“I . . . Checkmate.”
That’s when he lifts his eyes to mine for the first time. They are dark, and clear, and serious. And they remind me of a few important, long-forgotten things.
When Nolan Sawyer was twelve, he placed third at a tournament because of an arguably unfair arbitral decision on castling short, and in response he wiped the chess pieces off the board with his arm. When he was thirteen, he placed second at the very same tournament— this time, he flipped an entire table. When he was fourteen, he got into a screaming match with Antonov over either a girl or a denied draw （rumors disagree）， and I can’t recall how old he was when he called a former world champion a fuckwhit for trying to pull an illegal move during a warm-up game.
I do recall, however, hearing the story and having no idea what a fuckwhit might be.
Each time, Sawyer was fined. Reprimanded. The object of scathing op-eds on chess media. And each time, he was welcomed back to the chess community with open arms, because here’s the deal: for over a decade Nolan Sawyer has been rewriting chess history, redefining standards, bringing attention to the sport. Where’s the fun in playing, if the best is left out? And if the best sometimes acts like a douchebag . . . well. It’s all forgiven.
But not forgotten. Everyone in the community knows that Nolan Sawyer is a terrible, moody, ill-tempered ball of toxic masculinity. That he’s the poorest loser in the history of chess. In the history of any sport. In the history of history.
Which, because he just lost against me, is possibly going to develop into a problem.
For the first time since the match started, I realize that a dozen people are standing around us, whispering to each other. I want to ask them what they’re looking at, if I have a nosebleed, a wardrobe malfunction, a tarantula on my ear, but I’m too busy staring at Sawyer. Tracking his movements. Making sure he won’t hurl the chess clock at me. I’m not one to be easily intimidated, but I’d rather avoid a checkmate-induced traumatic brain injury if he decides to smash a foldable chair on my head.
Though, surprisingly, he seems content to just study me. Lips slightly parted and eyes bright, like I’m simultaneously something odd and familiar and puzzling and larger than life and—
He looks. After ignoring me for twenty-five moves, he just looks. Calm. Inquisitive. Upsettingly not angry. Something funny occurs to me: top players are always given cutesy nicknames by the press. The Artist. The Picasso of Chess. The Gambit Mozart. Nolan’s nickname?
The Kingkiller.
The Kingkiller leans forward, ever so slightly, and his intense, awestruck expression feels much more threatening than a folding chair to my head.
“Who— ” he starts, and I cannot bear it.
“Thank you for the game,” I blurt out, and then, even though I should shake his hand, sign the scorecard, play three more games— despite all of that, I leap to my feet.
No shame in retreating your pieces if you’re being pinned and can get out, Dad used to say. No shame in knowing the limits of your game.
My chair falls to the ground as I run away. I hear the grating sound, and still don’t stop to pick it up.
“Mal?”
“Mal.”
“Maaaaaaal!”
I blink awake. Darcy’s nose is pressed up against mine, eyes Galápagos-blue in the morning light.
I yawn. “What’s going on?”
“Ew, Mal.” She recoils. “Why does your breath smell like a skunk during mating season?”
“I . . . is everything okay?”
“Yes. I made my own oatmeal this morning. We’re out of Nutella.”
I sit up, or some approximation of it. Rub sleep out of my eyes. “Yesterday we had more than half a jar left— ”
“And today we’re out. The circle of life, Mal.”
“Are Mom and Sabrina okay?”
“Yup. McKenzie and her dad picked up Sabrina. Mom’s fine. She got up, then went back to bed because she was having a rough morning. But there’s someone at the door for you.”
“Someone at the— ?”
Memories of yesterday slowly begin to surface.
Sawyer’s king, held in check by my queen. Tripping on the sidewalk as I ran to the train. Texting Easton about a made-up emergency, then turning off my phone. The dull urban landscape outside the train’s windows, ever morphing into a chessboard. Then the rest of the night— a Veronica Mars marathon with my sister, my head emptied out of everything else.
Not to brag, but I’m good at compartmentalizing. Together with always picking the best item on the menu, it’s my greatest talent. That’s how I made myself get over chess years ago. And that’s how I manage to survive day by day without hyperventilating about all sorts of stuff. It’s either compartmentalizing or going broke buying inhalers.
“Tell Easton that— ”
“Not Easton.” Darcy flushes. “Though you could invite her over. Maybe this afternoon— ”
Not Easton? “Who, then?”
“A random person.”
I groan. “Darcy, I told you: when people from millenarian restorationist Christian denominations come knocking— ”
“— we politely inform them that eternal salvation is beyond us, I know, but it’s someone else. They asked for you by name, not for the head of the household.”
“Okay.” I scratch my forehead. “Okay— tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Cool. Oh, and also, this arrived yesterday. Addressed to Mom, but . . .” She holds out an envelope. My eyes are still blurry. I have to blink to read, but when I do, my stomach twists.
“Thank you.”
“It’s a reminder, right?”
“No.”
“That we have to pay the mortgage?”
“No. Darcy— ”
“Do you have the money?”
I force myself to smile. “Don’t worry about it.”
She nods, but before stepping out she says, “I pocketed it when the mailman brought it. Mom and Sabrina haven’t seen it.” The freckles on her nose are shaped like a cloudy heart, and with the single neuron currently working in my brain I contemplate how unfair it is that she needs to worry about this stuff. She’s twelve. When I was twelve, my life was boba and refreshing chess.com.
I slip on dirty shorts and yesterday’s tee. Given Darcy’s gentle feedback, I decide to gargle with mouthwash while I turn on my phone. I discover that it’s 9:13, and that I have a million notifications. I swipe away dating app matches, Instagram and TikTok alerts, News highlights. I scroll through my texts from Easton （a panicked string, followed by Essay question: what does Nolan Sawyer smell like? Two paragraphs or longer and a picture of her vengefully biting into a cookie-macaron）， then head outside.
I’m not sure who I expect to find. Definitely not a tall woman with a pixie haircut, a full sleeve of tattoos, and more piercings than I can count. She turns around with a grin, and her lips are a bold, perfect red. She must be in her late twenties, if not older.
“Sorry,” she says, pointing at her cigarette. Her voice is low and amused. “Your sister said you were sleeping and I thought you’d take longer. You’re not going to start smoking because you saw me smoke, right?”