Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

I replay Bobby Fischer’s games, trudge through a dissertation on the pros and cons of Alekhine’s Defense, learn about the Lucena position in the rook and pawn versus rook end game. It feels like a diluted version of chess, with everything exciting sucked out of it. Like taking the tapioca balls out of bubble tea: what’s left is okay, but just tea.

I don’t care, though, because this is just a job. And it’s still just a job on Wednesday morning, when I step into my office and Oz is already there, in the same position as yesterday. I want to ask if he went home to sleep, but I won’t, because I also want to have my eyes not gouged out of my skull, so I just spend four hours reading about king safety. At lunch I go to the park and read my commute book (Love in the Time of Cholera— kinda sad). When I come back, I’m supposed to learn about pawn structure, but instead I glance furtively up at Oz— still in the same position; does he need to be watered daily?— and hide my book inside a larger one to keep on reading about Fermina’s questionable romantic choices. At four I almost pick up my bag and head to Penn Station, then remember:

W– F: Meet with GM trainer to go over weaknesses

The schedule doesn’t say where. “Oz? If you had to meet with a GM, where would you go?”

He looks up for the first time in three days— eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. He’s going to unhinge his jaw, eat me, and then dissolve me in his gastric acids. “Library,” he barks. I hurry across the hallway before I become a statistic, expecting to find the rainbow- loving Delroy. The only person inside the room is Defne, sitting at a massive wooden table.

“Hi. Maybe I’m in the wrong place. Oz said— ”

“Oz spoke?”

“Under duress.”

She nods knowingly.

“I’m supposed to meet with one of the GMs, and— ”

“That’s me.”

“Oh.” I flush. “I— I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you were— ” A GM. I flush some more. Why did I not think that? Because she looks cool? Plenty of cool people play chess— I’m not a jock from a nineties teen comedy. Because she runs the place? You need a chess player to run a chess club. Because I’d never heard about her? It’s not like we keep a copy of Chess Monthly Digest in the bathroom at home. Because she’s a woman? There are tons of women GMs.

God, is this what Easton means when she talks about internalized misogyny?

“Are you okay?” Defne asks.

“Ah. Yes.”

“You look like you’re having a pretty intense internal monologue over there. Wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“I . . .” I scratch my forehead and take a seat across from her. “I’m always having intense internal monologues. I’ve learned to tune myself out.”

“Good! How were your first few days?”

“Great.”

She studies me for a few moments. Today she’s wearing cateye eyeliner and an upper- arm bracelet shaped like a scorpion. “Let’s try again. How were your first days?”

“Great!” She keeps staring. “No, really. Great, I swear.”

“You have a bad poker face. We’ll have to work on it before tournaments.”

I frown. “Why would you think that— ”

“If something isn’t working about your training program, you should let me know.”

“Everything’s fine. I’ve been reading a lot— going through the list you gave me, searching the chess engines. It’s fun.”

“But?”

I huff out a laugh. “There’s no but.”

“But?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, I promise.” But Defne is still staring, like I’m unsuccessfully hiding a shady murderous past from her, and I hear myself add, “Just . . .”

“Just?”

“It’s . . .” Something screams at me not to tell her. If you tell her, it means that you care. Which you don’t. You can half-ass this, Mal. You can do it. “It’s just . . . If reading all this stuff is supposed to help me improve my game, I’m not sure that’s the case.” Defne’s expression is not quite as open as usual, and I don’t know whether it’s because I want her approval or just her money, but I find myself backtracking, panicky. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing! Studying’s important— reading old games, going through openings. But if one never actually plays chess . . .”

I wring my hands under the table. Defne gives me a long, level look before smiling and shrugging. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“Let’s play!”

She drags a set between us, white on my side, and adjusts the pieces. Then gestures at me to start. “No clock today, okay?”

“Ah . . . okay.”

At the start, I’m almost pumped. Reading about chess without playing has been some serious edging, a little like having a carrot dangled in front of me. Now I get to eat, and it’s going to be so damn good. Right?

Wrong. Because I realize soon enough that this is nothing like my game against Sawyer. I can’t immediately tell the difference, but after thirty minutes or so, when the pieces are developed and the play’s underway, I know what’s missing.

There was specific tension with Sawyer. A tight, heart- stopping dance made of aggressive attacks, slithering ambushes, obsessive outthinking. This . . . It’s nothing like that. I try to make things more exciting by showing initiative, making threats Defne cannot ignore, but . . . well. She does ignore me. Defends her pieces, guards her king, makes some silent filler moves, and that’s about it.