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Well.Againstme.
A blink and it goes away. He moves his queen. Takes my bishop. Stops the clock.
I move my knight. Capture his pawn. Stop the clock.
Queen. Clock.
Knight, again. My mouth is dry. Clock.
Rook. Clock.
Pawn. I swallow, twice. Clock.
Rook takes pawn. Clock.
King.
It takes Sawyer a couple of seconds to realize what has happened. A few beats to map all the possible scenarios in his head, all the possible roads this game could take. I know it, because I see him lift his hand to move his own queen, as though it could possibly make a difference, as though he could wiggle his way out of my attack. And I know it, because I have to clear my throat before I say,
“I . . . Checkmate.”
That’s when he lifts his eyes to mine for the first time. They are dark, and clear, and serious. And they remind me of a few important, long- forgotten things.
When Nolan Sawyer was twelve, he placed third at a tournament because of an arguably unfair arbitral decision on castling short, and in response he wiped the chess pieces off the board with his arm. When he was thirteen, he placed second at the very same tournament— this time, he flipped an entire table. When he was fourteen, he got into a screaming match with Antonov over either a girl or a denied draw (rumors disagree), and I can’t recall how old he was when he called a former world champion a fuckwhit for trying to pull an illegal move during a warm-up game.
I do recall, however, hearing the story and having no idea what a fuckwhit might be.
Each time, Sawyer was fined. Reprimanded. The object of scathing op-eds on chess media. And each time, he was welcomed back to the chess community with open arms, because here’s the deal: for over a decade Nolan Sawyer has been rewriting chess history, redefining standards, bringing attention to the sport. Where’s the fun in playing, if the best is left out? And if the best sometimes acts like a douchebag . . . well. It’s all forgiven.
But not forgotten. Everyone in the community knows that Nolan Sawyer is a terrible, moody, ill- tempered ball of toxic masculinity. That he’s the poorest loser in the history of chess. In the history of any sport. In the history ofhistory.
Which, because he just lost against me, is possibly going to develop into a problem.
For the first time since the match started, I realize that a dozen people are standing around us, whispering to each other. I want to ask them what they’re looking at, if I have a nosebleed, a wardrobe malfunction, a tarantula on my ear, but I’m too busy staring at Sawyer. Tracking his movements. Making sure he won’t hurl the chess clock at me. I’m not one to be easily intimidated, but I’d rather avoid a checkmate- induced traumatic brain injury if he decides to smash a foldable chair on my head.
Though, surprisingly, he seems content to just study me. Lips slightly parted and eyes bright, like I’m simultaneously something odd and familiar and puzzling and larger than life and—
He looks. After ignoring me for twenty- five moves, he justlooks. Calm. Inquisitive. Upsettinglynotangry. Something funny occurs to me: top players are always given cutesy nicknames bythe press. The Artist. The Picasso of Chess. The Gambit Mozart. Nolan’s nickname?
The Kingkiller.
The Kingkiller leans forward, ever so slightly, and his intense, awestruck expression feels much more threatening than a folding chair to my head.
“Who— ” he starts, and I cannot bear it.
“Thank you for the game,” I blurt out, and then, even though I should shake his hand, sign the scorecard, play three more games— despite all of that, I leap to my feet.
No shame in retreating your pieces if you’re being pinned and can get out, Dad used to say.No shame in knowing the limits of your game.
My chair falls to the ground as I run away. I hear the grating sound, and still don’t stop to pick it up.
“Mal?”
“Mal.”
“Maaaaaaal!”
I blink awake. Darcy’s nose is pressed up against mine, eyes Galápagos- blue in the morning light.
