Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Sounds right.”

            She huffs, picks up the tortilla chip bowl, then steps right between us to march out of the kitchen. We watch her walk away, all blond waves and excellent posture, and then—Jack steps closer again. Very close. Maybe too close. He leans down to kiss my forehead.

            “Hi.”

            I can’t look away from his eyes. “Hi.”

            We stay like that, silent, for what’s probably too long. I can smell his clean skin, his woodsy shampoo, the red flannel I chose this morning from his closet. I don’t feel like saying anything, so I don’t, not for a long time, not until he asks, “You ready to play?”

            “Oh. Play . . . what?”

            “You’ll see.” His smile makes my heart vibrate. “You’ll love it, too.”

            He’s right. Even if for a moment, after Jack’s friend Diego has explained Blitz Go to me—“Usual rules, but ten seconds per move”—I consider asking to be left out of the tournament.

            “That’s very little time.” I chew on my lip. “Maybe I shouldn’t—”

            “Just go with your instincts,” Jack whispers in my ear. He can, because he’s right behind me. Or maybe it’s vice versa: I’m the one who’s sitting between his open legs, because I’ve counted eighteen people in here, and not nearly enough seats. “She can sit here with me while I play my first match,” he tells Diego. “To learn.”

            Everybody can see how Jack’s hand slides under my shirt and flattens against my abdomen, a solid, pleasant weight against my skin. The way he forgets to move because he’s busy staring at me. “Dude,” Diego calls him out the second time it happens.

            “Right,” Jack says, unruffled, and I spend the next two turns blushing and fidgeting in his lap, till his grip tightens on me and his words in my ear are a distracted “Be good.”

            Something scalding and liquid blooms inside me.

            Jack still wins. And I must get the hang of it, because I win mine, too. I win a practice match against George, who bought four types of cheese because Jack told her it’s all I eat. I win against Sunny. I win against another person whose name I don’t recall. I win against Andrea in just a handful of moves. “Easy to advance when you’re the only sober person in the room,” she mutters, some teeth behind it, but when I say “You’re not wrong,” she bursts into laughter and tips her glass at me, and I’m sure I imagined the hostility. There’s wine, beer, shots, academic horror stories, a whiteboard in front of George’s fireplace with the brackets written on it, and somewhere around midnight Blitz Go becomes my favorite thing in the world. I’m having fun. Genuinely having lots of fun.

            When Sunny announces the final match, her words are slurred. A frame with George’s wedding photo is poorly balanced on her head. “The two people who haven’t lost a game yet are . . . Jack, of course—fuck you, Jack, for making our lives so boring, you periodic-motion poster child—and, drumroll please . . . Elsie! Elsie, please, at least once in my life I want the opportunity to see this smug-ass face lose at something.”

            “I lost at number of urine sample jars on my desk,” he points out.

            The frame drops softly into the carpet. Sunny grasps my hand. “Avenge me, Elsie. Please.”

            I nod solemnly, taking a seat on the side of the black. Jack picks up a stone and leans back in the chair, eyes glued on me, the blue as bright as the sea, a small smile on his lips.

            “And so we meet again,” he says, loud enough for everyone, and I tune out the way his friends whistle and cheer for me, how they fall silent as we squeeze every last second from each turn. Whenever I look up, Jack’s already looking at me. I remember the first time we played, at Millicent’s house, and wonder if it was the first of many. Wonder if Jack owns a board. Wonder if he keeps it in his study. Wonder why, when he looks at me, I forget how scared I am to be seen.

            Wonder why when I win, he seems as happy as I feel.

            “Well played,” he says, ignoring the way everyone is ribbing him for breaking his eight-month streak.

            I nod. Suddenly, again, I’m all heartbeat.

            I duck inside the bathroom, high on victory. When I slip out, George is right there, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus.”