This is a very dangerous player, I tell myself.
On top of being the worst sack of shit you’ve ever met, a voice inside me adds. I let out a silent huff of a laugh, and play even more aggressively.
Our game lasts long past the other. Seventy minutes in, and we’re still battling. I have his queen, but he got my rook and my knight, and a dense, concrete-like dread starts churning at the bottom of my stomach. I break a sweat. The back of my neck is hot, hair sticky against my skin.
“What are you doing here? Came to see how it’s done?” Koch’s tone is low enough that the mics won’t pick it up. He’s not talking to me.
“She’ll have you in less than five moves,” a deep, assured voice says from behind me. I recognize it but don’t turn around, not even when I hear footsteps fading away.
Sawyer’s in the midst of some delusion. I’m nowhere near winning. There’s next to nothing I can do with this position. Then again, Koch’s pretty much at the same . . .
Oh.
Oh.
It suddenly makes sense. In less than five moves. Yes. Yes, I only have to—
I move my pawn. A silent, safe move, but Koch’s eyes narrow. He has no idea what I’m doing, and I’ve trained him to expect backdoor attacks. He studies the board like it’s a WW2 cypher, and I sit back and relax. I take my pen, annotate my move, attempt a portrait of Goliath on the scorecard to kill time. That stupid beast has truly infiltrated my heart—
Koch moves his knight. I immediately respond with my bishop, confusing him even more. Repeat that, with minimal variations, again, and again, until . . .
“Time’s up,” the director says. Koch looks up, wide eyed, thin lipped. My intentions dawn on him. “It’s a draw. Black moves forward.”
Koch’s jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. He’s staring at me like I just stole his lunch money and bought myself a feather boa with it. Which, let’s be real, I kind of did.
Sudden death, I mouth at him.
“You tricked me,” he spits out.
“Why? Are you annoyed by it?”
“Yes!”
I smile. “Then yes. I tricked you.”
There’s a forty-five-minute break before the final, which I spend with Defne and Oz on a patch of grass shaded by the hibiscus bushes. The high of owning Koch fades fast, and another kind of dread rises.
My next match is against Sawyer. And because my brain is made of applesauce, I can’t stop thinking about his stern expression. The chlorine-thick air curling the hair on his neck. His full lips almost moving, as though he was ready to say something—
“First tournament, and you get to the final,” Oz mumbles, angrily splitting a twig in a million pieces. “Damn child prodigies.”
“I’m eighteen,” I point out.
“You are a chess child. An infant. I could shove my nipple in your mouth and you wouldn’t be able to latch on to it.”
Defne’s eyebrow lifts. “I didn’t know you lactated, Oz.”
“All I’m saying, she’s unjustly brilliant. Wunderkinds are so déclassé. You know what’s in? Hard work. Tribulations. People like you and Sawyer, with your gifted brains and boundless talent are the real plebs.”
I exchange an amused look with Defne. Maybe I’m not growing on Oz, but he’s sure growing on me.
“Have you ever played against Sawyer?” I ask him.
“Of course. Since he was a brat.”
“Ever won?”
He looks away cagily, chin high. “Not as such. But once I offered him a draw and he considered accepting.”
“What about you?” I ask Defne.
I’m almost positive her “Yeah. I have” is a bit tense.
“Any tips on how to avoid making a fool of myself?”
“Open with the Ruy Lopez or the Caro-Kann. Castle early.” She seems uncharacteristically un-chatty. Reticent. “You’ll be fine. You know what to do with Nolan.” I wonder why she calls Sawyer by his first name, when last names seem to be the norm in the chess world.
“Assuming that you even want to win,” Oz points out. “Since he’s pants-crappingly terrifying, rudely storms out of press conferences, punches walls, and once called an arbiter a shitstain. Plus, we all know the kind of genes that run in that family, so— ”
“Oz.” Defne’s tone is sharper than I’ve ever heard it.
“What? It’s true. About Sawyer’s grandfather and about Sawyer being a hotheaded asshole.”
“He was a child. He was only ever violent with Koch, which he can hardly be blamed for, and hasn’t done any of that in years,” Defne retorts. “When he lost to Mallory, he just sat there and stared after her and . . .” Defne shrugs and holds my eyes. “No need to hold back, Mal. He’s a big boy. Whatever you’ll dish out, Nolan can take it.” Her smile is faint. “He probably wants it.”
I doubt Nolan No Emotional Regulation Skills Sawyer wants anything from me. I’m probably working myself up for nothing, and he barely knows that I exist, doesn’t remember we ever played, and stared at me last night only because I was bathing half-naked in the pool, like some nutty girl who talks with lampposts.
The match will be fine. Uneventful. Not a big deal. A micro deal. Nano deal. I’m probably going to lose, because Nolan Sawyer is Nolan Sawyer, and although the competitive part of my brain （i.e., all of it） hates the idea, it doesn’t matter. I am faking my way through this fellowship—
“Mallory, do you have a moment?”
Someone pushes a mic into my face the second I’m back in the tournament room. The press seems to have tripled— or maybe it feels like it, because the journalists from earlier are crowding around me, asking what my background is, if I’m training at Zugzwang, what my strategy for the final match is, and my personal favorite: “How does it feel to be a woman in chess?”
“Excuse us,” Defne says, smiling politely, then slides between me and the cameras, and weaves us through the crowd. Photos are taken, requests for comments are made, and there’s only one escape route.
Up the stage.
Sawyer is already there. Waiting. Sitting on Black, tracking all my movements. His eyes on me are unsettling. There’s something too sharp, too ravenous, almost acquisitive about them. Like the match is an afterthought, and I am what he came here for.
The only possible explanation is that he does hate me. He’s thrilled to have me where he can easily rip me to shreds— revenge for that time I defeated him. He’s going to chop me into pieces, smear me with balsamic vinegar, and relish every bite.
Calm down. It’s your overactive imagination. Like when you see birds in the sky and can’t help but wonder if they’re a family of vultures circling above your head. Thick, warm tension coils inside me. Sawyer is an intense guy. He probably does dislike me, but just a little. Leisurely. As a side gig.
I force myself to go to him, step after step after step. Flashes click and the crowd buzzes and I finally get to the White side of the table.
Sawyer stands.
I extend my hand.
He takes it immediately, almost eagerly. Holds it for a touch too long. His palms are warm, unexpectedly calloused.
“Mallory,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, somber against the shuttering of the cameras, and I shiver. Something hot and electric licks down my spine.