Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“Is it odd, being the only woman?”

“It’s odd that there are so few women in chess. But I don’t feel odd.”

“You’re the daughter of a GM. What would he say if he were here?”

Breaking news: I officially hate giving interviews. “I don’t know, because he’s not here.” Darcy better never see this.

“What about Nolan Sawyer? How would he feel if you ended up becoming the Challenger, given your relationship?”

There is no relationship. “Good question. You should ask him.”

“A lot of people think that it might come down to you and Koch. What do you say about that?”

I’m not sure why I choose that moment to look at the camera. And I’m not sure why I lean a bit into the mic, which really does smell foul. “I’m not afraid of Koch,” I say. “I’ve defeated him once, after all.”

“We might have to work on your interviewing skills,” Defne tells me the following morning at the IHOP with Tanil (it’s growing on me). They have taken to bringing a list of openings and positions that they want to show me. The list has three different handwritings on it, but I pretend not to notice. Their analyses are sharp, on point, brilliant, brilliant past what I’d expect from two talented players who never quite got to the top. I pretend not to notice that, either.

My first draw is on the fourth day, against Petek (Hungary; #4). The game is a mess of Najdorf Sicilian, which I knew he’d play, long pockets of mind- numbing boredom, and me attempting to surprise him into a retreat Defne once taught me when we were looking into Paco Vallejo’s games. I come this close to winning— this close— but after six hours, when he holds his hand to me and offers a draw, I take it.

“It’s for the best,” Defne tells me the following day. “Tomorrow you’d have been exhausted otherwise.” But I draw on my fifth game, too, and then on my sixth and seventh, and I’m exhausted anyway, exhausted from worrying and second- guessing myself and hating the opportunities I’m missing. I’m not good, after all. I’m a mediocre player. Defne was wrong. Nolan was wrong. Dad was wrong. CNN is suddenly less interested in interviewing me. I leave the post- game analysis with my head down, and I can barely thank Eleni from the BBC when she smiles and tells me that she’s rooting for me. Maybe if I pull a Lindsay Lohan and trash my room I’ll feel better?

DARCYBUTT: Koch has one more win, but he also has a loss against Sabir. You’re not out of the running. At all.

DARCYBUTT: Though it would help if you beat Sabir tomorrow.

MALLORY: bb do you even know how to play chess?

DARCYBUTT: I don’t need to know how the little priest moves to understand a score system.

I’ve been starfishing in bed and woe-is-me-ing for one hour when someone sends a bowl of noodle soup and three Snickers bars up to my room. I refuse to think about its origins as I devour all of it, and then, with my stomach full and my skin warm and the sweet taste of chocolate lingering in my mouth, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The following day I wake up rested and win against Sabir with the Trompowsky.



IT DOES COME DOWN TO KOCH AND ME.

Sabir trails a point behind, but with only one game left, he might as well be fracking on Jupiter. Some overworked intern from the IT department whips up new graphics: the monitors are now pictures of Koch and me from previous games. I bite down on my lip; Koch looks at the ceiling. He squeezes his eyes shut; I nibble on my thumbnail.

I didn’t even know that I do that. But I’ve looked at myself on camera more in the past week than in the previous decade. Every time I see myself play with the tips of my hair, I want to shank myself and flip the monitor table. Instead I smile politely and tell the post- game analysis host, “There, I was considering knight e5. But then I went for d4. More pressure, I figured.”

Good Morning America, Defne tells me, did a short piece on me. NPR requested an interview— Terry Gross. I’ve been asked for at least twenty autographs— which, I realize around the seventh, are the same signatures I use at the bank and put me at significant risk for identity theft. An Etsy store sells T-shirts, sweaters, onesies, with my stylized face on them. Eleni from the BBC wears one.

People must be unhinged. I can’t really comprehend it. I might be dissociating, but focusing on Koch’s old games makes it better. Mom calls at night, asking how I like the mountains, and I want to tell her, I want to tell her so bad that my guts are twisted and I feel like crying and tearing apart this entire hotel and people need to stop, stop, stop looking at me and asking me how my form is and I wish she was here, I wish Dad was here, I wish I didn’t feel so alone.

Instead we talk about Sabrina’s birthday next week, how the backpack I ordered for her should arrive any day and Mom should intercept the package.

“I’m afraid that I always forget to tell you,” Mom says in the end, “but I love you. And I couldn’t be prouder of you.” I want to say it back, how much I love her and miss her, not only having her near, but . . . being someone’s daughter, taken care of, protected. Having someone standing between me and the world. But it seems wrong to add that bit of truth to all the lies I’ve been saying, so I hang up and sit on the edge of the mattress, head in my palms like some tortured action hero from a nineties movie, thinking that I will have to tell her. About the chess. The second I get back home, I will. If she doesn’t catch sight of me on Good Morning Fucking America.