“Hi,” I say. I can’t tear my gaze from his. Am I out of breath?
“Hi.” Is he out of breath?
“Hi,” I repeat, like a total idiot. I should just sit down, I really should—
“Excuse me.” An unfamiliar voice. I’m focused on Sawyer, and it takes a while to penetrate. “Ms. Greenleaf, I’m sorry. We need to talk.”
I turn. The tournament director is watching our handshake with an apologetic, harried expression.
“There has been an error, Ms. Greenleaf.” He clears his throat. “You will not be playing this match.”
In the Fyre Festival reenactment that is my life, I should probably not find any of this surprising. But even I cannot believe— simply cannot believe, that I began playing chess three weeks ago, and I’m already involved in drama.
Honestly: what the hell?
People are tweeting about you, Defne whispered a few minutes ago. This is a sham. Everyone’s on your side.
I nodded blindly, nauseously grateful that neither my mom （too sensible）， nor Darcy （too young）， nor Sabrina （too TikTok） are on Twitter. I should have gotten myself a chess nom de plume. Quinn Von Rook. Horsie McCastle. Knighterella Black.
“She won.” Defne, who introduced herself as my trainer to the tournament director, has been championing me for the past ten minutes. I stand by her side, barely following the conversation.
“She did, yes,” the director says, looking May I have some fentanyl? levels of pained. He moved the conversation off the stage, ostensibly to be away from the cameras, but the press circles around us like piranhas.
This chess drama I’m involved in? It’s apparently televised.
“But there are rules,” the director continues, “and one of these rules is that nothing but the moves should be annotated on the scorecard. And Ms. Greenleaf wrote and, um, drew several things on hers, and— ”
“Come on, Russel.” Clearly, he and Defne go way back. “It’s her first tournament— she had no idea.”
“Nevertheless, her opponent has complained. As is his right.”
Ten pairs of eyes turn to Koch, who surveys us placidly from the height of his Smirking Personality Disorder. He has the upper hand, and I want to parboil him and feed him to the New Jersey tree frogs.
“What even is the purpose of the no-doodling rule?” I ask Defne under my breath.
“To prevent players smuggling in notes that might help against their opponent. But”— she raises her voice— “it’s a rule that hasn’t been enforced in ages. It’s like those No eating fried chicken with a fork laws!”
“What was she drawing?” Sawyer asks, deep voice almost lazy.
Because to make things cherry-on-top unpleasant, Nolan Sawyer and his manager— a sharp-looking redhead in her thirties— are part of this conversation. He stands tall, arms crossed on his chest, black blazer over a white button-down open at the collar. Stupidly attractive, an unwelcome, inopportune voice inside me blathers.
I quash it silent.
At least seeing Sawyer interact with Koch is tangible proof that he absolutely abhors him. I’m still not sure how he feels about me, but even if he hates me, I’m a distant number two in his disaffections.
“Here.” Defne holds my scorecard to him, and I flush.
“I fail to see how doodling a”—he looks at the margin of my sheet; his eyebrow arches— “ cat helped her win the match.”
“It’s a guinea pig,” I mutter, and get a dozen dirty looks for my effort.
“Unfortunately, the rule is phrased broadly,” Russel explains. “I wouldn’t enforce it if it were up to me, but if Ms. Greenleaf’s opponent— Mr. Koch— asks us to do so . . .”
“This is bullshit.” Sawyer returns the sheet, unimpressed.
“What, Sawyer?” Koch says. The smirking intensifies. “You scared I’m going to beat you?”
Is this the reason Sawyer is siding with me on this? Because he considers me the least dangerous opponent? Tendrils of disappointment curl in my belly, but I remind myself that I don’t care— about chess, or about the man-boys who play it. Faking. I’m faking this.
“Just shut the fuck up, Koch,” Sawyers drawls, more annoyed than angry, like Koch is a mosquito he’s swatting away. “If you eliminate Mallory,” he says, like he has a right to my name, like he can say a word and make me blush, “I won’t play.”
Russel pales. Having the best player step away from your tournament is probably not a good look. “If you forfeit, Mr. Koch will automatically win first prize.”
“Sounds good to me,” Koch says.
Sawyer is silent for a moment. Then he shakes his head bitterly. His jaw clenches, and I expect him to do what he’s known for: Yell. Make a scene. Break some stuff.
He doesn’t, though. He turns to me with a long, unreadable look. Then mutters, “I hate this shit,” and starts up the stage, taking his place once more.
Russel deflates with relief. I barely resist the temptation to trip Koch as he follows Sawyer up the stage.
“Gross,” Defne tells me. Her eyes are on the live-feed monitors as the match commences. “What a douchebag.”
“Yeah. Honestly, we should leave. I don’t want to watch Koch play . . . Wait. What’s Sawyer doing?”
He moves his queen knight in a weird pattern. Forward and back, and then again. A bunch of useless, silent moves— while Koch mounts an attack in earnest. With White.
“He’s . . .” Defne’s grin unfurls slowly. “Oh, Nolan. You little shit.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Giving Koch a two-moves odds.”
“What’s that?”
She covers her laugh with one hand. The room is a mess of whispers. “He’s telling Koch that he can beat him, even with a handicap.”
“That’s . . .”
“Some serious shade.”
“And reckless. I mean . . . what if he loses?”
He doesn’t. Lose, that is. He wins in a number of moves that can only be described as embarrassing— mostly for Koch, who’s still flushed with rage during the awards ceremony, when Russel the Tournament Director Who’s About to Develop a Drinking Problem hands Sawyer a fifty-thousand- dollar check.
My eyes bulge out so hard, I’ll probably need surgery. “Fifty thousand dollars?”
“Well, it’s just an open tournament,” Defne explains. “I know it’s small, but— ”
“It’s a bucketload of money!” I nearly choke on my saliva. I hadn’t expected the prizes to be this high. What is this, OnlyFans?
I can’t help following Sawyer’s movements as he nips off the stage. The press immediately crowds him, starts asking questions, but a raised hand from him has them instantly backing off, like they’re alarmed by this historically mercurial, unpredictable twenty-year- old. And then . . .
Then, a beautiful girl with long black hair runs toward him, and he’s hugging her. I see her laugh, I see him half smile, I see him drape an arm over her shoulder and head for the exit. I look away, because . . . wouldn’t want to meet his eyes and end up with my soul devoured. I’m musing over how miserable his girlfriend must be, what with the temper and Baudelaire rumors, when a dark-haired young woman in a BBC badge approaches me. I open my mouth to say No, please no, don’t make me do this, don’t make me give an interview, but she talks first. “Mallory? I’m Eleni Gataki. It’s so nice to meet you.”