I doubt Nolan No Emotional Regulation Skills Sawyer wants anything from me. I’m probably working myself up for nothing, and he barely knows that I exist, doesn’t remember we ever played, and stared at me last night only because I was bathing half-naked in the pool, like some nutty girl who talks with lampposts.
The match will be fine. Uneventful. Not a big deal. A micro deal. Nano deal. I’m probably going to lose, because Nolan Sawyer is Nolan Sawyer, and although the competitive part of my brain (i.e., all of it) hates the idea, it doesn’t matter. I am faking my way through this fellowship—
“Mallory, do you have a moment?”
Someone pushes a mic into my face the second I’m back in the tournament room. The press seems to have tripled— or maybe it feels like it, because the journalists from earlier are crowding around me, asking what my background is, if I’m training at Zugzwang, what my strategy for the final match is, and my personal favorite: “How does it feel to be a woman in chess?”
“Excuse us,” Defne says, smiling politely, then slides between me and the cameras, and weaves us through the crowd. Photos are taken, requests for comments are made, and there’s only one escape route.
Up the stage.
Sawyer is already there. Waiting. Sitting on Black, tracking all my movements. His eyes on me are unsettling. There’s something too sharp, too ravenous, almost acquisitive about them. Like the match is an afterthought, and I am what he came here for.
The only possible explanation is that he does hate me. He’s thrilled to have me where he can easily rip me to shreds— revenge for that time I defeated him. He’s going to chop me into pieces, smear me with balsamic vinegar, and relish every bite.
Calm down. It’s your overactive imagination. Like when you see birds in the sky and can’t help but wonder if they’re a family of vultures circling above your head. Thick, warm tension coils inside me. Sawyer is an intense guy. He probably does dislike me, but just a little. Leisurely. As a side gig.
I force myself to go to him, step after step after step. Flashes click and the crowd buzzes and I finally get to the White side of the table.
Sawyer stands.
I extend my hand.
He takes it immediately, almost eagerly. Holds it for a touch too long. His palms are warm, unexpectedly calloused.
“Mallory,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, somber against the shuttering of the cameras, and I shiver. Something hot and electric licks down my spine.
“Hi,” I say. I can’t tear my gaze from his. Am I out of breath?
“Hi.” Is he out of breath?
“Hi,” I repeat, like a total idiot. I should just sit down, I really should—
“Excuse me.” An unfamiliar voice. I’m focused on Sawyer, and it takes a while to penetrate. “Ms. Greenleaf, I’m sorry. We need to talk.”
I turn. The tournament director is watching our handshake with an apologetic, harried expression.
“There has been an error, Ms. Greenleaf.” He clears his throat. “You will not be playing this match.”
In the Fyre Festival reenactment that is my life, I should probably not find any of this surprising. But even I cannot believe— simply cannot believe, that I began playing chess three weeks ago, and I’m already involved in drama.
Honestly: what the hell?
People are tweeting about you, Defne whispered a few minutes ago. This is a sham. Everyone’s on your side.
I nodded blindly, nauseously grateful that neither my mom (too sensible), nor Darcy (too young), nor Sabrina (too TikTok) are on Twitter. I should have gotten myself a chess nom de plume. Quinn Von Rook. Horsie McCastle. Knighterella Black.
“She won.” Defne, who introduced herself as my trainer to the tournament director, has been championing me for the past ten minutes. I stand by her side, barely following the conversation.
“She did, yes,” the director says, looking May I have some fentanyl? levels of pained. He moved the conversation off the stage, ostensibly to be away from the cameras, but the press circles around us like piranhas.
This chess drama I’m involved in? It’s apparently televised.
“But there are rules,” the director continues, “and one of these rules is that nothing but the moves should be annotated on the scorecard. And Ms. Greenleaf wrote and, um, drew several things on hers, and— ”
“Come on, Russel.” Clearly, he and Defne go way back. “It’s her first tournament— she had no idea.”
“Nevertheless, her opponent has complained. As is his right.”
Ten pairs of eyes turn to Koch, who surveys us placidly from the height of his Smirking Personality Disorder. He has the upper hand, and I want to parboil him and feed him to the New Jersey tree frogs.
“What even is the purpose of the no-doodling rule?” I ask Defne under my breath.
“To prevent players smuggling in notes that might help against their opponent. But”— she raises her voice— “it’s a rule that hasn’t been enforced in ages. It’s like those No eating fried chicken with a fork laws!”
“What was she drawing?” Sawyer asks, deep voice almost lazy.
Because to make things cherry-on-top unpleasant, Nolan Sawyer and his manager— a sharp-looking redhead in her thirties— are part of this conversation. He stands tall, arms crossed on his chest, black blazer over a white button-down open at the collar. Stupidly attractive, an unwelcome, inopportune voice inside me blathers.
I quash it silent.
At least seeing Sawyer interact with Koch is tangible proof that he absolutely abhors him. I’m still not sure how he feels about me, but even if he hates me, I’m a distant number two in his disaffections.
“Here.” Defne holds my scorecard to him, and I flush.
“I fail to see how doodling a”—he looks at the margin of my sheet; his eyebrow arches— “ cat helped her win the match.”
“It’s a guinea pig,” I mutter, and get a dozen dirty looks for my effort.
“Unfortunately, the rule is phrased broadly,” Russel explains. “I wouldn’t enforce it if it were up to me, but if Ms. Greenleaf’s opponent— Mr. Koch— asks us to do so . . .”
“This is bullshit.” Sawyer returns the sheet, unimpressed.
“What, Sawyer?” Koch says. The smirking intensifies. “You scared I’m going to beat you?”
Is this the reason Sawyer is siding with me on this? Because he considers me the least dangerous opponent? Tendrils of disappointment curl in my belly, but I remind myself that I don’t care— about chess, or about the man-boys who play it. Faking. I’m faking this.
“Just shut the fuck up, Koch,” Sawyers drawls, more annoyed than angry, like Koch is a mosquito he’s swatting away. “If you eliminate Mallory,” he says, like he has a right to my name, like he can say a word and make me blush, “I won’t play.”
Russel pales. Having the best player step away from your tournament is probably not a good look. “If you forfeit, Mr. Koch will automatically win first prize.”
“Sounds good to me,” Koch says.
Sawyer is silent for a moment. Then he shakes his head bitterly. His jaw clenches, and I expect him to do what he’s known for: Yell. Make a scene. Break some stuff.
He doesn’t, though. He turns to me with a long, unreadable look. Then mutters, “I hate this shit,” and starts up the stage, taking his place once more.