“But now you can?”
He gives me a long look through his sunglasses. “Now I can.” He turns away. “But if you are interested in either of them— ”
“That’s not why I asked,” I blurt out. “Besides, I don’t hook up with people I work with. It makes things messy.” Actually, I don’t hook up at all, lately. It’s been a surprisingly dry couple of months. Maybe chess kills my libido?
“Messy?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that?”
“Too much proximity. People get ideas. They think I’m interested in giving them my time. My mental energy.”
He studies me. “And you’re too busy taking care of your family for that.”
“How do you know that?”
He doesn’t reply, just studies me through those dark lenses for several seconds, until I can’t stand the stretching silence anymore and ask, “Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you going to that invitational next week?”
“Curious about my plans?”
The obvious answer is: yes. “They didn’t invite you, did they? They know you’ll hurl a chessboard at an arbiter and no insurance agency would let them have you.”
“I leave for Moscow from Toronto. On Friday.”
“You’re doing both tournaments?”
He gives me his best What, like it’s hard? shrug.
“Defne said that doing two big tournaments so close together would make anyone brain dead. And that most big players don’t see the point in the Olympics . . .” A thought occurs to me. “You’re not here because I . . . ?”
You’re not here because I’m here, are you?
Come on, Mal. He’s not here because he’s still into that idea of playing against you. No way. He wants to hang out with his friends. Maybe he lied and he is into Tanu. Or Emil. Or both. Not my business. Who cares—
“Yes,” he says.
My internal monologue halts. “What?”
“The reason you’re thinking.” His stupid, deep voice. Argh. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
He smiles. “True.”
“No, really. You don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying that. Stop pretending you can read my mind and— ”
The flight attendant rolls her cart, asking us if we want a drink. After that we’re quiet— Nolan staring ahead, and me sullenly nursing my Sunkist, thinking that no.
He cannot know.
There are two main distinctions between the Olympics and a regular tournament: we get doping-tested （yup: it involves peeing in a cup）， and we compete as a team. We still play all our matches individually, but our points will be added together. As the strongest among us, Nolan is first board. But then I, the least experienced player, am chosen for second. （I ask Emil repeatedly if it’s a good idea. He gives me a wide-eyed look and huffs, “Come on, Greenleaf.”）
It feels different, knowing that whatever victory I manage to bring home will be for us— no matter how temporary and abstract this us might be. It’s nice when Emil high-fives me after I win on time against the Estonian player, or Tanu kisses my forehead because I narrowly avoided a draw with Singapore. I don’t even mind Nolan’s long, thoughtful, lingering looks. He always defeats his opponent quickly. Then he finds something warm to drink for the rest of the team, sets it by our boards, and comes to stand somewhere behind my opponent. His eyes alternate between me and my game, dark and focused and greedy in a way I don’t fully understand.
He doesn’t fist-pump when I win. He doesn’t even tell me that I did good. He just nods once, like every single one of my victories is expected and his faith in me is as solid as a boulder. As though he couldn’t marvel at me playing well any more than at the sun setting at night.
The pressure that comes with it should be irritating. But I find the unwavering confidence from a player of his caliber flattering, which irritates me even more. So I do what I’m best at: I avoid thinking about it.
And it’s not hard. Toronto is beautiful, and the tournament atmosphere is fun: backpacks, players sitting on the floor and unwrapping homemade sandwiches, people who haven’t seen each other in years hugging it out between rounds. It’s youthful and low pressure, like a school trip with excellent chess instead of museums. I wear jeans and an oversized sweater without feeling underdressed.
“Don’t get cocky, though. We’ve been lucky so far,” Emil tells me while walking back to the hotel at the end of the first day. Nolan is giving Tanu a piggyback ride, because I really want one, Nolan. “We haven’t met any of the strongest teams.”
“Which are?”
“China, India, Russia. And, like, twelve more.”
“Who’s the current champion, by the way?”
“Germany. But they won’t be strong this year, with Koch already in Moscow.”
“That’s why the North American continent felt so much more pleasant than usual,” Nolan mutters.
“Is your manager still pissed about you coming to the Olympics?” Emil asks.
“Can’t say, since I stopped taking her calls.” He shrugs.
It has Tanu giggling on his shoulders and asking, “Remember years ago, when you pushed Koch and manhandled him a bit and he started calling for his mom?”
“One of my most treasured memories.”
“The tears. The panic. Totally worth that fine FIDE slapped you with.”
“Why did you punch him?” I ask, though I can imagine a million reasons.
“Can’t really recall,” Nolan murmurs, almost too casually.
“He was talking about your grandfather,” Tanu says. “As usual.”
“Ah, yes.” His jaw tightens. “He does enjoy running his mouth about shit he doesn’t know.”
We’re staying in a hostel, four separate bedrooms that converge into a shared living space and bathroom. Last night I wondered how Nolan, Mr. Fifty Thousand Dollars Is Nothing to Me, felt about it, but if he finds the accommodation subpar, he hasn’t mentioned it. I went to bed early, and then spent hours listening to the soft, intimate tones of the others chatting, feeling vaguely jealous. I texted Easton （How’s life? Are you puking your heart out in a toilet bowl?） and scrolled through her TikTok waiting for a reply that never came.
She’s busy. It’s fine.
After the first day I conk out on the couch before dinner, before I can even call home. It’s a dreamless, exhausted, happy kind of sleep, vague impressions of bishops and rooks gliding softly across a large board. I wake up tucked in my bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Someone took off my shoes, connected my phone to the charger, put a glass of water on my bedside. Someone took care of me.
I don’t ask who.
Day two is more of the same. In the morning, we win all of our matches— with the exception of Emil, who loses against Sierra Leone.
“Way to kill our streak, asshole,” Nolan tells him mildly over some lunch poutine, ducking to avoid the fry Emil throws at him.
Tanu nods. “Told you we should have brought along someone who knows how to castle.” Unfortunately, she ducks too slowly.