“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.”