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“Lucia Montresor,Ansa. Nolan, how is your playing shape compared with the Pasternak?”
He half huffs, half winces. “Can’t possibly be worse, can it?”
More laughter. Nolan hasn’t changed much since that talk show interview several years ago, the one that makes me think of Mrs. Agarwal and baking soda. He’s still charismatic, almost despite himself. He still doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t mind admitting to it, and yet manages to navigate the questions in a relaxed, charming, uncomplicated way.
I look at himnotlooking at me, and my heart squeezes.
“And a question for Mallory: This was your breakout year. How does it feel, being here?”
“It’s . . .” Everyone turns to me. Except for Nolan, who keeps looking straight ahead into the crowd.
He hates me. For what I said. For leaving. I screwed up, and he hates me, and he’s right.
“It’s an honor.” I attempt a smile. “I am happy and grateful.”
“AFP, Etienne Leroy— question for both. You two have close family members who used to play chess at high levels but are not here anymore. Does that make your championship more meaningful?”
I stiffen. I can’t talk about Dad. Or: the last month has shown me that I can talk about Dad, but I don’twantto talk about Dad in front of dozens of people who—
“Nope,” Nolan says flatly, saving us both. The moderator picks another journalist, and I’m flooded with relief.
“Reuters— Chasten. Nolan, there is a rumor that Ms. Greenleaf was part of your team of assistants before the cheating scandal came to light and she became the challenger. Care to confirm or deny?”
“Not particularly, no.”
Laughter.
“Either way, some say that having been your second will give Ms. Greenleaf an unfair advantage.”
Nolan shrugs. “Ifsomethink that she needs an unfair advantage, then they need to pay better attention when she plays.”
The room drops into murmured quiet. My heart beats into my ears.
“Mallory, Fox News. You are thefirst womanto make it to the World Championship. What do you attribute it to?”
“I just . . .” I bit into my lip. “Only to the fact that I had a nontraditional path to chess. And didn’t have to suffer through the sexism of this environment as much as most female players do. Didn’t have a chance to get discouraged.”
“So you don’t think you’re better than all the women who came before you?”
“No, not at all. I— ”
“Then, since you have never even been part of a supertournament, what makes you qualified to beheretoday? Whyyouand not someone else?”
I swallow. “I just . . .”
Nothing. I got lucky. It’s a mistake. I’m not good enough and—
“Man”—Nolan snorts into the mic— “sheliterallywon the qualifying tournament to be here. Keep up, will you?”
Fox News lowers his eyes, chastised. I glance at Nolan, who really works the crowd like a stand-up comedian. People laugh, and a couple even clap, because they find him amusing and like him even when he’s not likable. I want to scream at them,I know. I’ve been there.
I still am.
“Mallory? AFP again. Does your past romantic relationship with Nolan make this championship more complicated for you? Will it in any way affect your play?”
Well.
Probably stupid of me, but I really didn’t think they would go there. And I’m positive the moderator didn’t, either, because I feel him tense next to me.
