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“I’m not going to play for money.”
“I don’t want your money. What about questions?”
“Questions?”
“If I win, I get to ask you a question,anyquestion, and you answer. And vice versa.”
“What could you possibly want to ask me that— ”
“Deal?”
It seems like a bad idea, but I can’t pinpoint why, so I nod. “Deal. Five minutes. Then I’m turning in.” I pluck the pencil from his fingers and write down my O.
The first three games are draws. The fourth goes to me, and I smile ferociously. I do love to win. “So I get a question?”
“If you want.”
I’m not sure what to ask, but I don’t want to forfeit my prize. I wrack my brain for a moment, then settle on, “What’s the Challengers tournament?”
His arches an eyebrow. “Your question to me is something you could easily google?” I feel slightly embarrassed, but he continues. “It’s the tournament that determines which player will face the current world chess champion.”
“Which would be you?”
“At the moment.”
I snort softly. “And for the past six years.”
“And for the past six years.” There is no boast in his voice. No pride. But it occurs to me for the first time that he became world champion at the same age I left chess for good. And that if I’donly stuck around a couple of years longer, we’d have met much earlier. In completely different circumstances. “The Challengers has ten players, who qualify by winning other super- tournaments or are selected because of their high FIDE ratings. They compete against each other. Then, a couple of months later, the winner competes for the World Championship title.”
“The one whose prize is two million dollars?”
“Three, this year.”
My heart skips a beat. I cannot even conceive what that money would do for my family. Not that I’d win against Nolan in a multiday match. Or that I’d end up at the Challengers, since I’m not invited to super- tournaments and my rating is currently hanging out with a piece of gum under the sole of my shoe.
I grip the pen a little too forcefully and draw another grid. My mind must still be on the money, because Nolan wins the following game.
I roll my eyes. “I was distracted. You don’t really deserve— ”
“Why did you quit chess?”
I tense. “Excuse me.”
“In September, after Philly, you said your father’s death wasn’t the reason you quit chess. What is it, then?”
“We never agreed that questions would be about— ”
“We agreed toanyquestion.” He holds my eyes, a hint of a challenge in his tone. “Of course, you can always back out of the game.”
It’s exactly what I should do. Get out and leave Nolan alone with his stupid, invasive question. But I can’t make myself, and after a few seconds of lip biting and a burning desire to carve my next O into his skin, I say, “My dad and I became estranged a while”—three years, one week, and two days— “before he died. I stopped playing then.”
“Why did you become estranged?”
“That’s two questions. And if you win again, no follow-up questions are allowed.”
He frowns. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Because Isay so,” I bite out. He is quiet for a second, but he reads my tone well, because he nods.
