Russel deflates with relief. I barely resist the temptation to trip Koch as he follows Sawyer up the stage.
“Gross,” Defne tells me. Her eyes are on the live-feed monitors as the match commences. “What a douchebag.”
“Yeah. Honestly, we should leave. I don’t want to watch Koch play . . . Wait. What’s Sawyer doing?”
He moves his queen knight in a weird pattern. Forward and back, and then again. A bunch of useless, silent moves— while Koch mounts an attack in earnest. With White.
“He’s . . .” Defne’s grin unfurls slowly. “Oh, Nolan. You little shit.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Giving Koch a two-moves odds.”
“What’s that?”
She covers her laugh with one hand. The room is a mess of whispers. “He’s telling Koch that he can beat him, even with a handicap.”
“That’s . . .”
“Some serious shade.”
“And reckless. I mean . . . what if he loses?”
He doesn’t. Lose, that is. He wins in a number of moves that can only be described as embarrassing— mostly for Koch, who’s still flushed with rage during the awards ceremony, when Russel the Tournament Director Who’s About to Develop a Drinking Problem hands Sawyer a fifty-thousand- dollar check.
My eyes bulge out so hard, I’ll probably need surgery. “Fifty thousand dollars?”
“Well, it’s just an open tournament,” Defne explains. “I know it’s small, but— ”
“It’s a bucketload of money!” I nearly choke on my saliva. I hadn’t expected the prizes to be this high. What is this, OnlyFans?
I can’t help following Sawyer’s movements as he nips off the stage. The press immediately crowds him, starts asking questions, but a raised hand from him has them instantly backing off, like they’re alarmed by this historically mercurial, unpredictable twenty-year- old. And then . . .
Then, a beautiful girl with long black hair runs toward him, and he’s hugging her. I see her laugh, I see him half smile, I see him drape an arm over her shoulder and head for the exit. I look away, because . . . wouldn’t want to meet his eyes and end up with my soul devoured. I’m musing over how miserable his girlfriend must be, what with the temper and Baudelaire rumors, when a dark-haired young woman in a BBC badge approaches me. I open my mouth to say No, please no, don’t make me do this, don’t make me give an interview, but she talks first. “Mallory? I’m Eleni Gataki. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“I don’t really . . .”
She follows my gaze to her badge. “I’m not here for— I’m just an intern.”
“Oh.” I relax.
“Well, for now. I hope one day I’ll get to cover chess for the BBC. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, your play at this tournament was amazing. I’m already a fan! Between us, the BBC’s current chess correspondent is a boring old-school guy who only writes about the same three dudes, but I’m going to try to pitch my first article about you. Well, not you you, but your chess style. It’s so engaging and entertaining!”
I’m bewildered by her enthusiasm. With no clue how to reply, I’m almost relieved when Russel interrupts us and asks for a moment alone. “So sorry about earlier.” He hands me an envelope. “Here is the semifinalist prize.”
I open it, expecting . . . I’m not sure. A brochure on how to effectively use the Sicilian Defense. A coupon for two hours of counseling with a sports psychologist. Lilo & Stitch stickers.
Not a check. For ten thousand dollars.
It’s clearly a mistake. And yet my first greedy, ugly instinct is to pocket it. Conceal it. Abscond with it.
I want this money. Oh, the things I could do with it. I could be zero months behind with our mortgage. Set up a savings account. Pay for my auto-mechanic certifications. Say yes to Darcy and Sabrina next time they ask for whatever trivial crap they’ve fallen in covet with. Roller skates. Slime. Piano lessons. A cotton-top tamarin plushie.
God, how I want this money. So much so, I need to get rid of it. Immediately.
“I have to tell you something,” I say to Defne. She’s washing her hands in the unsurprisingly deserted ladies’ restroom. “I— They gave me a check. By mistake, I think. Ten thousand.”
“It’s the semifinalist prize.” She briefly struggles with the soap dispenser. “Didn’t you see the info on the tournament website?”
There is a tournament website? “I . . .” I blink. Ten. Thousand. Dollars. Oh God. But— I can’t. It should go to her. “Here.” I hold the check out. “You sponsored me. You have it.”
“Nuh-uh. You earned it. Though you might have to pay taxes on it. Check with your accountant.”
My accountant. Right. The one currently on vacation in Seychelles with my hedge fund manager.
“I’ll go get the car so we can head home, but Mal.” She gives me a loaded look. “The prize for the World Championship is two million dollars. The Challengers, a hundred thousand. Just making sure you know, since you hate tournament websites.” She leaves with a wink, and I stare down at my check for a long time.
Plan Fake Your Way Through Chess is going to need some serious reworking.
Defne orders me to stay home on Monday, to sleep off my “chess hangover” and the “tournament crud.” It’s a rare free day without my sisters underfoot, and when I go to bed on Sunday night, I’m fully committed to drooling on my pillow till midmorning, then going to the Krispy Kreme drive-through in my PJs to purchase my weight in donuts, then eating 90 percent of them with Mom while we watch Hoarders on YouTube.
I fail miserably.
For reasons that may have to do with the check hidden in the inside pocket of my hobo bag, I’m up at six thirty, scrolling down ChessWorld.com, browsing through every game Malte Koch has ever played.
There are a lot, and he’s a damn good player.
But, also: he’s not without exploitable weaknesses. I’m half comatose, eyes full of sleep boogers, and yet I’m finding blunders in his games.
Also, also: I have a new archenemy. I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. My life mission is to repeat the words back to him while I checkmate his useless, bloated king.
“Pleeeease, drive us to school!” Darcy asks after giving me her back to fart in my direction— her new favorite morning ritual. In the car she talks my ear off: male seahorses carry the offspring, jellyfish are immortal, pigs’ orgasms last thirty minutes (mental note: install parental control software). Sabrina sits quietly, headphones in her ears, head bent to her phone. I try to remember whether she has said anything this morning. Then I try to remember the last time I’ve had a conversation with her.
Mmm.
“Hey,” I tell her at drop-off, “you get out an hour before Darcy, right?”
“Yeah.” She sounds defensive.
“I’ll come get you early, then.”
“Why?” Now she sounds defensive and dubious.
“We can do something together.”
“Like what?” The defensiveness is still there, but laced with something else. Hope, and maybe a bit of excitement. “We could get coffee at that place on the corner.”
“Okay. Decaf, though,” I add.