“Do not patronize me.”
I snap my mouth shut and retreat one step.
“I saw you were matched with Kareem,” Defne says. “He’s an excellent player.”
“He is.”
“How did it go?”
I glance around, uneasy, considering the chances that Oz will attack me. I can probably take him, but what if he whips a sickle out of his pocket? He’s definitely the portable-sickle type. “I got really lucky. He wasn’t in great shape, so— ”
“Oh my God.” She leaps to her feet. “You won?”
“I’m sure it was just— ”
She hugs me around the neck. “This is fantastic, Mal! Why are you idling here?”
“It was just a game. I didn’t— ”
“You advanced to quarterfinals!”
Wait. “Wait.” What? “What? There is no way we’re already at quarterfinals.”
“Did you even glance at the tournament board?” Oz asks acerbically.
“I’m . . . not sure where it is. I was kind of taking it game by game— ”
“Pearls before swine,” Oz mutters.
I frown. “Did you just call me a pig— ”
Defne pulls me back inside the building, excitedly blubbering about my FIDE rating. I expect her to lead me back to the large tournament room, but she takes a sharp turn left.
“Where are we— ”
“The quarters are in here.” She gives me a long, appraising glance. “Did you want to put on makeup?”
“Why would I want to put on makeup?”
“Oh, you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that you should.” She gives me an apologetic glance. “You look fantastic. You always do. Plus, bodies are but the meaty shells we dwell inside as we move about the mortal plane. No need to doll them up for the cameras— ”
“The cameras?”
“Yeah. Lots of close-ups, too. Come on, we’re late.”
The new location is smaller, glitzier, and more crowded. There are dozens of chairs rapidly filling up, and people whisper excitedly, like the next Fast & Furious movie is about to be screened. All the seats are facing a dais with a row of four boards. The chess sets are fancy. The clocks are fancy. Even the water bottles are fancy— Fiji? At three bucks a pop? Really?
“The cameras film each set of players and their board, and the matches are live streamed on those large screens behind the dais. And”— she points to the side— “the commentators are over there.”
“Commentators?”
“Don’t worry. They work for various streaming services and TV channels. You won’t have to listen to them narrate your every blunder.” Jesus. “The tournament director will call you onstage, but— ”
“Here we are,” an announcer starts. “Board one, Malte Koch and Ilya Miroslav. Board two, Mallory Greenleaf and Benul Jackson. Board three, Li Wei and Nolan Sawyer. Board four— ”
Anxiety knots inside me. I turn to Defne. “What happens if I win?”
Defne gives me a confused look. “You move to semifinals.”
“Against who?”
“Against whoever won their match. Why?
What’s the problem?” What’s the problem? What’s the problem? “Defne, I don’t want to go against— ”
“Please, players, come to the stage and stand next to each other for a few pictures.”
My knees buckle. Defne gives me an encouraging nod. Then an encouraging smile. Then, when it’s clear that my legs are made of concrete and have no intention of moving, an encouraging push. I trudge through my own dread up the dais, fully expecting to trip on the steps. It is I, Jennifer Lawrence at the Oscars. The temple priestess of public mishaps. Maybe I’ll puke all over myself, too, just for fun.
I take myself to the end of the row of finalists, next to Koch (who gives me a they really let anyone in here nowadays glance) and two heads down from the other player, the one taller than the others, the one with the deep scowl and the temper.
I refuse to think of his name.
“Greenleaf, right?” the tournament director asks me. I’m tempted to deny it, but I nod. It’s not hard to guess: I’m the only player unfamiliar to him, since I’m no one from Noonetown. Not to mention, the only girl. I am careful not to look toward the audience. The sounds of flashes and whispers are bad enough. “Board two. On the right.”
I shuffle there, keeping my head down. There are dark, broody eyes I wouldn’t want to risk meeting.
Benul Jackson is at least three years younger than me, and pulls out of me some of the best chess I’ve ever played. There is an elegance to his moves, a beauty to his attacks, a class to his defense, that have me nearly forgetting that I’m in the most public moment of my life. Dad once told me, There are two types of players: the warriors and the artists. Jackson is the latter.
He’s also painfully slow.
During my other matches, whenever my opponent would take too long to decide on a move, I’d stand and stroll around, stretch a bit, maybe even take a peek at interesting positions on the nearby boards. On the dais, though, I do not dare. What if I slip? What if I stand up too quickly and faint? What if my tampon leaks through my jeans? Malte Koch and his untimely boner should be a cautionary tale for us all. So I just look around— the commentator table, the vertical line on Jackson’s forehead, my annotation score sheet. I record my moves and scribble in the margins. Flowers. Hearts.
Deep-set, dark, intense eyes.
I stop myself, flushing. Thankfully, Jackson chooses that moment to take my rook and fall into my trap. Too much of an artist, not enough of a warrior. I win in four moves, and he shakes my hand with a confused, befuddled smile.
“Impressive,” he says. “Remarkable. Your style reminds me of . . .” His gaze drifts somewhere past my shoulder. He trails off with a head shake before leaving the dais. When I look around in search of Defne, several journalists eye me curiously. I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer to the pantheon of chess demigods: Don’t let my next match be against Sawyer. Please. I will gut an abducted guinea pig with depression at your altar.
It’s not until the tables are set up for semifinals that I realize the error of my ways. Someone announces that Sawyer’s next game will be against Etienne Poisy. I inspect my brain to make sure that it’s not my name— phew— and merrily head to my board, hoping Darcy won’t be too mad when I slaughter her pet.
That’s when I see Malte Koch, sitting on the White side.
I halt abruptly.
No. Nope. Nope-ity nope. I’m not playing against some dick whose understanding of gender can be dated somewhere in the 1930s. No way I—
“Everything okay?” the tournament director asks, noticing my hesitation.
I’d rather drink a can of Axe body spray while feral raccoons feast on my exposed bone marrow than sit across from this twat. “Yeah.” I swallow.
Koch’s smirk is quite possibly the most slappable thing I’ve ever seen, but the way he handles his pieces on the board gives it a run for its money. Whenever he moves them to a new square, he adds a little flourish, like he’s putting off a cigarette butt. It makes me want to skin him and use his hide to reupholster Mom’s couch.
Then he starts talking. “So you got to semifinals.”