Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

He tilts his head. “For real?”

For real, what? “Are you going to that tournament in Russia?”

“You haven’t figured it out?”

“What am I supposed to— ”

“Greenleaf.” Emil Kareem appears and hugs me like I’m his long- lost sister. There’s a girl with him, a supermodel who just flew into LaGuardia for fashion week. Wait, she’s familiar. From Philly Open—Nolan’s girlfriend, the one he hugged? I don’t know, but she is hugging me like I’m her long- lost sister.

“Mallory, I’m so happy you’re on the team. I cannot believe I’m going to have a meaningful conversation that doesn’t revolve around fantasy football. Wait— are you into fantasy football?”

She smells amazing. Lavender, I think. “I’m . . . not sure what that is.”

“Phew.”

“Greenleaf, this is Tanu Goel. She also has no idea what fantasy football is,” Emil says. “And of course you know Nolan. From trashing him back in the summer.”

I glance at Nolan. He doesn’t seem to mind being reminded— the opposite, in fact. Which, in itself, is annoying. I want to be the thorn in his side that he is in mine. I want him to dream of my stupid eyes.

“You guys know each other?” I say, glancing between Nolan and Emil.

“Unfortunately,” they say at the same time, before exchanging a long, brotherly look, and that’s when it occurs to me.

Nolan is on the team.

Nolan is coming to Toronto.

With us.

To play chess.

At the Olympics.

Emil never told me. Because I never asked. We’ve been in touch to arrange flights and accommodations, but I always figured that whoever the fourth member turned out to be, I wouldn’t have heard of them.

Because Defne told me that all Super Grandmasters would skip the Olympics and go to the Pasternak.

Because I’m an idiot.

A very rattled idiot, who has to deal with her rattledness through security and boarding. I’m not the self- conscious type, but I feel like the odd man out with these three. They’re warm (except for Nolan, who’s his usual inscrutable self) and try to involve me in conversation (except for Nolan, who’s his usual quiet self), but it’s clear that they’ve spent years memorizing each other. Their inside jokes are indecipherable, hidden behind a thick bramble of unparseable references. Their dynamics, too, seem to be a well- beaten path— several paths, made of shifting alliances and a healthy dose of roasting.

“Is she seriously buying that?” Emil asks when Tanu picks up a pack of Werther’s Original. “How old are you?”

“Leave her alone,” Nolan murmurs, paying for the Werther’s and peanut M&M’s with a black credit card. “They’re out of Jell-O salad.”

Not five minutes later two separate groups recognize Nolan as “that chess guy in all the TikToks.” It leads to selfies, autographs, and two beautiful women hastily writing down their phone numbers on Sbarro napkins, like he’s Justin Bieber or something. Tanu and Emil pretend to stand in line, audibly asking, “Sir, I’m your biggest fan. I love the way you always castle on your fourth move. Will you please sign my underwear?” (Nolan is surprisingly good- natured through all of this; he also immediately throws away the napkins.)

Then, while waiting for takeoff, Emil starts playing Candy Crush on his phone. “Are you for real?” Tanu asks. She’s half leaning back against Nolan’s chest, his arm casually wrapped around her waist. I’ve been avoiding looking at them, telling myself that I don’t care what they’ve been murmuring about in hushed, intimate tones. “We are scholars of the most sophisticated game in the world and you play Candy Crush? Nolan, say something.”

He shrugs. “Seems unfair to kick him when he’s so clearly down.”

“Candy Crush is actually a highly intelligent game,” Emil insists. “There’s strategy involved.”

Tanu groans. “Oh my God. Excuse me, Mallory, can we switch seats? I need to tell Emil how wrong he is. I need it right now.”

Which is how I find myself in the window seat next to Nolan, Tanu and Emil arguing loudly over jelly bean colors on the other side of the aisle. I study his profile, suddenly intimidated. Then I remember that he once came over to shoot my mom’s meat loaf up his veins and asked Sabrina whether Jughead was “a first or last name.”

“So, what’s the deal here?”

He turns to me, puzzled.

“Are the three of you in some polyamorous relationship?”

“Did you just ask if I’m sleeping with both our teammates?” He lifts one eyebrow. “I’m going to FIDE’s HR.”

“What? No— don’t go to HR.”

“You’re overstepping, Mal.”

“You came to my house and ate many of my ice cream sandwiches.”

“Right.” He clucks his tongue. “Unforgivable. Do report me.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. So, who’s dating whom?”

“No one’s dating anyone. Not anymore, at least.”

I glance at Tanu and Emil. She stole his phone and is scowling at it, tongue peeking out from between her teeth as she matches Swedish fish. Emil stares at her, surprisingly somber.