“They weren’t chess?”
He nods.
I think about Dad. About how he was the opposite, constantly pushing me toward chess. About how if he were still alive, we’d probably be just as estranged as Nolan and his father are. Vastly different paths, same results. “Do you hate your parents?”
He lets out a small laugh. “I don’t think so. I don’t think about them much. Haven’t for a while.” He swallows. “Somehow, it hurts even worse.”
I reach out, sinking my hand in the pocket of his coat. He exhales, a white chuff in the late afternoon air. “It didn’t matter when my grandfather was around, because he got me. He’d been like me as a kid, or similar enough. When my parents divorced, they stopped feeling like they had to care about me. Mom remarried. Then Dad. Then his new wife got pregnant and it was almost a relief. I was an afterthought, and I could just stay with my grandfather for weeks at a time. It was just me and him. Playing, playing again. Playing some more.”
“Did you ever win?”
“Oh, no. Not for a long time. Not until I was nine or ten. Then I did, and I was almost afraid. He hated losing as much as I do. I thought he’d be mad. But . . .” He shakes his head. “I think it was the happiest I’d ever seen him.”
“So maybe he didn’t hate losing as much as you do.”
“I think . . .” He stops, and so do I. Holds my eyes. “He told me once that sometimes, with some people, it’s not about winning or losing. That with some people, it’s just about playing. Though for the longest time, I didn’t really believe him.”
“Yeah?” I look away, toward the setting sun. “I still think about losing to Koch. Every day. Every hour.”
“I know.”
“Stop reading my mind.” I poke him in the stomach. He snatches my hand and pulls me closer to him. “How do you deal with losses?”
“I don’t.”
“So you just feel like shit? Every time?”
“You basically have to hate losing to be a top player. Pretty sure the genes are on the same chromosome.”
“Is that why you’re a terrible loser?”
“Yup. And why you are one.”
I smile. “Not gonna lie, it’s validating. Growing up, I couldn’t figure out why Easton was so chill about losing all those matches. Meanwhile even draws sent me into a deep funk.”
“Easton?”
“Oh. She’s my best friend.” I swallow. “Well. Former?”
His head cocks. “Did she take your queen?”
“No. She . . . left. For college. Colorado.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. Haven’t heard from her much ever since.” I sigh. “How do you keep in touch with Tanu and Emil, again?”
“It’s not the same. Emil’s still in New York and hates the dorms, which means that he’s always at my place. And you know how Tanu is. I’d have to work hard on ditching her.”
“Yeah.” I try not to sound too jealous. “Easton finds me boring and uninteresting now that I don’t . . . I don’t even know. Play beer pong with her?”
“She told you that?”
“No. But I know it.”
“Could you be assuming?”
“No.”
He nods, and I like that he’s not trying to lie to me. To convince me that I’m imagining it all. “Have you considered confronting her?”
“No. I . . . I don’t want her pity. I want her to be with me because she wants to.”
“Ah, yes.” He nods knowingly. His chin dips into the raised neck of his coat. “You do like being in charge.”
“What do you mean?”
“You like having the upper hand. Feeling like you’re doing something for others. Like you’re in control.”
“No.” I frown. “That’s not it at all.”
“I think it’s easier for you to be with people when you feel needed than when you need them. Less risky. Less messy, right?”
“But it’s not true. I mean, according to Sabrina my family doesn’t need me for anything but money anymore. And Easton’s the one who went MIA. And you— you most certainly don’t need me— ”
“But I do.”
I snort. “Come on. You have a million seconds, and legions of adoring fans, Tanu and Emil, Elle the scary manager, the press, the entire world— ”
“Mallory.” He stops me. His expression is solemn. “It’s lonely, chess. You may have a team around you, but when it really comes down to it, you’re on your own. You play on your own. You lose and win on your own. You go home, and you’re on your own.” He takes in the disappearing light, his eyes darker than ever. And then looks back to me, presses a pale strand of hair behind my ear, and asks something I didn’t expect. “Will you come to Italy with me?”
“To Italy?”
He nods. “For the World Championship.”
“I . . . Why?”
His throat works. “I had my grandfather with me for the first one, six years ago. But after that, I was always on my own.”
“But Tanu and Emil are going to be there, and— ”
“They are. But . . .” I can see the gears in his head, like he’s trying to articulate a fuzzy, ungraspable feeling. “They’ll be there with each other first.”
Somehow, I know exactly what he means. I feel it, too, I want to say. I feel the same. Like everyone around us is part of the same connective tissue, and you’re just floating about. Unbound.
My heart beats faster, because this feels like a threshold. A touch-take decision that I won’t ever be able to undo. If I say yes, then Nolan and I will be something different. Something together. More than the sum of our parts.
Then, no. No should be the only possible answer. I have no business promising to be there for anyone. I have priorities. Duties. But.
“Do you want me to be there?” I ask.
He nods instantly.
I take his cold palm, lift it in both my hands, and press a soft kiss in the middle, where the fate line slashes between the head and the heart.
“I’ll be there, then.” I smile up at him, right as the last of the sunlight fades into the snow. “For you.”
IT OCCURS TO ME THAT NIGHT, AFTER WE CHECK SOME OF Koch’s recent Challengers games against engines and instead of staying up late to pore over the results we decide to go to bed at eight, that maybe the timing for this thing is a little off.
We should be training hard. We should focus on strategy, tactics, preparation.
We should not be staring at each other across the table.
We should not drift off during Tanu’s passionate speech on why Velveeta is legally not cheese to exchange faint, unprompted, unjustified smiles.
We should not needlessly brush knuckles as he hands me his plate for the dishwasher.
And most definitely, we should not fall on each other the second we’re in his room, the wood of his door smooth under my back, his front pressed against mine as we kiss deeply. The mechanics of this are familiar, but the impatience simmering inside me is new. The feeling that one more minute apart will be too much. Seeing the same eagerness mirrored in Nolan.