He sighs. “Koch and his gang love it that you made a fool out of Sawyer, because they hate him. But they also hate that you beat him in one go, because Koch fancies himself to be Sawyer’s lifelong rival.”
“But he isn’t?”
“He cannot compete. No one can compete with Sawyer, really. He’s been dominating for nearly a decade. I mean”— he pops half a deviled egg in his mouth— “Koch’s an excellent player, if inconsistent. He has moments of brilliance. He’s forced Sawyer into draws, and once even came close to beating him. But ultimately they’re not comparable.”
Must be miserable, losing game after game. “Koch’s not aware?”
“I’m sure he’s plenty aware, but you’ve seen the kind of people he holds court with. Their narrative is that Sawyer is some superevil villain who made chess predictable by being unbeatable— as though he isn’t the reason chess got so big among younger people in the last few years. They make it sound like Sawyer’s Thanos and Koch’s Tony Stark.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously, they’re both Thanos.”
Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, a Marvel guy. “Are we . . . in middle school again?”
Oz shrugs. “Close enough. Koch is just a child, salty because he always ends up dead in FMK. Meanwhile Sawyer gets all the attention, makes serious bank, ends up on Time’s Most Influential, and sleeps with Baudelaires or whatnot— ”
“Baudelaires?”
“Yeah. It’s this experimental rock band— ”
“I know who the Baudelaire sisters are.” Sabrina is obsessed. I like their music, too. “Sawyer sleeps with them?”
“Yes. And Koch wants that for himself. As if.”
My head is exploding. “Did he— Which Baudelaire did Sawyer . . . ?”
“I don’t know, Mallory. I do not watch reality television.”
“Right.” I look away, chastised. I’m going to have to google this. I’m dying to whip out my phone right now. “Well, the top ten sounds pretty crowded with assholes.”
“Mostly just Koch and Cormenzana. And Sawyer, but he’s a better brand. I’m not gonna make a friendship bracelet for him, but I’ll take a sphincter-clenchingly scary asshole like Sawyer over a slug-slurping-moisture-after-a-rainstorm slimy asshole like Koch any day.”
They both sound uniquely horrible, I think as a man plucks custard-filled beignets off the table and quickly scurries away, unimpressed with the anus talk.
“Anyway,” Oz concludes, “everyone else in the top ten is less punchable.”
I smile faintly. “Is ‘less punchable’ Oz-speak for ‘nice’?”
He arches one eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”
“Well, you’re not the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”
“I am a motherfucking delight, Greenleaf. And for the record, you and I are equally hot.”
I only stay at the reception for about thirty minutes. Oz is right, and not everyone in chess is a dick: he introduces me to several people who do not insult me, sexually harass me, or act with a messianic-grade superiority complex. But his group of friends is a few years older than me, and I drift out of conversation when it falls on their wives and graduate education. I feel the occasional side glances from Koch’s gang on me, and cannot quite relax, so I wave goodnight and head back to my room, ready to spend the rest of the evening berating myself over my mistakes.
Until I see the sign in the elevator. Three little words next to the fifth floor:
Indoor Pool & Gym.
I head there without thinking it through. The entrance for the pool slides open under my keycard. When I peek inside, I’m instantly enveloped by heat, chlorine, and silence.
I love swimming. Or whatever that thing I do that passes as swimming is— float for hours, occasionally move about like a drowning puppy. And here’s this amazing, deserted pool.
Problem: I don’t have a swimsuit. The tattered bikini that barely fit me a cup size ago is somewhere in my dresser at home, and Goliath is probably using it at this very moment to wipe his butt. What I do have, however, is underwear that’s basically a bikini. And a strong yearning for a swim.
So I don’t think about it too much: I pull my dress over my head, shrug off my sandals, and toss them on the nearest bench. Then I jump in with a loud, messy splash.
I need to minimize my blunders, I tell myself fifteen minutes later, drifting over the water and staring at the ceiling. The reflection of the waves on the ceiling is a mangled, distorted chessboard. I should aim for breadth of knowledge, since I’m unlikely to achieve much depth in one year. I should play more offbeat lines.
By the time I lift myself out, I’m in better spirits. I screwed up today, but I’ll focus on improving. If I know my weaknesses, I can tailor my training. I train a ridiculous amount anyway.
You are faking your way through this fellowship, a voice reminds me. It’s either mine or Easton’s.
Well, yes, I reply defensively, grabbing my dress and shoes, rubbing chlorine off my eyes. But I’ve signed a one-year contract, so I might as well—
I stop dead in my tracks.
I’m not alone anymore. Someone is standing right in front of me. Someone barefooted, who’s wearing swim trunks. I look up, and up, and up, and up even more, and—
My stomach drops. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me, a faint scowl between his eyes. I’m dumbfounded by the fact that he’s . . . fit. His chest. His shoulders. His biceps. No one who spends hours a day moving one-ounce pieces around a chessboard has any business looking like that.
“I— Hi,” I stammer. Because he’s standing right there, and I don’t know what else to say.
But he doesn’t answer. Just stares down, taking in my nowsee-through bra, my panties with little rainbows all over them. The temperature in the pool increases. The gravity, too. I’m concerned that my legs won’t hold me.
Then I remember what Koch’s friends said: Does he know she’s here?
Well, she’s still alive, so clearly no. Fear pops into me.
Nolan Sawyer despises me. Nolan Sawyer wants to murder me. Nolan Sawyer is staring down at me with the sheer soulcutting intensity one reserves for those he hates with the strength of a million bloodthirsty bears.
Didn’t he once break another player’s nasal septum? I remember hearing some stories. Something had happened after a tournament, and . . .
Is he going to tear me to pieces? Will the local morgue not know how to put me together? Will they have to call in a professional makeup artist, one of those YouTube beauty gurus who are always making callout videos about each other—
“Coooooming throuuuuuuuugh!!!!”
Someone runs past us, a blur of dark skin and red trunks, and cannonballs into the pool with a tsunami-like splash. Sawyer mutters something like “Shit, Emil,” and it’s the escape chance I was waiting for. I scamper away, feet slapping against the wet floor. I’m at the door when I make the mistake of looking behind me: Sawyer is staring at me, lips parted, eyes darker than dark.
So I do the only sensible thing: I slam the door in his face, and don’t stop running until I’m in my room, dripping on my bed.
It’s the second time I’ve met Sawyer. And the second time I’ve retreated like a pinned knight.