“No,” I interrupt her. We’re not talking about Marcus Sawyer anymore, but it doesn’t need to be spelled out.
“I don’t understand why you refuse to— ”
“No.”
She huffs. “It’s only fair. And expected. This is not a tournament, Mal, it’s the World Championship— the match between the two best players alive. You should be honing your skills with your opponent in mind, not training on old games and overanalyzing your own style. He’s probably studying your games, and I doubt that he’d expect you not to— ”
“No,” I say for the last time, and she knows it’s final just as well as I do. “Let’s continue as planned.”
Defne frowns. But she nods nonetheless.
I’M BAD AT CONSOLIDATING.
I attack too early. Or too late.
I’m not decisive enough, except when I’m so decisive, I blow my advantage.
I cannot comfortably trade into end games.
I rely too much on my favorite openings— a cardinal sin, since players with preferences are players with weaknesses.
I should focus on the sides to take the center.
And:
“This game against Chuang,” Oz is saying. “Your queen was completely open. Not saying go all ministry of defense, but— ”
“Okay. Okay, I . . .” I rub my eyes. “You’re right. Let’s go back to the engines. I feel like I’m— ”
“It’s past midnight, Mal.” Defne is shaking her head. “You should go to bed.”
Shit. “Okay. Tomorrow morning— ”
“We’ve been locked in here for two days, Mal.”
We have. With brief food interruptions and sporadic visitors— Mom stopping by to kiss my forehead; Sabrina barging in on an analysis to show me an article from The Cut in which a journalist begged me to “step on her”; Darcy coming by to ask if her blue top was in my suitcase (it was) and to show me her pretty new pendant.
A murrina, it’s called!
So beautiful. I stared at the colorful circles of flowers. Where did you get it?
N— Mom bought it for me!
“I think you should take a break,” Defne says.
“What do you mean?”
“Tomorrow, take the morning off. Sleep in. Maybe go somewhere with your sisters? You have one day left before the match, and half of it is going to be full of press.”
I frown between her and Oz. “You guys keep saying that my centers are so close, they look like checkers.”
“Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.”
“Okay. Yeah. You’re probably right.” I try not to pout as I amble to the door. My thighs ache from too much sitting.
“Hey.”
I turn around. Oz is putting the sets back together and turning off the computers. I take in Marcus Sawyer’s photo in the background, the sharp contrast to Defne’s pixie hair. “Yeah?”
“I told you once before. But in case you forgot . . . I think you can win the World Championship. I think you can do whatever you put your mind to.”
I smile faintly and walk away.
I’m not sure I believe her. I’m almost sure I don’t.
The hotel has been filling up, to the point that it’s become difficult to walk around avoiding impromptu interviews and pic requests and people wearing T-shirts with my damn face on them. It’s probably why I’ve stopped emerging from the training room: this close to the start of the championship, and I’m feeling more and more like a fraud, like a kid at the adults’ table, like I’m not worth the ink my name is printed with. I’m not good enough. I don’t deserve this. I’m shit with the Night Attack against the Caro-Kann. I heard the words First woman at the World Chess Championship once, and have been trying to expel them from my head ever since. Does it mean that if I lose, it’ll be a failure for all women? Does it mean that I’m suddenly more than just myself? I have no idea, and I can’t deal with any of this. So I don’t, and focus on the way I didn’t know about the Raphael Variation until this very morning.
Sounds healthy, huh?
This late at night, at least, the place is as blessedly quiet as when we first got here. I walk past the reception counter, and one of the concierges waves at me.
“Your roommate is arrived,” she informs me. “From United States.”
I halt. “Excuse me?”
“Your friend arrived.” She points at the elevator. There might be a bit of a language barrier here.
“I . . . What? Where?”
She smiles. “Your room.”
My heart pounds as I sprint up the stairs. Is there really someone else in my room? Only one person could have arrived tonight from the United States.
But he’s not
He wouldn’t
We haven’t even talked in
I said some things that I really regret, and he probably
I look down at my trembling hand, feeling like my DNA helices are unwinding. I grab the handle and open the door, just to get it over with before an aneurysm annihilates my brain.
There is someone sprawled on my freshly made bed.
My heart stops.
Then restarts, a mix of relief and something else.
Then derails again.
“Mal, this room is a vibe,” a voice tells me from the bed. “You’re really coming up in life, bitch. And all because I pushed you to embrace the important cause of gluten sensitivity.”
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Open them again.
And whimper, more than ask:
“Easton?”
Her hair has grown a lot since August, well past her shoulders. It looks darker and glossier than back in the summer, after the sun bleached her tips and the seawater frizzed them. Perhaps it should surprise me, but it doesn’t.
Thank you, Instagram stalking.
“Why . . . What are you doing here?”
She rolls on the bed, then props herself up on her elbows. “Sabrina texted me.”
“Sabrina?”
She nods. “Yea tall? Blond? Pubescent? Aggressively sullen?”
“I know who Sabrina— ” I shake my head. “She texted you?”
“I made the mistake of giving her my number before leaving New Jersey. During the week of all those rides? I blame you for it.”
“You’ve been corresponding with my fifteen-year- old sister?”
“No. I’ve been leaving your fifteen-year- old sister on read when she sent TikToks of people dancing, about which I care nothing, or TikToks about roller derby, about which I care, astonishingly, even less. But a couple of weeks ago she texted me about you. So I replied.”
I’m slowly recovering from the near stroke. Easton is here. On my side of the bed, without even taking off her shoes. We haven’t talked in ages. Millennia.
It’s possible that I’m annoyed.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Shouldn’t you be in Colorado?”
“Shouldn’t, shmouldn’t.”
My eyes narrow. Maybe annoyed is not the right word. “I’m surprised you were able to pry yourself away from college, since you love it so much.” I sound so acid, I nearly wince.
Her head tilts. “I don’t remember ever saying anything like that.”
“You didn’t need to say it.”
“You read my mind?”
“I read your Instagram.”
“Ah, yes.” She nods sagely. “I do bare my heart and confess my deepest pains to Instagram.”
I lower my eyes, feeling like an idiot of the pettiest kind.