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“I dunno, man.” He shrugs. “She’s blond. You’re blond. And she’s way too hot to be your girlfriend.”
I stiffen. Surely I misheard.
“Mallory is a chess player,man.” Oz’s tone drips disdain. Whatever antipathy he may harbor toward me, the Office Intruder, it’s nothing compared with what he feels for this guy.
He doesn’t hate me, after all. I might even be his best friend. How heartwarming.
“If you say so.” His English is perfect, if slightly accented. Vaguely Northern European. “Well, honey, this party is for people who won all their matches, so . . . wait.” He leans back, making a show of studying me. “Are you the girl who trashed Sawyer at the charity tournament?”
“I— ”
“Yes, you are. Guys, this is the chick who humiliated Sawyer!”
I’m not sure what’s happening, or why, but the group of people (men, all men) Northern Europe was chatting with give us interested glances, then make their way to us.
“What did you do before the game?” a tall man in his thirties asks. His accent is so thick, I can barely make out the words. “I need that kind of luck.”
“Was Sawyer having a really bad day?”
“Were you wearing something low- cut? Is that the trick?”
“Does he know she’s here?”
“Well, she’s still alive. So, clearly no.”
Everyone laughs, and I am . . . paralyzed. Mortified. They’re staring like I’m a barely sentient slab of meat, and I feel like a daft child,on display, out of place in my flowy lace sundress. I’m no withering flower, and over my years with Bob I’ve had my fair share of sparring with older, sexist men, but these people are just so— so blatantly,openlyrude, I’m not even sure how I should be responding to—
“Excuse us”— Oz grabs my elbow and tugs me away— “we’re going to go find some food and maybe people who aren’ttotal assholes.”
“Oh, come on, Nothomb!”
“Learn to take a joke.”
“Let her stay— bet she wants to get to know us!”
I stumble after Oz, mouth dry, hands shaking. He drags me all the way to the other side of the room, to a table laden with hors d’oeuvres. I think I’m shell- shocked. “Whowerethey?”
“Malte Koch and his minions.”
I shake my head. Rack my brain. His name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite point—
“He’s been world number two for the last couple of years. And an asshole since birth, one can only assume. The slightly older guy who asked if Sawyer knows you’re here is Cormenzana, number seven, the tall Serbian is Dordevic, somewhere around thirty, but the others are about as consequential as a block of concrete with googly eyes. Little shits whose claim to fame is licking Koch’s anus.” He rolls his eyes and reaches blindly for a bacon- stuffed mushroom. Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, an emotional eater. “I had no intention of introducing you.No oneshould ever talk to them. Their place is on a top- secret mining colony on Mars, if you ask me. Sadly, no one ever asks.” He chews on his mushroom for a moment and then mumbles a stilted “Sorry about that.”
I wonder if it’s the first apology of his life. It sure sounds like it. “It’s not your fault. But that was . . . I think I hate them?”
“Yeah, I’ll get you the club’s laminated badge.” He studies me. “Are you going to cry?”
“No.”
“Are you going to pass eye water?”
“No. I’m fine. I just . . .” I lean against the wall behind me. “Are they like that with all women?”
Oz snorts. “Look around. How many women do you see?” I don’t need to look around. Instead I reach out for a piece of Brie melted on a crust of bread. “Most women in chess decide to skip these events and compete in women- only tournaments. I bet you’re wondering why.”
“Total mystery.” I put my cheese on a napkin. I have no appetite. “What did it mean, that thing about me being alive?”
He sighs. “Koch and his gangloveit that you made a fool out of Sawyer, because they hate him. But they also hate that you beat him in one go, because Koch fancies himself to be Sawyer’s lifelong rival.”
