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He shrugs. “My dad’s an asshole. And even if he weren’t, he just doesn’t have the chess bone. When I was little, I would spend hours thinking about puzzles or Legos or toys, reasoning over them, analyzing, and he couldn’t understand why. He thought there was something wrong with me. Put me in all sorts of sports. And I was good enough at them, because I was tall and quick, but they were never . . .”
“They weren’t chess?”
He nods.
I think about Dad. About how he was the opposite, constantly pushing me toward chess. About how if he were still alive, we’d probably be just as estranged as Nolan and his father are. Vastly different paths, same results. “Do you hate your parents?”
He lets out a small laugh. “I don’t think so. I don’t thinkabout them much. Haven’t for a while.” He swallows. “Somehow, it hurts even worse.”
I reach out, sinking my hand in the pocket of his coat. He exhales, a white chuff in the late afternoon air. “It didn’t matter when my grandfather was around, because he got me. He’d been like me as a kid, or similar enough. When my parents divorced, they stopped feeling like they had to care about me. Mom remarried. Then Dad. Then his new wife got pregnant and it was almost a relief. I was an afterthought, and I could just stay with my grandfather for weeks at a time. It was just me and him. Playing, playing again. Playing some more.”
“Did you ever win?”
“Oh, no. Not for a long time. Not until I was nine or ten. Then I did, and I was almost afraid. He hated losing as much as I do. I thought he’d be mad. But . . .” He shakes his head. “I think it was the happiest I’d ever seen him.”
“So maybe hedidn’thate losing as much as you do.”
“I think . . .” He stops, and so do I. Holds my eyes. “He told me once that sometimes, with some people, it’s not about winning or losing. That with some people, it’s just about playing. Though for the longest time, I didn’t really believe him.”
“Yeah?” I look away, toward the setting sun. “I still think about losing to Koch. Every day. Every hour.”
“I know.”
“Stop reading my mind.” I poke him in the stomach. He snatches my hand and pulls me closer to him. “How doyoudeal with losses?”
“I don’t.”
“So you just feel like shit? Every time?”
“You basically have to hate losing to be a top player. Pretty sure the genes are on the same chromosome.”
“Is that why you’re a terrible loser?”
“Yup. And whyyouare one.”
I smile. “Not gonna lie, it’s validating. Growing up, I couldn’t figure out why Easton was so chill about losing all those matches. Meanwhile even draws sent me into a deep funk.”
“Easton?”
“Oh. She’s my best friend.” I swallow. “Well. Former?”
His head cocks. “Did she take your queen?”
“No. She . . . left. For college. Colorado.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. Haven’t heard from her much ever since.” I sigh. “How do you keep in touch with Tanu and Emil, again?”
“It’s not the same. Emil’s still in New York and hates the dorms, which means that he’s always at my place. And you know how Tanu is. I’d have to work hard on ditching her.”
“Yeah.” I try not to sound too jealous. “Easton finds me boring and uninteresting now that I don’t . . . I don’t even know. Play beer pong with her?”
“She told you that?”
“No. But I know it.”
“Could you be assuming?”
