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I almost turn to Nolan. Because, let’s be honest: every other hard, difficult question that might have made me stumble, he took, blocked, deflected. This one, though . . . he simply can’t. And even though I could probably deny that our relationship was ever romantic, or straight-up refuse to answer, or even tellthe truth, I’m not prepared for any of this. So I take the easy way out, and hear myself say:
“No.”
It echoes in the murmuring room like a slap, and I immediately want to take it back. I want to look at Nolan and say . . .
I don’t know what. But it’s okay, because I don’t get the chance. “Very well,” the moderator interrupts. “We seem to be pressed for time. I think we’ll call it for today, but— ”
“One last question— Trent Moles, theNew York Times. In the name of good sportsmanship, could you both say what you admire the most about your opponent’s play?”
The moderator hesitates, like he knows this question is a bad idea. But then he looks to his left. “Of course. Would you like to take it?”
Nolan wouldn’t. At least, that’s what I assume when he stays sprawled back in his seat, like we’re back in New York and he’s watching Emil fail at making sourdough, like the entire world and dozens of Instagram accounts dedicated to his hands and dimples and gambits aren’t watching like hawks.
But then he shifts. I watch him lean forward, just an inch, then another, and inhale minutely before speaking into the mic. “Every last thing,” he says. Simple. Decisive.
Heart shattering.
It’s followed by a moment of silence. For the first time, no one laughs. No one speaks. No one scribbles notes on their pad. No one raises their hand for another question.
My heart presses desperately against the borders of my chest.
The moderator clears his throat and turns to me.
“Mallory,” he asks. “What do you admire the most about Nolan’s play?”
“I . . .”
What do I admire the most? What?
He is so dynamic.
He fights to the last point, using every piece, every moment, every resource, bleeding the chessboard dry.
He is deadly and meticulous.
He is fun and interesting and unpredictable.
He is anadventure.
And that frown on his forehead, when he’s thinking about how to make the next move as nuclear and chaotic as possible. It makes me want to reach out and pull his visor- hands away. It makes me want to smooth it. It makes me want to play my own best chess and—
“Mallory?”
I look up from my Fiji water bottle. There are a million eyes on me. I swallow.
“Right. I . . .”
I am lost for words. I am overwhelmed, swept away, disoriented. And the moderator nods, then smiles kindly.
“Well, I guessheranswer is nothing.” A few forced chuckles. Then more journalists raise their hands, clamoring for one last question that isn’t to be. “Thank you for coming, everyone. Of course, we’ll have longer press conferences after each game, so I’m excited to . . .”
A FIDE employee asks me to stand. She takes my elbow to guide me off the podium. I follow her past Nolan’s chair, and when my hand brushes against his shoulder blade, I’m not sure whether it’s an accident or desperation.
I step out of the room knowing that he hasn’t looked at me a single time.
I STAY AT THE GALA FOR LESS THAN TEN MINUTES. I’Mchewing on my fifth bruschetta and craning my neck, on the lookout for broad shoulders and cropped dark curls, when Defne whisks me away with a hand on my wrist. “Okay, you made your appearance. Now we leave.” Her bright red lips stick to a polite smile as she crisscrosses me through the crowd.
“But I only just got there. And the bruschetta isamazing.”
