. The tournament. Your first tournament— this weekend.” I blink. “I . . .”

She cocks her head. “You?”

Oh. Oh? “I doubt . . . There’s no way . . .” I swallow. “Do you think I’m ready?”

She smiles cheerfully. “Honestly, not at all.”

Lovely.

“But, it’s too good an opportunity. Philly’s close by, and this is a very reputable open tournament.” I only have a vague idea of what that means, which must be why Defne continues. “It attracts elite players, the top ten in the world, but also allows unrated players like you in the rated section. And it’s a knockout tournament— the loser of each match is eliminated, the winner moves forward. So you won’t be stuck with mediocre players just because you’re currently unrated. Provided that you keep winning.” She shrugs. The single feathered earring she’s wearing tinkles happily. “I’ll come with. Worse comes to worst, you just make a fool of yourself.”

Super-duper lovely.

And that’s how I find myself in the passenger seat of Oz’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. “Touch- move and touch- take, of course— if you touch a piece during your turn, you’ll have to move it. You must record all your moves on the score sheet, in algebraic notations. No talking to your opponent unless it’s your turn and you’re offering a draw. When castling, use only one hand and touch the king first. If there’s a conflict or a disagreement, call one of the tournament directors to solve it for you, don’t ever fight with— ”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oz barks. I follow his eyes to the foil- wrapped PB&J I just took out of my bag.

“Um— want a piece?”

“Eat that— or anything else— in my car, and I will chop your hands off and boil them in my urine.”

“I’m hungry.” “Then starve.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Honestly, I think I’m growing on him. “But this is my emotional support sandwich.”

“Then have a mental breakdown.” 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 there’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. It’s vaguely surreal.

“Was there a homicide or something?” I ask.

Oz gives me his usual you’re too dim to live glance. “They’re covering the tournament.”

“Are they under the misconception that this is the NBA?”

“Mallory, at least pretend to have some respect for the sport that is your livelihood.”

He’s not wrong. “The tournament won’t start for another hour, though.” “They’re probably just hoping to get a glimpse of— ”

Someone enters the lobby and Oz turns that way— together with everyone else. There’s some commotion as the journalists spring into action. I can’t see much: a tall head of dark hair, then another tall head of dark hair, both peeking through the cameras and the boom mics and heading straight for the elevator. I can’t quite make out what the press is asking, only vague words that make little sense together— in shape, prize, Baudelaire, win, breakup, candidates, World Championship. By the time I’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 that’s been having odd, invasive dreams of dark eyes and large hands wrapped around

my queen, is almost certain that—

“Your registration’s all set, guys.” Defne appears to hand us lanyards with name tags. “Let’s go to the hotel, leave our stuff, then come back for the opening ceremony.”

I nod, hoping to sneak in a micronap, when an older man with a mic takes a few steps toward us. “GM Oz Nothomb?” he asks. “I’m Joe Alinsky, from ChessWorld.com. Do you have time for a short interview?”

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

“Twenty?”

“Twenty in the world.” “Twenty in the world of . . . ?” “Chess.”

“Ah, right.”

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 Mom’s moratorium on rated play. But Defne never makes me feel like I’m a total idiot, even when I ask totally idiotic questions. “The top twenty in the world is important. They’re the ones who manage to make the shift from competitive chess to pros.”

“Are those not the same?”

“Oh, no. Anyone can be a competitive player, but pros make a living from chess. They support themselves through cash prizes, sponsorships, endorsements from companies.”

I picture a Mountain Dew Super Bowl ad featuring a chess player. Mtn Dew: The Drink of Grandmasters. “Is Oz also a fellow?”

“The opposite. He pays some of the GMs at Zugzwang to train him.”

“Oh.” I mull it. “Does he have a side job?” Maybe he does Instacart deliveries from 2:00 to 5:00 a.m.? It would explain the perennial bad mood.

“Nope, but he does have a dad who’s an exec at Goldman Sachs.”

“Ah.” I notice that the ChessWorld.com journalist is taking a picture of Oz and quickly step out of frame.

It’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 I’d spend the day in Coney Island with friends, then stay at Gianna’s place for the night. So I am lying to them about what I’m doing, but there’s no way they’ll find out where I really went from the background of Oz’s picture on ChessWorld.com.

I’m being paranoid. Because I’m tired and hungry. Because Oz didn’t let me eat my PB&J. Monster.

“Hey,” Joe Alinsky says, suddenly ignoring Oz, eyes narrow on me, “aren’t you the girl who— ”

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

“Was he talking to me?”

“I feel like Starbucks,” she says, walking away. “Do you want Starbucks? It’s on me.”

I want to ask Defne what’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 MAN who could be my

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

I’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 it’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 don’t remember the last time I was this nervous, but it’s okay, because I still win in twelve moves. The man sighs, shakes my hand, and I’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: i blame you for this

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: Where are you?

MALLORY: some tournament in philly.

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

MALLORY: maybe. how’s higher ed treating you?

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: I’ve been sleeping three hours per night and joined an improv group. Put me out of my misery.

MALLORY: LMAO tell me about the improv

The little dots of Easton’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. She’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.

“Fantastic!” Defne tells me while we share a Costco bag of Twizzlers on the campus quad. She’s surreptitiously smoking a cigarette, which she lit saying, FYI, I am not modeling good behavior. “But it is an elimination tournament. The more you win, the better your opponents, the harder it’ll get.” She notices my frown and bumps her shoulder against mine. “This is chess, Mallory. Painstakingly engineered to make us miserable.”

She’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 school’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 I’m at the zoo, staring at the sloth’s cage and waiting for it to move. The game drags until the end of the round, when we’re both out of time.

“It’s a draw,” the tournament director says dispassionately, surveying our board. “Black advances.”

That’s me. I’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. No— I’m furious. With myself.

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

“You won, Mallory.”

“It was a disaster. It qualifies for federal relief— I didn’t deserve to win.”

“Lucky for you, in chess deserving and undeserving wins count the same.”

“You don’t understand. I messed up so many— ”

Defne puts a hand on my shoulder. I quiet. “This. This feeling you have right now? Remember it. Bottle it. Feed it.”

“What?”

“This is why chess players study, Mallory. Why we’re so obsessed with replaying games and memorizing openings.”

“Because we hate to draw?”

“Because we hate feeling like we did anything less than our absolute best.”

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.

It’s like that time I accidentally sexted 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 teachers’ 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 sexted my mother. I am allowed.)

My neurons cling to every splinter of embarrassment, won’t let go of the mistakes I made during my matches. I won, fine, but in my second game I left my knight open like that. Gross. Disgusting. Appal—

Someone knocks.

“Defne asked me to take you to the social and introduce you around,” Oz says when I open the door. He’s staring at his phone.

“The social?”

“There’s a reception downstairs, for players who moved to day two. Defne can’t go, since it’s only for players. There’s free food and booze.” He glances up, assessing. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

He mutters something about babysitting toddlers and not being Mary Fucking Poppins. “They probably have Sierra Mist somewhere in a cooler. Come.”

I’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 of 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. “Congrats on breaking the top twenty.” He glances at me— first distracted, then appraising, then lingering. An unpleasant shiver travels up my spine. “I didn’t know we could bring a plus-one.”

Oh, yeah—the people in this room? They’re 98 percent male.

“Is this your sister?” He must be around my age, and theoretically he should be handsome in a classic, wholesome way, but there’s something waxy about him, something unsettling in his blue gaze that lifts my hairs.

“Why the hell would she be my sister?” Oz asks.

“I dunno, man.” He shrugs. “She’s blond. You’re blond. And she’s way too hot to be your girlfriend.”

I stiffen. Surely I misheard.

“Mallory is a chess player, man.” Oz’s tone drips disdain. Whatever antipathy he may harbor toward me, the Office Intruder, it’s nothing compared with what he feels for this guy.

He doesn’t hate me, after all. I might even be his best friend. How heartwarming.

“If you say so.” His English is perfect, if slightly accented. Vaguely Northern European. “Well, honey, this party is for people who won all their matches, so . . . wait.” He leans back, making a show of studying me. “Are you the girl who trashed Sawyer at the charity tournament?”

“I— ”

“Yes, you are. Guys, this is the chick who humiliated Sawyer!”

I’m not sure what’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.

“What did you do before the game?” a tall man in his thirties asks. His accent is so thick, I can barely make out the words. “I need that kind of

luck.”

“Was Sawyer having a really bad day?”

“Were you wearing something low- cut? Is that the trick?” “Does he know she’s here?”

“Well, she’s still alive. So, clearly no.”

Everyone laughs, and I am . . . paralyzed. Mortified. They’re staring like I’m a barely sentient slab of meat, and I feel like a daft child, on display, out of place in my flowy lace sundress. I’m no withering flower, and over my years with Bob I’ve had my fair share of sparring with older, sexist men, but these people are just so— so blatantly, openly rude, I’m not even sure how I should be responding to—

“Excuse us”— Oz grabs my elbow and tugs me away— “we’re going to go find some food and maybe people who aren’t total assholes.”

“Oh, come on, Nothomb!” “Learn to take a joke.”

“Let her stay— bet she wants to get to know us!”

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 d’oeuvres. I think I’m shell- shocked. “Who were they?”

“Malte Koch and his minions.”

I shake my head. Rack my brain. His name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite point—

“He’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 you’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 Koch’s anus.” He rolls his eyes and reaches blindly for a bacon- stuffed mushroom. Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, an emotional eater. “I had no intention of introducing you. No one 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.” He chews on his mushroom for a moment and then mumbles a stilted “Sorry about that.”

I wonder if it’s the first apology of his life. It sure sounds like it. “It’s not your fault. But that was . . . I think I hate them?”

“Yeah, I’ll get you the club’s laminated badge.” He studies me. “Are you going to cry?”

“No.”

“Are you going to pass eye water?”

“No. I’m fine. I just . . .” I lean against the wall behind me. “Are they like that with all women?”

Oz snorts. “Look around. How many women do you see?” I don’t need to look around. Instead I reach out for a piece of Brie melted on a crust of bread. “Most women in chess decide to skip these events and compete in women- only tournaments. I bet you’re wondering why.”

“Total mystery.” I put my cheese on a napkin. I have no appetite. “What did it mean, that thing about me being alive?”

He sighs. “Koch and his gang love 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 Sawyer’s lifelong rival.”

“But he isn’t?”

“He cannot compete. No one can compete with Sawyer, really. He’s been dominating for nearly a decade. I mean”— he pops half a deviled egg in his mouth— “Koch’s an excellent player, if inconsistent. He has moments of brilliance. He’s forced Sawyer into draws, and once even came close to beating him. But ultimately they’re not comparable.”

Must be miserable, losing game after game. “Koch’s not aware?”

“I’m sure he’s plenty aware, but you’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 unbeatable— as though he isn’t the reason chess got so big among younger people in the last few years. They make it sound like Sawyer’s Thanos and Koch’s Tony Stark.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously, they’re both Thanos.”

Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, a Marvel guy. “Are we . . . in middle school again?”

Oz shrugs. “Close enough. Koch is just a child, salty because he always ends up dead in FMK. Meanwhile Sawyer gets all the attention, makes serious bank, ends up on Time’s Most Influential, and sleeps with Baudelaires or whatnot— ”

“Baudelaires?”

“Yeah. It’s this experimental rock band— ”

“I know who the Baudelaire sisters are.” Sabrina is obsessed. I like their music, too. “Sawyer sleeps with them?”

“Yes. And Koch wants that for himself. As if.”

My head is exploding. “Did he— Which Baudelaire did Sawyer . . . ?” “I don’t know, Mallory. I do not watch reality television.”

“Right.” I look away, chastised. I’m going to have to google this. I’m dying to whip out my phone right now. “Well, the top ten sounds pretty crowded with assholes.”

“Mostly just Koch and Cormenzana. And Sawyer, but he’s a better brand. I’m not gonna make a friendship bracelet for him, but I’ll take a sphincter- clenchingly scary asshole like Sawyer over a slug-slurping- moisture-after-a-rainstorm slimy asshole like Koch any day.”

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.

“Anyway,” Oz concludes, “everyone else in the top ten is less punchable.”

I smile faintly. “Is ‘less punchable’ Oz-speak for ‘nice’?” He arches one eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

“Well, you’re not the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”

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

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, sexually 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 Koch’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, I’m instantly enveloped by heat, chlorine, and silence.

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

— float for hours, occasionally move about like a drowning puppy. And here’s this amazing, deserted pool.

Problem: I don’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 that’s basically a bikini. And a strong yearning for a swim.

So I don’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. I should aim for breadth of knowledge, since I’m unlikely to achieve much depth in one year. I should play more offbeat lines.

By the time I lift myself out, I’m in better spirits. I screwed up today, but I’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. It’s either mine or Easton’s.

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

—

I stop dead in my tracks.

I’m not alone anymore. Someone is standing right in front of me. Someone barefooted, who’s wearing swim trunks. I look up, and up, and up, and up even more, and—

My stomach drops. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me, a faint scowl between his eyes. I’m dumbfounded by the fact that he’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.

“I— Hi,” I stammer. Because he’s standing right there, and I don’t know what else to say.

But he doesn’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. I’m concerned that my legs won’t hold me.

Then I remember what Koch’s friends said: Does he know she’s here? Well, she’s still alive, so clearly no. 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.

Didn’t he once break another player’s nasal septum? I remember hearing some stories. Something had happened after 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 other—

“Coooooming throuuuuuuuugh!!!!”

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 “Shit, Emil,” and it’s the escape chance I was waiting for. I scamper away, feet slapping against the wet floor. I’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 don’t stop running until I’m in my room, dripping on my bed.

It’s the second time I’ve met Sawyer. And the second time I’ve retreated like a pinned knight.