“Clearly.”
“Are you here through the Make-A-Wish program? Was there a memo about letting you win that I never got?”
I move my pawn in response to the variation of the Ruy Lopez that he opened with, which I happen to have been reading about ad nauseam for the past two weeks. I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules for him to talk to me during my turn. Pretty sure, but unfortunately not certain.
“Did you know that single-elimination tournaments are also called sudden death? As in, when you lose, you’re as good as dead.”
I clench my jaw. “Is the conversation necessary?”
“Why? Are you annoyed?”
“Yep.”
Another smirk. “Then yes, it is.”
I want to cut his brake lines. Just a little bit.
“You know,” he continues casually, “I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. I find that there’s a natural order to things.”
I look up and smile sweetly. “I like it better when men shut their mouths and stuff their rooks up their asses, but clearly we can’t always get what we want.”
Koch’s smile widens. He lifts his hand to signal to the tournament director to come closer. “Excuse me, could you ask Ms. Greenleaf to avoid using profane language?”
The director gives me a withering look. “Ms. Greenleaf. You’re new here, but you must follow the rules. Like everybody else.”
“But— ” I snap my mouth shut, cheeks heating.
I’m going to kill him. I am going to murder Malte Koch. Or I’ll do the next best thing: annihilate his damn king.
Probably.
Maybe.
If I manage to.
The worst part is— I’m not surprised to hear that he’s number two in the world. He’s an excellent player. I try to pin his queen, but he weasels out. I try to take control of the center, but he pushes me back. I try to wreck his defense line, but not only does he field my attempts, but he also mounts an attack of his own that almost has my king in check.
This is a very dangerous player, I tell myself.
On top of being the worst sack of shit you’ve ever met, a voice inside me adds. I let out a silent huff of a laugh, and play even more aggressively.
Our game lasts long past the other. Seventy minutes in, and we’re still battling. I have his queen, but he got my rook and my knight, and a dense, concrete-like dread starts churning at the bottom of my stomach. I break a sweat. The back of my neck is hot, hair sticky against my skin.
“What are you doing here? Came to see how it’s done?” Koch’s tone is low enough that the mics won’t pick it up. He’s not talking to me.
“She’ll have you in less than five moves,” a deep, assured voice says from behind me. I recognize it but don’t turn around, not even when I hear footsteps fading away.
Sawyer’s in the midst of some delusion. I’m nowhere near winning. There’s next to nothing I can do with this position. Then again, Koch’s pretty much at the same . . .
Oh.
Oh.
It suddenly makes sense. In less than five moves. Yes. Yes, I only have to—
I move my pawn. A silent, safe move, but Koch’s eyes narrow. He has no idea what I’m doing, and I’ve trained him to expect backdoor attacks. He studies the board like it’s a WW2 cypher, and I sit back and relax. I take my pen, annotate my move, attempt a portrait of Goliath on the scorecard to kill time. That stupid beast has truly infiltrated my heart—
Koch moves his knight. I immediately respond with my bishop, confusing him even more. Repeat that, with minimal variations, again, and again, until . . .
“Time’s up,” the director says. Koch looks up, wide eyed, thin lipped. My intentions dawn on him. “It’s a draw. Black moves forward.”
Koch’s jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. He’s staring at me like I just stole his lunch money and bought myself a feather boa with it. Which, let’s be real, I kind of did.
Sudden death, I mouth at him.
“You tricked me,” he spits out.
“Why? Are you annoyed by it?”
“Yes!”
I smile. “Then yes. I tricked you.”
There’s a forty-five-minute break before the final, which I spend with Defne and Oz on a patch of grass shaded by the hibiscus bushes. The high of owning Koch fades fast, and another kind of dread rises.
My next match is against Sawyer. And because my brain is made of applesauce, I can’t stop thinking about his stern expression. The chlorine-thick air curling the hair on his neck. His full lips almost moving, as though he was ready to say something—
“First tournament, and you get to the final,” Oz mumbles, angrily splitting a twig in a million pieces. “Damn child prodigies.”
“I’m eighteen,” I point out.
“You are a chess child. An infant. I could shove my nipple in your mouth and you wouldn’t be able to latch on to it.”
Defne’s eyebrow lifts. “I didn’t know you lactated, Oz.”
“All I’m saying, she’s unjustly brilliant. Wunderkinds are so déclassé. You know what’s in? Hard work. Tribulations. People like you and Sawyer, with your gifted brains and boundless talent are the real plebs.”
I exchange an amused look with Defne. Maybe I’m not growing on Oz, but he’s sure growing on me.
“Have you ever played against Sawyer?” I ask him.
“Of course. Since he was a brat.”
“Ever won?”
He looks away cagily, chin high. “Not as such. But once I offered him a draw and he considered accepting.”
“What about you?” I ask Defne.
I’m almost positive her “Yeah. I have” is a bit tense.
“Any tips on how to avoid making a fool of myself?”
“Open with the Ruy Lopez or the Caro-Kann. Castle early.” She seems uncharacteristically un-chatty. Reticent. “You’ll be fine. You know what to do with Nolan.” I wonder why she calls Sawyer by his first name, when last names seem to be the norm in the chess world.
“Assuming that you even want to win,” Oz points out. “Since he’s pants-crappingly terrifying, rudely storms out of press conferences, punches walls, and once called an arbiter a shitstain. Plus, we all know the kind of genes that run in that family, so— ”
“Oz.” Defne’s tone is sharper than I’ve ever heard it.
“What? It’s true. About Sawyer’s grandfather and about Sawyer being a hotheaded asshole.”
“He was a child. He was only ever violent with Koch, which he can hardly be blamed for, and hasn’t done any of that in years,” Defne retorts. “When he lost to Mallory, he just sat there and stared after her and . . .” Defne shrugs and holds my eyes. “No need to hold back, Mal. He’s a big boy. Whatever you’ll dish out, Nolan can take it.” Her smile is faint. “He probably wants it.”