Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“Bandara?”

“Ruhi Bandara. You two were just playing.”

I take a step back and refuse to admit that I entertained the same thought. Instead I say, “I don’t want to play against you.”

“A problem, since I really want to play against you.”

I shiver, because it feels like he’s saying something else. Like . . .

I don’t know.

“You already have.”

“Once.”

“Once was enough.”

“Once was nothing. I need more.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d love to play. Who’d probably pay just to sit across from you.”

“But I want you, Mallory.”

I swallow heavily, then look away. He’s right— I already broke all my no-chess-outside-work rules. So why am I resisting this so hard?

Maybe it’s because I’ve seen him play. I’ve seen him be brilliant, read positions with a glance, do things I can’t even understand. If we played, I’d lose. And yes, I hate losing, but this is hardly a fair match. So the number one player in the world is better than this year’s reluctant Zugzwang fellow. Big deal. As newsworthy as being slower than Michael Phelps in the 200m butterfly.

Maybe something else bothers me, then. Not that I’ll lose, but that he’ll know that I lost.

Yes. This . . . interest, obsession, fascination he seems to have with me came because I beat him. Once. I’m innately good at chess, but I’m not better than someone who’s just as innately good and has had decades of professional training. We’d play, he’d win, and then I’d be just like everyone else: someone Nolan Sawyer defeated.

His captivation with me would instantly wane, and—

That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? I don’t like Nolan Sawyer showing up to my house and talking Riverdale with my sisters, do I? I should agree to play, and end whatever this is.

And yet.

“No,” I hear myself say.

His jaw works. “Right, then.” He relaxes and reaches across the glass bottles, chess pieces, half- eaten bags of chips, grabbing a pencil and a German Chess Federation flier. “Sit down.”

“I told you, I— ”

“Please,” he says, and something in his tone stops me. I try to remember the last time I heard him say it. A simple word, please. Isn’t it?

“Fine.” I sit— across from him, as distant as possible. This is what I get for refusing pizza. “But I’m not going to play, so— ”

“Chess.”

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t play chess. You didn’t mention anything else, so . . .” He turns the flier to me. He has drawn a three-by-three grid, put an X through a space, and . . .

I laugh. “Tic- tac- toe? Really?”

“Unless you have Uno handy? Checkers? Operation?”

“This is worse than Candy Crush.”

He smiles. Lopsided. “Don’t tell Tanu or she’ll put another pushpin under my pillow.”

“Another?” I shake my head, amused. “You can’t really want to play tic- tac- toe.”

He shrugs and takes a long swig of his IPA. “We could raise the stakes. Make it fun.”

“I’m not going to play for money.”

“I don’t want your money. What about questions?”

“Questions?”

“If I win, I get to ask you a question, any question, and you answer. And vice versa.”

“What could you possibly want to ask me that— ”

“Deal?”

It seems like a bad idea, but I can’t pinpoint why, so I nod. “Deal. Five minutes. Then I’m turning in.” I pluck the pencil from his fingers and write down my O.

The first three games are draws. The fourth goes to me, and I smile ferociously. I do love to win. “So I get a question?”

“If you want.”

I’m not sure what to ask, but I don’t want to forfeit my prize. I wrack my brain for a moment, then settle on, “What’s the Challengers tournament?”

His arches an eyebrow. “Your question to me is something you could easily google?” I feel slightly embarrassed, but he continues. “It’s the tournament that determines which player will face the current world chess champion.”

“Which would be you?”

“At the moment.”

I snort softly. “And for the past six years.”

“And for the past six years.” There is no boast in his voice. No pride. But it occurs to me for the first time that he became world champion at the same age I left chess for good. And that if I’d only stuck around a couple of years longer, we’d have met much earlier. In completely different circumstances. “The Challengers has ten players, who qualify by winning other super- tournaments or are selected because of their high FIDE ratings. They compete against each other. Then, a couple of months later, the winner competes for the World Championship title.”

“The one whose prize is two million dollars?”

“Three, this year.”

My heart skips a beat. I cannot even conceive what that money would do for my family. Not that I’d win against Nolan in a multiday match. Or that I’d end up at the Challengers, since I’m not invited to super- tournaments and my rating is currently hanging out with a piece of gum under the sole of my shoe.