Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“— chess drama is usually boring, but this one might actually be juicy. Could you explain to our audience what’s going on in the World Championship?”

“Here is the deal, Mark: out of the ten people who make it into the Challengers tournament, nine are selected because of ratings, or because they win qualification tournaments. The tenth—the wild card— is chosen by FIDE. It’s usually a way to include a top-ten player who for some reason didn’t make it in. This year, everyone thought that the wildcard would be Antonov. Or Zemaitis. Or Panya, though he’s due to have a baby in February, when the championship will be on, and probably would have declined. Instead, last week the committee selected a low-rated, inexperienced player. Now, to be fair, Greenleaf is a talented player with great promise. But she’s only played professionally for a couple of months, and is still unproven. Her performance at the Olympics was remarkable, but choosing her for the Challengers is akin to asking a third grader to play an NFL game. The tournament is happening the week after Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, and many doubt that she can hold her own against other stratospheric players.”

“Some say she was chosen because she’s a woman?”

“There has been lots of conversation over the lack of female representation in professional chess, and Greenleaf ’s invitation could be a response to that. But there are many women with higher rankings and more experience who earned that spot. Which had some people speculating that it’s not because she is a woman, but because she’s the woman of a particular chess player.”

“Juicy!”

“Yup. Nolan Sawyer— You’ve heard of Sawyer, right?”

“Of course.”

“He’s chess royalty, a bona fide rock star. So influential in the sport, he might have pressured FIDE into choosing a specific player for the Challengers. And he has been photographed with Greenleaf in positions that are . . .”

“I see what you mean.”

“I bet you do! So people are wondering if— ”

“You should stop torturing yourself, Mal.”

I look up from my iMac to find Defne leaning against the doorframe, silver septum ring gleaming as she gives me a worried look.

“And if you decide to continue torturing yourself, could you use your headphones?” Oz glares at me from his desk. “Some of us are not unlearned prodigies mistakenly assumed to be Nolan Sawyer’s new concubine. Some of us have to actually practice chess.”

“I just . . .” I massage my temple. “Why’s the Today show talking about chess? Shouldn’t they cover important stuff? Fracking, or the sustainable terraforming of Mars, or Malala’s book club?”

Oz blinks. “Have you literally ever watched cable television?”

I groan and head- desk.

I know I’m being Sabrina-level sullen, but I earned the right, because November has been sucking: everyone thinks I’m some Nolan groupie who slept her way into chess. Easton loves Colorado too much to come home for Thanksgiving— a scary ellipsis at the end of the dangling sentence that’s our friendship. And someone I went to middle school with texted to ask if I’m “really a professional softball player now, pregnant with a Dutch underwear model’s triplets?” A game of telephone, but still a clear sign that my name’s going around too much, and that Mom or Sabrina might come across my secret career any day.

So, yeah. Sullen is now my defining personality trait. I’m more sulk than woman, ready to brood with reckless abandon at a moment’s notice.

“I should have refused the invitation,” I mumble against the polished wood.

“The prize is one hundred thousand dollars,” Oz reminds me acidly. “We’ve been over the tax withholdings and the net earnings and the amounts of mortgage payments you’ll be able to afford when you were moping all over yourself last week. I did not whip out the calculator app for you to step back now.”

“It’s just . . . mortifying. People are saying on national television that I’m too weak to survive the winter.”

“People have said on the same national television that the California wildfires were started by space lasers.” Oz rolls his eyes. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t want to provide scaffolding for your delicate nerves, but as I mentioned before, I’d rather die impaled by a harpoon while farming beets than engage with the fungus of human emotions— ”

“Oz,” Defne interrupts, “could you leave us for a few minutes?”

“What?”

“Mallory and I need some privacy. To talk about mushrooms and such.”

“But all my stuff is here. What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Go farm beets? Find a harpoon? Come back in half an hour. Chop chop.”

Defne’s my boss, but she’s never felt like my boss so much as she does now, rounding my desk with a serious expression, sitting on it with an agile hop, a cloud of merrily jingling earrings and citrus and tobacco. She stares like we’re about to have a solemn talk, and it occurs to me that the misery of the past few days could be exponentially more pukeworthy if I were to be fired.

Crap.

“I know I’ve been whining, but I promise— ”

“They’re right, Mal.”