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“Nolan’s also not in it.”
“But we did invite him. He declined.”
“Yeah, we don’t hate Sawyer. Though he did used to be a little shit,” Petek says.
“He just used to be a teenager,” Kawamura says. More laughter. The mix of accents and intonations is almost musical, and it makes me feel a little uncultured. I barely speak English. I don’t really know the difference betweenlayandlie,and I keep forgetting when to stick an apostrophe inyour.
“But Sawyer is not important, you see,” Davies explains. “We can’t beat him— no one can, except for you. So we like to pretend he doesn’t exist.”
Petek clears his throat and turns to me conspiratorially, voice pitched low. “Please don’t tell Sawyer I said that he used to be a little shit. He’s really fit, and I have a wife and two beautiful daughters back home who would really miss me. I’m teaching them to play chess, and they were rooting for you during our game. They wouldn’t mind an autograph, actually.”
“Why would I tell . . . Oh.Oh. No, Nolan and I . . . we’re not really dating. We’re barely friends. Don’t believe the press.”
“I usually don’t. But I thought that might be true, since he showed up for the Challengers. He usually doesn’t. My apologies. Would you like to see a photo of my family?”
Like it’s becoming a habit of mine, I lean forward to see the picture, and pretend I didn’t hear the rest.
The match between Koch and me is delayed, because the livestreaming demands are record high and something needs to be done to adjust FIDE’s website’s capacity. It takes about twenty minutes to fix it, which I spend in the lounge, eyes closed. I try to think about nothing, but flashes of critical positions pop up behind my eyelids, snatches of earworms I cannot purge.
Koch and I are alone on the stage. I’m wearing the longsleeved white maxi dress that Darcy and Sabrina call “myCorpse Brideoutfit,” purely because it’s Mom’s favorite.
I think I need a hug.
But I also think I might be able to win this, if I manage not to go all Bob Ross over my score sheet.
I do what Tanil (God, it’s catchy) recommended and open with the Ruy Lopez. It’s the opening Koch has the worst track record with, and I’m happy to be playing White. He answers with the Berlin variation, and I reply with the anti- Berlin. A couple more moves, and Koch castles short.
That’s when the problems start.
“Touch- move. Bishop,” he says when I’m in the process to move my knight.
I look up. It is, I realize, the first time I’ve looked at him since the game started. My contempt for him is almost physical. “Excuse me?”
“Touch- move. If you touch a piece, you have to move it. I know you’re not familiar with chess rules, but— ”
“I barely brushed against the bishop with the back of my finger.”
“That’s touching, isn’t it?”
The audience cannot hear us, but they can see us talk, and there are curious murmurs creeping up to the stage. Koch is well aware that this is a stupid moment to call touch- take, but I can see exactly what he wants me to do: turn to the tournament director and kick up a fuss. Since I’ll be the one having to defend myself, he’s hoping that whatever happens next will upset me enough to destabilize the rest of my game.
I’m not saying he’s the worst human being in the world. I’m sure there are worse ones hanging out on 8chan or on the board of directors of British Petroleum. But Malte Koch is, quite frankly, the shittiest person I’ve ever met.
I exhale and look at my bishop. I didn’t plan to move it, but . . .
But.
Defne is a fan of attacking the king with the bishop pair. She just loves that stuff, to the point that I’ve studied a bunch of games with it. Which means that . . .
I press my lips together and advance my bishop.
“Here,” I smile sweetly, activating his clock. His eyes widen in shock, and it feels good.
I gain the upper hand quickly. No chance to finalize the game, but minutes go by, then hours, and I’m the one showing the most initiative, dominating the center, building attacks on the sides. Koch is, and it hurts my brain and my heart to admitit, an excellent positional player, able to fend off the little locks I lay out, the threats I prepare, the combinations I orchestrate. He doesn’t, however, think as far ahead as I do, and it’s just a matter of time before I have him.
He might know it, too. He’s starting to get nervous, judging by how much he stands to pace around. He’s a fidgety player, but this is a lot, even for him.
I feel an optimistic, voracious sort of hope bloom inside me. I’m going to do this. Icando this. I am going to the World Championship. I’ll play against . . .
