He half huffs, half winces. “Can’t possibly be worse, can it?”
More laughter. Nolan hasn’t changed much since that talk show interview several years ago, the one that makes me think of Mrs. Agarwal and baking soda. He’s still charismatic, almost despite himself. He still doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t mind admitting to it, and yet manages to navigate the questions in a relaxed, charming, uncomplicated way.
I look at him not looking at me, and my heart squeezes.
“And a question for Mallory: This was your breakout year. How does it feel, being here?”
“It’s . . .” Everyone turns to me. Except for Nolan, who keeps looking straight ahead into the crowd.
He hates me. For what I said. For leaving. I screwed up, and he hates me, and he’s right.
“It’s an honor.” I attempt a smile. “I am happy and grateful.”
“AFP, Etienne Leroy— question for both. You two have close family members who used to play chess at high levels but are not here anymore. Does that make your championship more meaningful?”
I stiffen. I can’t talk about Dad. Or: the last month has shown me that I can talk about Dad, but I don’t want to talk about Dad in front of dozens of people who—
“Nope,” Nolan says flatly, saving us both. The moderator picks another journalist, and I’m flooded with relief.
“Reuters— Chasten. Nolan, there is a rumor that Ms. Greenleaf was part of your team of assistants before the cheating scandal came to light and she became the challenger. Care to confirm or deny?”
“Not particularly, no.”
Laughter.
“Either way, some say that having been your second will give Ms. Greenleaf an unfair advantage.”
Nolan shrugs. “If some think that she needs an unfair advantage, then they need to pay better attention when she plays.”
The room drops into murmured quiet. My heart beats into my ears.
“Mallory, Fox News. You are the first woman to make it to the World Championship. What do you attribute it to?”
“I just . . .” I bit into my lip. “Only to the fact that I had a nontraditional path to chess. And didn’t have to suffer through the sexism of this environment as much as most female players do. Didn’t have a chance to get discouraged.”
“So you don’t think you’re better than all the women who came before you?”
“No, not at all. I— ”
“Then, since you have never even been part of a supertournament, what makes you qualified to be here today? Why you and not someone else?”
I swallow. “I just . . .”
Nothing. I got lucky. It’s a mistake. I’m not good enough and—
“Man”—Nolan snorts into the mic— “she literally won the qualifying tournament to be here. Keep up, will you?”
Fox News lowers his eyes, chastised. I glance at Nolan, who really works the crowd like a stand-up comedian. People laugh, and a couple even clap, because they find him amusing and like him even when he’s not likable. I want to scream at them, I know. I’ve been there.
I still am.
“Mallory? AFP again. Does your past romantic relationship with Nolan make this championship more complicated for you? Will it in any way affect your play?”
Well.
Probably stupid of me, but I really didn’t think they would go there. And I’m positive the moderator didn’t, either, because I feel him tense next to me.
I almost turn to Nolan. Because, let’s be honest: every other hard, difficult question that might have made me stumble, he took, blocked, deflected. This one, though . . . he simply can’t. And even though I could probably deny that our relationship was ever romantic, or straight-up refuse to answer, or even tell the truth, I’m not prepared for any of this. So I take the easy way out, and hear myself say:
“No.”
It echoes in the murmuring room like a slap, and I immediately want to take it back. I want to look at Nolan and say . . .
I don’t know what. But it’s okay, because I don’t get the chance. “Very well,” the moderator interrupts. “We seem to be pressed for time. I think we’ll call it for today, but— ”
“One last question— Trent Moles, the New York Times. In the name of good sportsmanship, could you both say what you admire the most about your opponent’s play?”
The moderator hesitates, like he knows this question is a bad idea. But then he looks to his left. “Of course. Would you like to take it?”
Nolan wouldn’t. At least, that’s what I assume when he stays sprawled back in his seat, like we’re back in New York and he’s watching Emil fail at making sourdough, like the entire world and dozens of Instagram accounts dedicated to his hands and dimples and gambits aren’t watching like hawks.
But then he shifts. I watch him lean forward, just an inch, then another, and inhale minutely before speaking into the mic. “Every last thing,” he says. Simple. Decisive.
Heart shattering.
It’s followed by a moment of silence. For the first time, no one laughs. No one speaks. No one scribbles notes on their pad. No one raises their hand for another question.
My heart presses desperately against the borders of my chest.
The moderator clears his throat and turns to me.
“Mallory,” he asks. “What do you admire the most about Nolan’s play?”
“I . . .”
What do I admire the most? What?
He is so dynamic.
He fights to the last point, using every piece, every moment, every resource, bleeding the chessboard dry.
He is deadly and meticulous.
He is fun and interesting and unpredictable.
He is an adventure.
And that frown on his forehead, when he’s thinking about how to make the next move as nuclear and chaotic as possible. It makes me want to reach out and pull his visor-hands away. It makes me want to smooth it. It makes me want to play my own best chess and—
“Mallory?”
I look up from my Fiji water bottle. There are a million eyes on me. I swallow.
“Right. I . . .”
I am lost for words. I am overwhelmed, swept away, disoriented. And the moderator nods, then smiles kindly.
“Well, I guess her answer is nothing.” A few forced chuckles. Then more journalists raise their hands, clamoring for one last question that isn’t to be. “Thank you for coming, everyone. Of course, we’ll have longer press conferences after each game, so I’m excited to . . .”
A FIDE employee asks me to stand. She takes my elbow to guide me off the podium. I follow her past Nolan’s chair, and when my hand brushes against his shoulder blade, I’m not sure whether it’s an accident or desperation.
I step out of the room knowing that he hasn’t looked at me a single time.
I STAY AT THE GALA FOR LESS THAN TEN MINUTES. I’M chewing on my fifth bruschetta and craning my neck, on the lookout for broad shoulders and cropped dark curls, when Defne whisks me away with a hand on my wrist. “Okay, you made your appearance. Now we leave.” Her bright red lips stick to a polite smile as she crisscrosses me through the crowd.
“But I only just got there. And the bruschetta is amazing.”
“And you gotta be in bed by nine, since tomorrow’s the most important game of your career.”