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“Unfortunately, the rule is phrased broadly,” Russel explains. “I wouldn’t enforce it if it were up to me, but if Ms. Greenleaf’s opponent— Mr. Koch— asks us to do so . . .”
“This is bullshit.” Sawyer returns the sheet, unimpressed.
“What, Sawyer?” Koch says. The smirking intensifies. “You scared I’m going to beat you?”
Is this the reason Sawyer is siding with me on this? Because he considers me the least dangerous opponent? Tendrils of disappointment curl in my belly, but I remind myself that I don’t care— about chess, or about the man- boys who play it.Faking. I’m faking this.
“Just shut the fuck up, Koch,” Sawyers drawls, more annoyed than angry, like Koch is a mosquito he’s swatting away. “If you eliminate Mallory,” he says, like he has a right to my name, like he can say a word and make me blush, “I won’t play.”
Russel pales. Having the best player step away from your tournament is probably not a good look. “If you forfeit, Mr. Koch will automatically win first prize.”
“Sounds good to me,” Koch says.
Sawyer is silent for a moment. Then he shakes his head bitterly. His jaw clenches, and I expect him to do what he’s known for: Yell. Make a scene. Break some stuff.
He doesn’t, though. He turns to me with a long, unreadable look. Then mutters, “I hate this shit,” and starts up the stage, taking his place once more.
Russel deflates with relief. I barely resist the temptation to trip Koch as he follows Sawyer up the stage.
“Gross,” Defne tells me. Her eyes are on the live- feed monitors as the match commences. “What a douchebag.”
“Yeah. Honestly, we should leave. I don’t want to watch Koch play . . . Wait. What’s Sawyer doing?”
He moves his queen knight in a weird pattern. Forward and back, and then again. A bunch of useless, silent moves— while Koch mounts an attack in earnest. With White.
“He’s . . .” Defne’s grin unfurls slowly. “Oh, Nolan. You little shit.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Giving Koch a two- moves odds.”
“What’s that?”
She covers her laugh with one hand. The room is a mess of whispers. “He’s telling Koch that he can beat him, even with a handicap.”
“That’s . . .”
“Some serious shade.”
“And reckless. I mean . . . what if he loses?”
He doesn’t. Lose, that is. He wins in a number of moves that can only be described as embarrassing— mostly for Koch, who’s still flushed with rage during the awards ceremony, when Russel the Tournament Director Who’s About to Develop a Drinking Problem hands Sawyer a fifty- thousand- dollar check.
My eyes bulge out so hard, I’ll probably need surgery. “Fiftythousanddollars?”
“Well, it’s just an open tournament,” Defne explains. “I know it’s small, but— ”
“It’s a bucketload of money!” I nearly choke on my saliva. I hadn’t expected the prizes to be this high. Whatisthis, OnlyFans?
I can’t help following Sawyer’s movements as he nips off the stage. The press immediately crowds him, starts asking questions, but a raised hand from him has them instantly backingoff, like they’re alarmed by this historically mercurial, unpredictable twenty- year- old. And then . . .
Then, a beautiful girl with long black hair runs toward him, and he’s hugging her. I see her laugh, I see him half smile, I see him drape an arm over her shoulder and head for the exit. I look away, because . . . wouldn’t want to meet his eyes and end up with my soul devoured. I’m musing over how miserable his girlfriend must be, what with the temper and Baudelaire rumors, when a dark- haired young woman in a BBC badge approaches me. I open my mouth to sayNo,pleaseno, don’t make me do this, don’t make me give an interview, but she talks first. “Mallory? I’m Eleni Gataki. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“I don’t really . . .”
She follows my gaze to her badge. “I’m not here for— I’m just an intern.”
“Oh.” I relax.
