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There’s a forty-five-minute break before the final, which I spend with Defne and Oz on a patch of grass shaded by the hibiscus bushes. The high of owning Koch fades fast, and another kind of dread rises.
My next match is against Sawyer. And because my brain is made of applesauce, I can’t stop thinking about his sternexpression. The chlorine- thick air curling the hair on his neck. His full lips almost moving, as though he was ready to say something—
“First tournament, and you get to the final,” Oz mumbles, angrily splitting a twig in a million pieces. “Damn child prodigies.”
“I’m eighteen,” I point out.
“You are a chesschild. An infant. I could shove my nipple in your mouth and you wouldn’t be able to latch on to it.”
Defne’s eyebrow lifts. “I didn’t know you lactated, Oz.”
“All I’m saying, she’sunjustlybrilliant. Wunderkinds are so déclassé. You know what’s in? Hard work. Tribulations. People like you and Sawyer, with your gifted brains and boundless talent are the real plebs.”
I exchange an amused look with Defne. Maybe I’mnotgrowing on Oz, but he’s sure growing on me.
“Have you ever played against Sawyer?” I ask him.
“Of course. Since he was a brat.”
“Ever won?”
He looks away cagily, chin high. “Not as such. But once I offered him a draw and he considered accepting.”
“What about you?” I ask Defne.
I’m almost positive her “Yeah. I have” is a bit tense.
“Any tips on how to avoid making a fool of myself?”
“Open with the Ruy Lopez or the Caro- Kann. Castle early.” She seems uncharacteristically un-chatty. Reticent. “You’ll be fine. You know what to do with Nolan.” I wonder why she calls Sawyer by his first name, when last names seem to be the norm in the chess world.
“Assuming that you evenwantto win,” Oz points out. “Since he’s pants- crappingly terrifying, rudely storms out of press conferences, punches walls, and once called an arbiter a shitstain. Plus, we all know the kind of genes that run in that family, so— ”
“Oz.” Defne’s tone is sharper than I’ve ever heard it.
“What? It’s true. About Sawyer’s grandfatherandabout Sawyer being a hotheaded asshole.”
“He was achild. He was only ever violent with Koch, which he can hardly be blamed for, and hasn’t done any of that inyears,” Defne retorts. “When he lost to Mallory, he just sat there and stared after her and . . .” Defne shrugs and holds my eyes. “No need to hold back, Mal. He’s a big boy. Whatever you’ll dish out, Nolan can take it.” Her smile is faint. “He probablywantsit.”
I doubt Nolan No Emotional Regulation Skills Sawyer wants anything from me. I’m probably working myself up for nothing, and he barely knows that I exist, doesn’t remember we ever played, and stared at me last night only because I was bathing half- naked in the pool, like some nutty girl who talks with lampposts.
The match will be fine. Uneventful. Not a big deal. A micro deal. Nano deal. I’m probably going to lose, because Nolan Sawyer is Nolan Sawyer, and although the competitive part of my brain (i.e., all of it) hates the idea, it doesn’t matter. I amfaking my waythrough this fellowship—
“Mallory, do you have a moment?”
Someone pushes a mic into my face the second I’m back in the tournament room. The press seems to have tripled— or maybe it feels like it, because the journalists from earlier are crowding around me, asking what my background is, if I’m training at Zugzwang, what my strategy for the final match is, and my personal favorite: “How does it feel to be a woman in chess?”
“Excuse us,” Defne says, smiling politely, then slides between me and the cameras, and weaves us through the crowd. Photos are taken, requests for comments are made, and there’s only one escape route.
Up the stage.
Sawyer is already there. Waiting. Sitting on Black, tracking all my movements. His eyes on me are unsettling. There’s something too sharp, too ravenous, almost acquisitive about them. Like the match is an afterthought, andIam what he came here for.
The only possible explanation is that he does hate me. He’s thrilled to have me where he can easily rip me to shreds— revenge for that time I defeated him. He’s going to chop me into pieces, smear me with balsamic vinegar, and relish every bite.
Calm down. It’s your overactive imagination. Like when you see birds in the sky and can’t help but wonder if they’re a family of vultures circling above your head.Thick, warm tension coils inside me. Sawyer is an intense guy. He probably does dislike me, but just a little. Leisurely. As a side gig.
I force myself to go to him, step after step after step. Flashes click and the crowd buzzes and I finally get to the White side of the table.
