He nonchalantly takes off his jeans, all long, muscled limbs.
“What are you doing?” I blurt out. He doesn’t look at me, just smells his shirt, deciding that it belongs in a laundry hamper.
“Getting ready for bed.”
“I . . .” What is happening? Why did I follow you? What. Is. Happening? “Why aren’t you nervous?”
“About what?”
“About”— I gesture inchoately between us— “all of this.”
He glances at me. “I don’t know. It feels right. Besides, I don’t get nervous much.”
Darcy once told me about a study they did, monitoring the heart rate of top chess players during important games. Nolan’s was always the slowest. The steadiest. Is that why he’s standing in front of me in boxer briefs and a Coimbra Chess 2019 T-shirt and I’m shaking like a leaf?
“Do you not want this?” he asks.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t not want this. But . . . we just kissed out of the blue, and you seem so okay with it, and . . .”
He shrugs. “It’s not out of the blue for me.”
“It isn’t?”
“I came to terms with this months ago, Mallory. The first time we played, maybe.”
I swallow. “I don’t understand.”
He comes closer. In two steps he’s in front of me, and for some indecipherable reason I’m shaking. A small-scale earthquake’s happening inside me, twenty kings are being tipped over, and Nolan just cups my face again.
“I’ve got you, Mallory. Nothing bad is going to happen. You can let yourself want this, because you already have it. You have me.”
Oh God. Oh God, God, God. I’m shaking harder.
“I . . . Are we . . . Are we going to fuck?”
I’m purposely trying to rattle him. And it’s not working.
“No. We’re going to sleep.”
We lie down, and somehow it’s a smooth thing. I’m wearing leggings and a soft shirt and no jewelry, and that’s why I’m so comfortable. Not because my head is pillowed on his chest and his legs are tangled with mine, and I feel his slow, steady heart like a warm clock under my ear.
“I haven’t even washed my face,” I tell him. I’m still trembling, albeit more quietly. I’m a mess.
“That’s okay. Antonov won Coimbra 2019.”
I laugh shakily. “I . . . don’t think I can sleep.”
“Want a bedtime story?” His hand combs gently through the hair at my nape. “It’s called ‘Polgar Versus Anand, 1999.’ It starts with e4. c5.”
I groan. But I’m smiling when I ask, “And then?”
“Knight f3. d6. d3.”
“Mmm.”
“Yup.”
“And then?”
“Knight xd4. Knight f6. Knight c3 . . .”
I fall asleep mid-game— for the second time in my life held by someone, for the second time in my life held by Nolan Sawyer.
By 3:00 p.m. on the following day, Nolan has spoken fewer than fifteen words to me.
Why knight a5?
Could sacrifice the queen.
And my personal favorite: Getting a muffin— want one?
Maybe I hallucinated the previous night. Maybe our kiss was a dream. Maybe the way I woke up in his empty room, a mug of hot coffee on the bedside table— maybe I need a checkup to—
“What do you think, Mal?” Tanu asks. From her tone, not for the first time.
“About what?”
“This position. What would you do?” I glance at the board. We’re analyzing a Koch game from last year. Well, they are analyzing. I’m ruminating.
“It’s weak. The left side could be exploited.”
“Yeah, that’s what Nolan said, too.”
I look up at him, and instantly flush. Because that’s apparently what I do now— stress over whether some dude I didn’t even sleep with isn’t interested in me anymore because I’m a total mess, because I toss and turn at night, because my morning breath smells like the dumpster behind a fish restaurant.
This is uncharted territory. An entire new galaxy. I’m used to caring about what Mom, Darcy, Sabrina, Easton think of me. I have room for no one else, and—
“Would you agree, Greenleaf?” Emil asks.
Shit. “Sorry, with what?”
“With what Nolan said.”
Nolan’s eyes are unreadable. “He castled too late,” he repeats.
I glance at the board. “Or he shouldn’t have castled at all,” I say, pretending I’m not flustered.
“Koch’s so uneven.” Emil rubs his temples. “How can one go from disastrous blunders to near-genius moves like the one against Greenleaf? He’s like two completely different players.”
“And which one will he be in Italy?” Tanu asks.
No one answers. Nolan stares in the mid-distance, and I stare at him like a twerp.
We analyze Koch’s end games until late. By the time Nolan and Emil stand to make dinner, the sun has been down for hours. “You’re staying till the end of January, right?” Tanu asks me, voice low. The others are arguing over whether one should throw the pasta into the water before it boils. （Nolan: “Who cares? It’ll be faster.” Emil: “You are— and I cannot stress this enough— a tasteless peasant.”）
“That’s the plan. You aren’t?”
“Only until the semester starts.”
“Oh.” I think of Nolan and me alone in this house. “Oh.”
“Defne will come up and help, of course,” she continues.
I frown. Defne approved of me becoming Nolan’s second because she said that it would be great training for me, but . . . “I didn’t think they were that close.”
“Oh, they’re super close. They both trained with Nolan’s grandfather before . . . well. But Nolan still needs you. He doesn’t show it, but Koch’s unpredictability rattled him. He needs someone he cares about who also cares about him. Like you do, you know?”
Oh God. “Tanu, Nolan and I . . .” I shake my head and shift closer, perched on the edge of my chair. “I guess we are close in some ways, but we’re not . . . together.”
“Oh, I know relationships are weird.” Her smile is reassuring. “I mean, Emil and I technically aren’t together, either, because . . . well. Not that he deserves me, but mostly, the distance sucks. But Nolan is so into you.”
“It’s . . .” I shake my head. “It’s complicated.”
She laughs, a mix of confusion and amusement. “Well— I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve never seen him as calm and happy as when you stick around, so— ”
“Hey, do you guys want to play two versus two?” Emil interrupts me. “There’re four of us, so two teams.”
I quickly consider the possible permutations. I’d be either against Nolan, or—
“I’ll team with Mallory,” he calls from the kitchen.
Tanu lifts her eyebrow at me, and I close my eyes. They’re still closed a few seconds later when Nolan returns from the kitchen and, instead of taking a free seat, lifts one leg and slides between me and the back of my chair.