Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“Guys, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“School, shmool.” Tanu waves her hand. “We live freely. We’re not chained by the obligations of modern mundanity.”

“Winter break,” Emil explains.

“Ah.”

“We’re here to study. For when Nolan preps for the World Championship.”

“Oh. Is Nolan here?”

“Mal, we’d love to help you, too,” Tanu says. Not answering me.

“Help me?”

“Most players are here with a team of seconds. You only have Defne, right?”

Seconds are players’ assistants who help them train and debrief, analyze old games, come up with new attack and defensive strategies. “Defne, yeah. And . . .” And Nolan. Nolan’s texts. Which seem to answer my questions before I ask them. Not that I’ll admit it. “Oz Nothomb said he’d be available to talk strategy.”

“Then let us help. We could meet in the mornings. Go over your opponent’s weaknesses and strengths. Some openings. Mal, you’re so talented, and this stuff— it could make a difference.”

“Did Nolan put you up to this?”

They exchange a short look. “Listen,” Emil says, “Nolan might want you to win, but so do we.” He pouts like a child. “Did that poutine we shared in Toronto mean nothing to you?”

And that’s how I find myself walking into an IHOP with Defne at seven the following morning. Tanu and Emil are already sharing a custard- filled French toast, and if Defne needs an introduction . . . she doesn’t. She hugs them tight and asks Tanu how Stanford is treating her, when she got bangs, and what about her cat? I’m considering demanding a drawn schematic of how everyone knows everyone else when Emil whips out a board and says, eyes NFL- coach sharp: “Thagard- Vork. Danish. Thirty- six. Excellent positional player, though well past his prime. He loves opening with d4 and c4.”

“But sometimes he does some weird queen stuff, e4, c5, qh5. You gotta see this, Mal. It’s nuts.”

It is nuts. And three hours later, when he does some weird queen stuff and I know exactly how to answer, it’s even more nuts.

My name, and the US flag next to it, are everywhere. Not taped pieces of paper, but embossed on the side of the table, the panels, the chair, like someone spent a whole lot of money at Kinko’s. There are five tables on the stage and five hundred deadly silent people in the audience. Live- stream screens are everywhere, and ominous graphics run during idle moments.

10 players.

9 days.

45 matches.

1 winner.

Zum zum zuuuum.

The press crowds every corner, but in a respectful, distanced way, as though the players are not to be disturbed. I glance at the monitor while Thagard- Vork eyes my knight. All the players look the same, little soldiers in neutral colors frowning down at little boards in neutral colors. Except for the girl at the fourth table, who sticks out like a sore thumb with my white- blond hair and teal sweater.

I smile, close my eyes, and win without ever being in jeopardy. It takes me eighteen moves.

“She was a million miles ahead of me,” Thagard- Vork says at the post-game analysis press conference. My first interview. I tried to skip, but one of the directors showed me his fancy badge and said, “It’s mandatory.” “When she sacrificed her knight . . .” He shakes his head, looking at the replay screen. I notice a weird cowlick on my forehead. “She was a million miles ahead,” he repeats.

“It was a challenging game,” I lie to the host.

I don’t fully relax until I’m alone in the elevator, away from all the cameras.

Chess computers are so powerful these days, so quick to find the perfect move that electronic devices and even watches— hell, even lip balm— aren’t allowed in the tournament to prevent cheating. Which means that my phone is charging at my bedside table, full of notifications. When I get back to my room, I open Darcy’s first.

DARCYBUTT: How can the entirety of your hair be as straight as a limp noodle except for one single curl smack in the middle of your forehead?

I laugh.

Eight games to go.



I WIN THE FOLLOWING GAME (KAWAMURA; US; #8) THANKS TO a half- open file, and the one after (Davies; UK; #13), although it takes me five hours.

By the end of day three I’m number one in the tournament, tied with Koch and Sabir. All other players have either suffered a loss or settled for draws. That’s when the press decides that respectful distance won’t cut it, and starts circling around the lounge area, where I’m sitting with Defne eating pistachio Oreos.

They look thirsty. Sharky.

“Maybe you should give an interview. Before they corner you at the IHOP with Tanil,” she muses.

“Tanil?”

“Tanu and Emil. It’s their ship name. Anyway, the other players have been giving interviews. You should do the same.”

“I already do the post- game analyses.”

“You don’t get it. They don’t want to know about your chess. They want to know about you.”

And that’s how I find myself with a CNN mic hovering an inch from my mouth. It smells like burnt plastic and cologne. Or maybe it’s the journalist.

“How is it, being the dark horse of the Challengers?”

What’s a dark horse again? “It’s . . . great.”