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“Are you okay?” a voice asks in my ear. Nolan. He just finished his game. “Mal?”
I thrust a trembling hand out to Dordevic. “Draw?” I offer. It’s the first time.
His expression shifts from confused, to distrustful, to relieved when he accepts. We both know that if we’d continued, I’d have won, but— I can’t. Not now.
“Not such a good talent, after all?” He sniggers. I’m alreadyrunning to the bathroom when I hear Nolan calling him a shithead.
I wash my face, shuddering. I remind myself that it’s fine, because nothing happened. It was years ago.Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing—
“What’s wrong?” Nolan asks the second I step out of the bathroom. He’s been waiting for me, and I nearly face- plant into his chest.
“I . . . Sorry about the draw.”
“I don’t care. Who was that arbiter?”
Shit. He noticed. “No one. I just . . .” I step around him, but one hand closes around my upper arm.
“Mallory. You’re not okay. What just happened?” His tone is firm.
But so is mine. “I need a minute, Nolan. Can you please— ”
“Mr. Sawyer?” A group of players approaches us. “We’re huge fans. Any chance we could get an autograph— ”
I seize the opportunity and slip away from Nolan, from Heather Turcotte, from chess. At the hostel, I lock myself into my room, lie down, take deep breaths to clear my mind.
Maybe, if you’d minded your own business, none of this would have—
No.
I empty my mind again, this time for good, and slowly fall into a dreamless, blessed sleep.
I wake up in the middle of the night, feeling more like myself. When I sneak out to use the bathroom, I find a brown bag outside my door. Inside are a sandwich, a Fanta, and a pack of Twizzlers.
The last day is the perfect combination of challenging chess, high stakes, and teamwork. We already know we don’t have enough points for the gold, but if we play our cards right, we can still make the podium.
And we do. I make the executive decision to put the events of the previous day out of my mind and focus on the play. My opponent tries the Muzio Gambit. I’m briefly confused, then remember going over it with Defne and know exactly what to do. We don’t quite kick Russia’s ass, but we spank it a little bit. At the medal ceremony, we all squeeze onto the lowest step of the podium, the national anthem mixing with the camera clicks in my ears. Tanu pulls me to her, Emil shouts, “It’s whatwe do!” and Nolan gives us a half- pleased, half- reproachful look. I feel part of something. Like I haven’t in a long, long time.
It’s a stupid chess tournament. I swore I wouldn’t care, and yet I feel happy. In the crowd, I spot Eleni Gataki from the BBC giving me the thumbs-up, and wave back at her, bemused. I guess I’m starting to know people in the chess world.
“Come, Mal—the press wants to interview us,” Tanu calls afterward.
“Oh . . . Actually, I’d rather not.”
“Why? It’sCNN! This is how Anderson Cooper becomes my bestie!”
“I think he already has Andy Cohen. ”
“You have to come,” she insists. “You’re the reason we won. Oh, lower that eyebrow, Emil, you know it’s true!”
“Really, I’m fine.”
“But— ”
“She doesn’t want to,” Nolan says, tone calm but final. I send him a grateful look. He stares back like either he didn’t notice or he doesn’t care about my gratitude. I’m pondering my frustrating, utter inability to read him, when someone taps my shoulder.
“Ms. Greenleaf.” It’s an older man in a gray suit. His beard is garden- gnome- long, his accent from somewhere I cannot place. “May I congratulate you on your victory?”
“Oh . . . sure.” I search for a non- rude way to ask him who he is and find none. “It was a team effort.”
