Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

A huge chunk of my time is spent replaying old games. “Thanks for not buying the creamer I asked for,” Sabrina huffs after I spend a hazy hour drifting through the grocery store aisles, wondering if Salov could have unpinned his knight in ’95. I’m training so much, I can’t seem to turn it off, not even in my sleep. Chess positions are taking over the back of my head, and after nights spent tossing and turning to Karpov’s end games, I almost welcome fleeting dreams of dark, deep- set eyes glaring at me in frustration.

In the last week of September the morning air gets chilly, and I break out my favorite blue scarf, the one Easton made for me during her short- lived knitting phase. (“Some stitches are missing. Poetic license and that.”) I snap a selfie and send it to her, scowling when her only response is a lazy heart emoji. I realize that we haven’t talked in over a week, and I scowl harder when she doesn’t reply to my How have things been? When my phone pings an hour later, I feel a burst of hope, but it’s just Hasan, asking if I’d like to meet up over the weekend.

I’m not sure why, but I leave him on read.

For the first time, when I walk into the office, Oz is not at his desk.

“He’s at a tournament,” Defne explains.

I nearly pout. “Why didn’t I get to go?”

“Because your rating is at the core of the earth. Most tournaments are either invitation- only or have strict access criteria.”

I fully pout.

“You’re in an unprecedented situation, Mal. Most players grow in the game, and their ratings grow with them. But even if you do nothing but win at chess and eat tuna straight from the can, it will still take you a couple of years to get to a point when your rating represents your actual skills.” She pats my shoulders. “I did sign you up for the Nashville Open in mid- October. Prize is five thousand, but you’re going to win— top players don’t show up for that.” She bites her lower lip, hesitating. “I’ve been approached with another opportunity, but . . .”

“What opportunity?”

She chews on her lip. “You know the Chess Olympics?”

I blink. “That’s not really a thing, is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Let’s say that I believe you. What is it?”

“Just a team tournament. Not real Olympics, but a similar format: one team per nation, four players per team. Five days. This year it’s in Toronto, the first week of November— do you have a passport?” I nod. “Emil called and asked if— ”

“Emil? Kareem?”

“Yup. The problem is, the Pasternak Invitational is right after, in Moscow, and that’s a way more prestigious tournament.”

“More prestigious than the Olympics.” Seems fake.

“Well, you know how pro chess is.” Defne must remember that I do not, in fact, know, because she continues, “In the end, it’s all about the money. The Pasternak has ridiculous prizes, unlike the Olympics, and most pros and Super GMs don’t want to tire themselves for nothing. Well, not nothing. There is a trophy. It looks nice, kind of like a cup. I guess you could eat cereal in it? Soup? Salads, if you don’t mind your fork clinking against the metal— ”

“Who’s on the US team besides Emil?”

“Not sure.” She sounds a little cagey. “Maybe Tanu Goel?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“I . . .” She scratches the back of her head, and her sleeve slides backward, revealing her chessboard tattoo. I study the positions while she seems to reach a decision. White is attacking with the rook, and Black is two pawns down. “It would be a great opportunity for you to raise your rating, gain expertise, network.” She smiles. For the first time in this conversation. “I’d love to send you, if you can swing it time- wise.”

A few hours later I sit at the dinner table with my family, munching on the tail of a tyrannosaurus chicken nugget and mentioning as casually as I can muster, “The senior center asked me to accompany the residents on a trip.”

“Oh.” Mom looks up from her plate. “Where to?”

“Toronto. Five days, in November.” I can feel Darcy’s eyes burning through me. Having a crucial secret with a naturally chatty twelve- year- old is not all it’s cracked up to be. “They’d pay me time and a half. And it’d be cool to see Canada. I need to let them know by tomorrow— ”

“Wait.” Sabrina sets her phone on the table. Forcefully. “You’re going to party in Toronto and leave us on our own? For real?”

I blink, taken aback by the mix of panic and anger in her voice. “I was just— ”

“What if Goliath has a vet emergency? What if Darcy sticks a Monopoly token up her nose and needs to be taken to urgent care? What if I need a ride to a derby meet— am I supposed to hitchhike?”

“I’d arrange everything beforehand,” I start just as Darcy says, “I haven’t stuck anything up my nose since I was five!” and Mom points out, “I will still be around, Sabrina.”

“Darcy’s an idiot, and idiots are unpredictable, Mal. And that’s the point of emergencies— you cannot prepare for them. What if Mom has a flare-up? Who’s going to take care of her? How egotistical can you— ”