Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

It feels different, knowing that whatever victory I manage to bring home will be for us— no matter how temporary and abstract this us might be. It’s nice when Emil high- fives me after I win on time against the Estonian player, or Tanu kisses my forehead because I narrowly avoided a draw with Singapore. I don’t even mind Nolan’s long, thoughtful, lingering looks. He always defeats his opponent quickly. Then he finds something warm to drink for the rest of the team, sets it by our boards, and comes to stand somewhere behind my opponent. His eyes alternate between me and my game, dark and focused and greedy in a way I don’t fully understand.

He doesn’t fist- pump when I win. He doesn’t even tell me that I did good. He just nods once, like every single one of my victories is expected and his faith in me is as solid as a boulder. As though he couldn’t marvel at me playing well any more than at the sun setting at night.

The pressure that comes with it should be irritating. But I find the unwavering confidence from a player of his caliber flattering, which irritates me even more. So I do what I’m best at: I avoid thinking about it.

And it’s not hard. Toronto is beautiful, and the tournament atmosphere is fun: backpacks, players sitting on the floor and unwrapping homemade sandwiches, people who haven’t seen each other in years hugging it out between rounds. It’s youthful and low pressure, like a school trip with excellent chess instead of museums. I wear jeans and an oversized sweater without feeling underdressed.

“Don’t get cocky, though. We’ve been lucky so far,” Emil tells me while walking back to the hotel at the end of the first day. Nolan is giving Tanu a piggyback ride, because I really want one, Nolan. “We haven’t met any of the strongest teams.”

“Which are?”

“China, India, Russia. And, like, twelve more.”

“Who’s the current champion, by the way?”

“Germany. But they won’t be strong this year, with Koch already in Moscow.”

“That’s why the North American continent felt so much more pleasant than usual,” Nolan mutters.

“Is your manager still pissed about you coming to the Olympics?” Emil asks.

“Can’t say, since I stopped taking her calls.” He shrugs.

It has Tanu giggling on his shoulders and asking, “Remember years ago, when you pushed Koch and manhandled him a bit and he started calling for his mom?”

“One of my most treasured memories.”

“The tears. The panic. Totally worth that fine FIDE slapped you with.”

“Why did you punch him?” I ask, though I can imagine a million reasons.

“Can’t really recall,” Nolan murmurs, almost too casually.

“He was talking about your grandfather,” Tanu says. “As usual.”

“Ah, yes.” His jaw tightens. “He does enjoy running his mouth about shit he doesn’t know.”

We’re staying in a hostel, four separate bedrooms that converge into a shared living space and bathroom. Last night I wondered how Nolan, Mr. Fifty Thousand Dollars Is Nothing to Me, felt about it, but if he finds the accommodation subpar, he hasn’t mentioned it. I went to bed early, and then spent hours listening to the soft, intimate tones of the others chatting, feeling vaguely jealous. I texted Easton (How’s life? Are you puking your heart out in a toilet bowl?) and scrolled through her TikTok waiting for a reply that never came.

She’s busy. It’s fine.

After the first day I conk out on the couch before dinner, before I can even call home. It’s a dreamless, exhausted, happy kind of sleep, vague impressions of bishops and rooks gliding softly across a large board. I wake up tucked in my bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Someone took off my shoes, connected my phone to the charger, put a glass of water on my bedside. Someone took care of me.

I don’t ask who.

Day two is more of the same. In the morning, we win all of our matches— with the exception of Emil, who loses against Sierra Leone.

“Way to kill our streak, asshole,” Nolan tells him mildly over some lunch poutine, ducking to avoid the fry Emil throws at him.

Tanu nods. “Told you we should have brought along someone who knows how to castle.” Unfortunately, she ducks too slowly.

Nolan gestures at me with his chin. “It’s your turn, Mallory.”

“My turn?”

“To tear into Emil. It’s tradition.”

“Right.” I swallow a cheese curd. Scratch my nose. “Emil, that was, um . . . badly done?”

Nolan shakes his head. “Pitiful.”

“Really, Mal?” Tanu chides. “Is this the best you can do?”

“Clearly Mal’s as good at trash-talking as I was at playing against Sierra Leone.”

“She has other talents,” Nolan says, locking eyes with mine. “Like drawing guinea pigs.”

I hide my smile in my hand, but I’m feeling more comfortable with these three. Nolan is more approachable when consumed through the Brita filter of his friends, even if there’s still something intimidating about his unignorable, often quiet presence. Something that keeps me on edge.

As our opponents get stronger, we accumulate more losses and draws, mostly from Tanu and Emil. I like to win— I love to win— but my teammates’ defeats don’t bother me as much, and Nolan seems to be the same. On the second match of the third day, Jakub Szymański from Poland blunders ten moves in, and I pull off a victory in record time. I blink away the soupy feeling of emerging from a game, stretch a little, then come to stand right behind Nolan.