Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

Deep- set, dark, intense eyes.

I stop myself, flushing. Thankfully, Jackson chooses that moment to take my rook and fall into my trap. Too much of an artist, not enough of a warrior. I win in four moves, and he shakes my hand with a confused, befuddled smile.

“Impressive,” he says. “Remarkable. Your style reminds me of . . .” His gaze drifts somewhere past my shoulder. He trails off with a head shake before leaving the dais. When I look around in search of Defne, several journalists eye me curiously. I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer to the pantheon of chess demigods: Don’t let my next match be against Sawyer. Please. I will gut an abducted guinea pig with depression at your altar.

It’s not until the tables are set up for semifinals that I realize the error of my ways. Someone announces that Sawyer’s next game will be against Etienne Poisy. I inspect my brain to make sure that it’s not my name— phew— and merrily head to my board, hoping Darcy won’t be too mad when I slaughter her pet.

That’s when I see Malte Koch, sitting on the White side.

I halt abruptly.

No. Nope. Nope-ity nope. I’m not playing against some dick whose understanding of gender can be dated somewhere in the 1930s. No way I—

“Everything okay?” the tournament director asks, noticing my hesitation.

I’d rather drink a can of Axe body spray while feral raccoons feast on my exposed bone marrow than sit across from this twat. “Yeah.” I swallow.

Koch’s smirk is quite possibly the most slappable thing I’ve ever seen, but the way he handles his pieces on the board gives it a run for its money. Whenever he moves them to a new square, he adds a little flourish, like he’s putting off a cigarette butt. It makes me want to skin him and use his hide to reupholster Mom’s couch.

Then he starts talking. “So you got to semifinals.”

“Clearly.”

“Are you here through the Make-A-Wish program? Was there a memo about letting you win that I never got?”

I move my pawn in response to the variation of the Ruy Lopez that he opened with, which I happen to have been reading about ad nauseam for the past two weeks. I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules for him to talk to me during my turn. Pretty sure, but unfortunately not certain.

“Did you know that single- elimination tournaments are also called sudden death? As in, when you lose, you’re as good as dead.”

I clench my jaw. “Is the conversation necessary?”

“Why? Are you annoyed?”

“Yep.”

Another smirk. “Then yes, it is.”

I want to cut his brake lines. Just a little bit.

“You know,” he continues casually, “I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. I find that there’s a natural order to things.”

I look up and smile sweetly. “I like it better when men shut their mouths and stuff their rooks up their asses, but clearly we can’t always get what we want.”

Koch’s smile widens. He lifts his hand to signal to the tournament director to come closer. “Excuse me, could you ask Ms. Greenleaf to avoid using profane language?”

The director gives me a withering look. “Ms. Greenleaf. You’re new here, but you must follow the rules. Like everybody else.”

“But— ” I snap my mouth shut, cheeks heating.

I’m going to kill him. I am going to murder Malte Koch. Or I’ll do the next best thing: annihilate his damn king.

Probably.

Maybe.

If I manage to.

The worst part is— I’m not surprised to hear that he’s number two in the world. He’s an excellent player. I try to pin his queen, but he weasels out. I try to take control of the center, but he pushes me back. I try to wreck his defense line, but not only does he field my attempts, but he also mounts an attack of his own that almost has my king in check.

This is a very dangerous player, I tell myself.

On top of being the worst sack of shit you’ve ever met, a voice inside me adds. I let out a silent huff of a laugh, and play even more aggressively.

Our game lasts long past the other. Seventy minutes in, and we’re still battling. I have his queen, but he got my rook and my knight, and a dense, concrete- like dread starts churning at the bottom of my stomach. I break a sweat. The back of my neck is hot, hair sticky against my skin.

“What are you doing here? Came to see how it’s done?” Koch’s tone is low enough that the mics won’t pick it up. He’s not talking to me.

“She’ll have you in less than five moves,” a deep, assured voice says from behind me. I recognize it but don’t turn around, not even when I hear footsteps fading away.

Sawyer’s in the midst of some delusion. I’m nowhere near winning. There’s next to nothing I can do with this position. Then again, Koch’s pretty much at the same . . .

Oh.

Oh.

It suddenly makes sense. In less than five moves. Yes. Yes, I only have to—

I move my pawn. A silent, safe move, but Koch’s eyes narrow. He has no idea what I’m doing, and I’ve trained him to expect backdoor attacks. He studies the board like it’s a WW2 cypher, and I sit back and relax. I take my pen, annotate my move, attempt a portrait of Goliath on the scorecard to kill time. That stupid beast has truly infiltrated my heart—