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Another smirk. “Then yes, it is.”
I want to cut his brake lines. Just a little bit.
“You know,” he continues casually, “I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. I find that there’s a natural order to things.”
I look up and smile sweetly. “I like it better when men shut their mouths and stuff their rooks up their asses, but clearly we can’t always get what we want.”
Koch’s smile widens. He lifts his hand to signal to the tournament director to come closer. “Excuse me, could you ask Ms. Greenleaf to avoid using profane language?”
The director gives me a withering look. “Ms. Greenleaf. You’re new here, but you must follow the rules. Like everybody else.”
“But— ” I snap my mouth shut, cheeks heating.
I’m going to kill him. I am going to murder Malte Koch. Or I’ll do the next best thing: annihilate his damn king.
Probably.
Maybe.
If I manage to.
The worst part is— I’m not surprised to hear that he’s number two in the world. He’s anexcellentplayer. I try to pin his queen, but he weasels out. I try to take control of the center, but he pushes me back. I try to wreck his defense line, but not only does he field my attempts, but he also mounts an attack of his own that almost has my king in check.
This is a very dangerous player,I tell myself.
On top of being the worst sack of shit you’ve ever met, a voice inside me adds. I let out a silent huff of a laugh, and play even more aggressively.
Our game lasts long past the other. Seventy minutes in, and we’re still battling. I have his queen, but he got my rook and my knight, and a dense, concrete- like dread starts churning at the bottom of my stomach. I break a sweat. The back of my neck is hot, hair sticky against my skin.
“What are you doing here? Came to see how it’s done?” Koch’s tone is low enough that the mics won’t pick it up. He’s not talking to me.
“She’ll have you in less than five moves,” a deep, assured voice says from behind me. I recognize it but don’t turn around, not even when I hear footsteps fading away.
Sawyer’s in the midst of some delusion. I’m nowhere near winning. There’s next to nothing I can do with this position. Then again, Koch’s pretty much at the same . . .
Oh.
Oh.
It suddenly makes sense.In less than five moves.Yes. Yes, I only have to—
I move my pawn. A silent, safe move, but Koch’s eyes narrow. He has no idea what I’m doing, and I’ve trained him to expect backdoor attacks. He studies the board like it’s a WW2 cypher, and I sit back and relax. I take my pen, annotate my move, attempt a portrait of Goliath on the scorecard to kill time. That stupid beast has truly infiltrated my heart—
Koch moves his knight. I immediately respond with my bishop, confusing him even more. Repeat that, with minimal variations, again, and again, until . . .
“Time’s up,” the director says. Koch looks up, wide eyed, thin lipped. My intentions dawn on him. “It’s a draw. Black moves forward.”
Koch’s jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. He’s staring at me like I just stole his lunch money and bought myself a feather boa with it. Which, let’s be real, I kind of did.
Sudden death, I mouth at him.
“You tricked me,” he spits out.
“Why? Are you annoyed by it?”
“Yes!”
I smile. “Then yes. I tricked you.”
