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I’m not decisive enough, except when I’msodecisive, 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 fromThe Cutin 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 withmy damn faceon 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. Idon’t deserve this. I’m shit with the Night Attack against the Caro- Kann. I heard the wordsFirst woman at the World Chess Championshiponce, 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 justmyself? 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?”
