He nods instantly.
I take his cold palm, lift it in both my hands, and press a soft kiss in the middle, where the fate line slashes between the head and the heart.
“I’ll be there, then.” I smile up at him, right as the last of the sunlight fades into the snow. “For you.”
IT OCCURS TO ME THAT NIGHT, AFTER WE CHECK SOME OF Koch’s recent Challengers games against engines and instead of staying up late to pore over the results we decide to go to bed at eight, that maybe the timing for this thing is a little off.
We should be training hard. We should focus on strategy, tactics, preparation.
We should not be staring at each other across the table.
We should not drift off during Tanu’s passionate speech on why Velveeta is legally not cheese to exchange faint, unprompted, unjustified smiles.
We should not needlessly brush knuckles as he hands me his plate for the dishwasher.
And most definitely, we should not fall on each other the second we’re in his room, the wood of his door smooth under my back, his front pressed against mine as we kiss deeply. The mechanics of this are familiar, but the impatience simmering inside me is new. The feeling that one more minute apart will be too much. Seeing the same eagerness mirrored in Nolan.
“We still don’t have a condom,” I tell him, and he grunts against my throat. Then steps an inch back.
“I’m going to get one from Emil— ”
“No. No.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather they not know.”
“Mallory.” He presses a kiss on my cheekbone. My nose. “They know.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know know, and . . .” I’m the one to groan now. “Let’s just go to CVS tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” He pulls back and looks so horrifically, theatrically appalled, I have to laugh and kiss the expression off his face.
“We can do other things in the meantime.”
His fingers slide down my spine, slowly massaging each knob. “Like what? Shovel snow? Color by the number?”
I laugh against his mouth. “So many options.”
“Please, list them for me. I am very new at this.” His hand slips inside the waist of my jeans, and I exhale sharply.
“Illegal move.”
“Should we call in the arbiter?”
“Only if— ” My phone rings, and he groans. I whimper, working my hand between us to retrieve it from my pocket.
“It’s Defne,” I say. I have a déjà vu— months ago, on Nolan’s couch. She has atrocious, cockblocking timing.
“Ignore her,” he orders, and I’m happy to. I toss it on Nolan’s dresser, and we’re back on each other, graceless, uncoordinated, voracious, until he kneels in front of me and starts unbuttoning my pants. “So.” He speaks against my hip bone. “These things we are going to do. Could they involve me— ”
My phone, again. No, Nolan’s— it’s his phone buzzing now. “Fuck,” he grunts, pulling it out of his pocket and throwing it next to mine.
But my eyes fall on the caller ID, and I stiffen. “Wait. It’s Defne.”
She hasn’t called once since we came here, just the occasional text. And now . . .
We halt.
Nolan’s phone stops buzzing. A second later mine starts ringing again.
We exchange a long look, both out of breath. He lets out a deep, frustrated groan, and hides his face in my stomach. His hands close around my waist, trembling slightly. I take it as tacit permission to pick up.
“Hey, D— ” He inches my shirt up and nibbles on my belly button. My breath hitches. I giggle, sigh, try to push him away. Then the cycle starts all over. “Hey, Defne,” I finally manage. Nolan licks a stripe below my navel. “How are you— ”
“Mallory, I’m on my way to pick you up. You need to return to New York immediately.”
“What do you mean, Koch cheated? There were too many cameras for him to— ”
“Someone has been combing the footage.”
Defne’s voice is grainy over the speakerphone, background noise ebbing and flowing as she drives up the interstate. Nolan and I sit on the bed, eyes locked, but his expression is indiscernible. His hair is still tousled from my fingers.
“Remember how he kept standing to pace? He’d hidden a smartwatch around his elbow. He’d leave the board, find a place without cameras, and use it to communicate with . . . well, we don’t know. Presumably, someone who had access to a chess engine. But he miscalculated, because they have two instances of this on video. And one right before his final move against you.”
“That piece of shit,” Nolan mutters. His jaw is tight, one large hand fisting the sheets.
“What does that mean?” I ask Defne. “For the World Championship?”
“FIDE hasn’t made a formal announcement yet. And Koch is still denying it and threatening lawsuits. But Mal, the evidence is damning. They will have to disqualify him.”
“So, if Koch is disqualified . . .” I consider the implications. A knot of disappointment tightens in my chest. “It means that Nolan will win by default? And we should stop training?” The prospect is more devastating than it should be. I face it for a long, silent moment, in which Nolan gives me more of that inscrutable look, and Defne breathes audibly.
“Mal,” she starts, “you— ”
“That’s not what it means,” he interrupts her.
“What, then?” I frown at Nolan, confused. “They can’t redo the Challengers.”
“They don’t need to,” he says calmly.
The space between us charges, a sudden magnetic field, and then it occurs to me.
They don’t need to, because they already have a runner-up.
Someone who was poised to win until she lost to Koch.
Me.
“But we . . . Nolan and I . . .” I shake my head, flustered. “Nolan and I have been training together.”
“That’s why I’m coming up to get you, Mal. I’ll be there in a few— ”
Nolan hangs up on her. The phone immediately starts buzzing again, but we ignore it. His eyes hold mine for a second, for ten years, and I have no idea how to feel. What to think.
“I’m sorry, I . . .” I get off the bed and stare at the books stacked on the dresser, mind racing.
If Defne is right, if FIDE does ask me to be the challenger . . . three million dollars. That’s the mortgage paid off, Mom’s meds, my sisters’ college tuition. Hell, my college tuition. We’d be set for life.
But I’d have to come clean to Mom and Sabrina. They might hate me. And there’s the biggie: Nolan. Three minutes ago, I was trying to get inside his skin. For weeks, I’ve been his second. I’ve been studying his weaknesses, strategies, tactics. Challenging him now would be like robbing him with a house key he handed me for safekeeping. Utterly unethical.
Oh God.
I cannot imagine how devastated he must be feeling. How terrified. How betrayed by the idea of me exploiting what I’ve learned about his game.
I turn around and look up at him, meaning to reassure him that I won’t, promise that I wouldn’t, and find him . . .
Smiling?
“What . . . why do you look so happy?”
“Because it’s perfect. Because it’s you.” He steps closer, grinning. So hard, I spot a rare dimple. “I’ll get to do this. With you.”