“Not now.” The relief that sweeps over me is embarrassing. “I’d like to know what a Zugzwang fellow is, though.”
Walked right into that one. “It’s a . . . a job. I am being paid to learn about chess. For one year.”
“And the senior center?” Her eyes widen. “And the pigeons?”
“There are no— well, there are pigeons, plenty, more than we need. But no senior center.”
“Do Mom and Sabrina know? Did you lie just to me?”
“No.” I shake my head energetically. “No one knows.”
She seems relieved. For a split second. “So you’re playing chess for money?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that like gambling?”
“What?”
“And isn’t gambling illegal?”
“I— ”
“Is that why you’re lying? Because you’re working for the gambling mob?”
“It’s not gambling, Darcy. It’s a sport.” I notice her raised eyebrow. She knows my athletic prowess. “Kind of.”
“Why don’t you want us to know, then?”
“There are . . . things you might not remember, because you were very young when they happened, but— ”
“Because Dad used to play chess.”
I sigh. “Yes. Partially. I just want to protect you guys from something that could hurt you.”
“I’m not fragile or— ”
“But I am. And so is Sabrina— even though she’s in her rebellious phase and would deny it. And Mom . . . Many painful things happened, Darcy. But we’re happy now.”
“Sabrina’s mostly just sullen.”
I chuckle. “True. I just want to take care of all of you.”
“And yet, you brought the Kingkiller into our house.”
“How do you even know about— ”
“The Wikipedia entry was very thorough. Did you know that he once played Jeff Bezos for charity? He beat him in twenty seconds, then asked if the water bottle next to the chessboard was for peeing.”
“A true hero of the working class. Darcy— ”
“Also, there’s tons of fanfiction on AO3, mostly of him making out with some Emil Kareem guy, but— ”
“What? How do you know what fanfiction is?”
“I read it all the time.”
“Excuse me?”
“Chill. The PG-13 stuff.”
“PG means parental guidance, which means that a parent— me— should be there with you.”
She cocks her head. “You are aware that you’re not my parent, right?”
I take a deep breath. “Listen, Darcy, the reason I was keeping a secret— ”
“Oh my God. Mal, now it’s our secret!” All of a sudden, she looks seriously pumped up.
“No. No, I don’t want you keeping secrets from Mom— ”
“I don’t mind,” she says quickly. “I want to!”
“Darcy, you were all about us telling each other everything at dinner. I’ll explain to Mom— ”
“You said it might be painful to her. And I want to have a secret with you. Something just ours!”
I study her hopeful, shining eyes, wondering if she’s been feeling isolated. I’m in NYC a lot, after all. It’s not like Sabrina can be coaxed away from her phone, and Mom is too low-energy to spend much time with her. Plus, telling the truth would open a whole silo of worms. And I’m reasonably confident that neither Mom nor Sabrina will be looking me up on the internet.
“Okay,” I say. It’s a terrible idea, but Darcy fist-pumps. Then her face takes on a calculated expression.
“But it’ll cost you.”
My eyes narrow. “Really? Are you going to blackmail me?”
“I just think that my morning oatmeal could use one more tablespoon of Nutella. Half? A teaspoon? Please?”
I shake my head and go in for a hug.
I DON’T SEE NOLAN AGAIN.
Not like, ever. But not for weeks, and I don’t hear about him, either, with the exception of a Tuesday afternoon when he trends on chess Twitter, after forgetting about a virtual tournament and showing up on camera five minutes late while still pulling a Henley over his chest (#KingkillerSoHot). The fact that I notice his absence from my life has me slightly rattled. I might be even more rattled, but it’s the busiest I’ve ever been.
After Philly Open, Defne changes my routine. She schedules more time for me with the GMs (including Oz, who loves it) to focus on specific weaknesses in my play. She also has me play online chess to increase my rating, and daily matches with Zugzwang’s patrons. “It suits you better— learning by doing,” she tells me.
She’s right. My game improves quickly, positions and strategies easy at my fingertips. “Who’d have guessed that deliberately cultivating a natural talent would lead to the betterment of said talent,” Oz says tartly. In retaliation, I chew an entire bag of kettle chips at my desk.
A huge chunk of my time is spent replaying old games. “Thanks for not buying the creamer I asked for,” Sabrina huffs after I spend a hazy hour drifting through the grocery store aisles, wondering if Salov could have unpinned his knight in ’95. I’m training so much, I can’t seem to turn it off, not even in my sleep. Chess positions are taking over the back of my head, and after nights spent tossing and turning to Karpov’s end games, I almost welcome fleeting dreams of dark, deep-set eyes glaring at me in frustration.
In the last week of September the morning air gets chilly, and I break out my favorite blue scarf, the one Easton made for me during her short-lived knitting phase. (“Some stitches are missing. Poetic license and that.”) I snap a selfie and send it to her, scowling when her only response is a lazy heart emoji. I realize that we haven’t talked in over a week, and I scowl harder when she doesn’t reply to my How have things been? When my phone pings an hour later, I feel a burst of hope, but it’s just Hasan, asking if I’d like to meet up over the weekend.
I’m not sure why, but I leave him on read.
For the first time, when I walk into the office, Oz is not at his desk.
“He’s at a tournament,” Defne explains.
I nearly pout. “Why didn’t I get to go?”
“Because your rating is at the core of the earth. Most tournaments are either invitation-only or have strict access criteria.”
I fully pout.
“You’re in an unprecedented situation, Mal. Most players grow in the game, and their ratings grow with them. But even if you do nothing but win at chess and eat tuna straight from the can, it will still take you a couple of years to get to a point when your rating represents your actual skills.” She pats my shoulders. “I did sign you up for the Nashville Open in mid-October. Prize is five thousand, but you’re going to win— top players don’t show up for that.” She bites her lower lip, hesitating. “I’ve been approached with another opportunity, but . . .”
“What opportunity?”
She chews on her lip. “You know the Chess Olympics?”
I blink. “That’s not really a thing, is it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Let’s say that I believe you. What is it?”
“Just a team tournament. Not real Olympics, but a similar format: one team per nation, four players per team. Five days. This year it’s in Toronto, the first week of November— do you have a passport?” I nod. “Emil called and asked if— ”
“Emil? Kareem?”
“Yup. The problem is, the Pasternak Invitational is right after, in Moscow, and that’s a way more prestigious tournament.”