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She smells amazing. Lavender, I think. “I’m . . . not sure what that is.”
“Phew.”
“Greenleaf, this is Tanu Goel. Shealsohas no idea what fantasy football is,” Emil says. “And of course you know Nolan. From trashing him back in the summer.”
I glance at Nolan. He doesn’t seem to mind being reminded— the opposite, in fact. Which, in itself, is annoying. I want to be the thorn in his side that he is in mine. I want him to dream ofmystupid eyes.
“You guys know each other?” I say, glancing between Nolan and Emil.
“Unfortunately,” they say at the same time, before exchanging a long, brotherly look, and that’s when it occurs to me.
Nolan is on the team.
Nolan is coming to Toronto.
With us.
To play chess.
At the Olympics.
Emil never told me. Because I never asked. We’ve been in touch to arrange flights and accommodations, but I always figured that whoever the fourth member turned out to be, I wouldn’t have heard of them.
Because Defne told me that all Super Grandmasters would skip the Olympics and go to the Pasternak.
Because I’m an idiot.
A very rattled idiot, who has to deal with her rattledness through security and boarding. I’m not the self- conscious type, but I feel like the odd man out with these three. They’re warm (except for Nolan, who’s his usual inscrutable self) and try to involve me in conversation (except for Nolan, who’s his usual quiet self), but it’s clear that they’ve spent years memorizing each other. Their inside jokes are indecipherable, hidden behind a thick bramble of unparseable references. Their dynamics, too, seem to be a well- beaten path—severalpaths, made of shifting alliances and a healthy dose of roasting.
“Is she seriously buying that?” Emil asks when Tanu picks up a pack of Werther’s Original. “Howoldare you?”
“Leave her alone,” Nolan murmurs, paying for the Werther’s and peanut M&M’s with a black credit card. “They’re out of Jell-O salad.”
Not five minutes later two separate groups recognize Nolan as “that chess guy in all the TikToks.” It leads to selfies, autographs, and two beautiful women hastily writing down their phone numbers on Sbarro napkins, like he’s Justin Bieber or something. Tanu and Emil pretend to stand in line, audibly asking, “Sir, I’m your biggest fan. I love the way you always castle on your fourth move. Will you please sign my underwear?” (Nolan is surprisingly good- natured through all of this; he also immediately throws away the napkins.)
Then, while waiting for takeoff, Emil starts playing Candy Crush on his phone. “Are you for real?” Tanu asks. She’s half leaning back against Nolan’s chest, his arm casually wrapped around her waist. I’ve been avoiding looking at them, telling myself that I don’t care what they’ve been murmuring about in hushed, intimate tones. “We are scholars of the most sophisticated game in the world and you playCandy Crush? Nolan, say something.”
He shrugs. “Seems unfair to kick him when he’s so clearly down.”
“Candy Crush is actually a highly intelligent game,” Emil insists. “There’sstrategyinvolved.”
Tanu groans. “Oh my God. Excuse me, Mallory, can we switch seats? I need to tell Emil how wrong he is. I need it right now.”
Which is how I find myself in the window seat next to Nolan,Tanu and Emil arguing loudly over jelly bean colors on the other side of the aisle. I study his profile, suddenly intimidated. Then I remember that he once came over to shoot my mom’s meat loaf up his veins and asked Sabrina whether Jughead was “a first or last name.”
“So, what’s the deal here?”
He turns to me, puzzled.
“Are the three of you in some polyamorous relationship?”
“Did you just ask if I’m sleeping withbothour teammates?” He lifts one eyebrow. “I’m going to FIDE’s HR.”
“What? No— don’t go to HR.”
“You’re overstepping, Mal.”
“Youcame to my house and atemanyof my ice cream sandwiches.”
