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“A problem, since Ireallywant to play against you.”
I shiver, because it feels like he’s saying something else. Like . . .
I don’t know.
“You already have.”
“Once.”
“Once was enough.”
“Once wasnothing. I need more.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d love to play. Who’d probablypayjust to sit across from you.”
“But I want you, Mallory.”
I swallow heavily, then look away. He’s right— I already broke all my no-chess-outside-work rules. So why am I resisting this so hard?
Maybe it’s because I’ve seen him play. I’ve seen him be brilliant, read positions with a glance, do things I can’t even understand. If we played, I’d lose. And yes, I hate losing, but this is hardly a fair match. So the number one player in the world is better than this year’s reluctant Zugzwang fellow. Big deal. As newsworthy as being slower than Michael Phelps in the 200m butterfly.
Maybe something else bothers me, then. Not that I’ll lose, but that he’llknowthat I lost.
Yes. This . . . interest, obsession, fascination he seems to havewith me came because I beat him.Once. I’m innately good at chess, but I’m not better than someone who’s just as innately goodandhas had decades of professional training. We’d play, he’d win, and then I’d be just like everyone else: someone Nolan Sawyer defeated.
His captivation with me would instantly wane, and—
That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? I don’t like Nolan Sawyer showing up to my house and talkingRiverdalewith my sisters, do I? I should agree to play, and end whateverthisis.
And yet.
“No,” I hear myself say.
His jaw works. “Right, then.” He relaxes and reaches across the glass bottles, chess pieces, half- eaten bags of chips, grabbing a pencil and a German Chess Federation flier. “Sit down.”
“I told you, I— ”
“Please,” he says, and something in his tone stops me. I try to remember the last time I heard him say it. A simple word,please. Isn’t it?
“Fine.” I sit— across from him, as distant as possible. This is what I get for refusing pizza. “But I’m not going to play, so— ”
“Chess.”
“What?”
“You said you wouldn’t play chess. You didn’t mention anything else, so . . .” He turns the flier to me. He has drawn a three-by-three grid, put an X through a space, and . . .
I laugh. “Tic- tac- toe?Really?”
“Unless you have Uno handy? Checkers? Operation?”
“This is worse than Candy Crush.”
He smiles. Lopsided. “Don’t tell Tanu or she’ll put another pushpin under my pillow.”
“Another?”I shake my head, amused. “You can’t really want to play tic- tac- toe.”
He shrugs and takes a long swig of his IPA. “We could raise the stakes. Make it fun.”
