Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“I have Crystal Light. Strawberry.” She hands me her CamelBak. “It’s disgusting.”

“Guys.” Zach comes up to us from behind. “Don’t freak out, but I’ve spotted some preeetty big names walking around. I’m talking international.”

Easton lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Harry Styles?”

“What? No.”

“Malala?”

“No.”

“Oh my God, Michelle Obama? Do you think she’ll sign my pocket constitution?”

“No— Rudra Lal. Maxim Alexeyev. Andreas Antonov. Yang Zhang. Famous chess people.”

“Ah.” She nods. “So regular, not-at-all- famous people?”

I do love watching Easton mess with Zach, but I have heard these names. I wouldn’t be able to pick them out of a lineup, but at my most fervent, chess- obsessive stage I’ve studied their games on books, simulation software, YouTube tutorials. Old impressions surface quickly in my brain, like long- unused synapses sputtering awake.

Lal: versatile openings, positional

Antonov: tricky, but technical

Zhang: calculating, slow

Alexeyev: still young, uneven

I shrug the memories away and ask, “What are they doing at an amateur tournament?”

“The director’s well connected in the chess world— she’s the owner of a respected New York chess club. Plus, the winning team gets twenty thousand for a charity of their choice.” He rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain. “I hope I get to go against the big guns.”

“You think you can beat them?” Easton’s eyebrow lifts, skeptical. “Aren’t they pros?”

“Well, I’ve been training.” Zach brushes nonexistent crumbs off his blazer. “My rating’s 2,546”— we all roll our eyes— “and Lal’s not exactly at the top of his game. Did you see him lose to Sawyer at Ubud International two weeks ago? It was embarrassing.”

“Everyone’s embarrassing against Sawyer,” Josh points out.

“Well, plenty of people are embarrassing against me.”

Easton’s eye twitches. “Are you comparing yourself to Sawyer?”

“People say we have similar playing styles . . .”

I cough to hide a snort. “Do we know who we’ve been paired with yet?”

“Sort of.” Easton unlocks her phone and texts everyone a screenshot of the organizers’ email. “We don’t know who we’re going up against, because it’s a team tournament. But Mal, you’re PCC Player One, and you’ve been paired with the Marshall Chess Club Player One. Row five, board thirty- four. Good news: you’re White. Round one starts in five. The time limit is ninety minutes, then round two starts. So we should get going.” Easton tugs at my hand. “Wouldn’t want to make Lal wait for the thorough asskicking he’s about to get, right, Zach?”

I can’t tell whether Zach recognizes the shade. He puffs up and struts to his board, and I’m left wondering how soon the black hole of antimatter that is his ego will swallow the solar system.

“Listen,” Easton whispers before we go separate ways, “I put myself in a too- high bracket. I’ll probably be destroyed in about five moves, but it’s okay. All the PCC wanted was for us to have a presence here, and I delivered. That’s to say, if you let whoever you’re playing destroy you quickly, we can pop by Dylan’s Candy Bar and be back before round two.”

“Are you buying?”

“Fine.”

“One of those macarons stuffed inside a cookie?”

“Sure.”

“Deal.”

It won’t be hard, getting checkmated like a total loser, not with how rusty I am. I take a seat at board thirty- four, White side, and watch the chairs around me fill up, people shaking hands, the introduction and chitchatting as everyone waits for the start announcement. No one is paying attention to me, and . . . I just do it.

I reach for my king. Pick it up. Feel its slight, perfect weight in my hand and smile softly as I trace the corners of the crown.

The stupid, useless, good- for- nothing king. Can barely move one square, scurries into hiding behind the rook, and he’s so, so easy to corner. A fraction of the queen’s power, that’s what he has. He is nothing, absolutely nothing, without his kingdom.

My heart squeezes. At least he’s relatable.

I put the king back on his square and stare at the skyline made up by the pieces— the trivial and yet monumental landscape of chess. It’s more familiar than the view from my childhood bedroom (unspectacular: a busted trampoline, lots of ornery squirrels, an apricot tree that never learned how to bear fruit). It’s more familiar than my own face in the mirror, and I can’t tear my gaze away, not even when the chair in front of mine drags across the floor, not even when one of the tournament directors calls for round one to begin.

The table shifts as my opponent takes a seat. A large hand stretches into my line of sight. And just as I’m about to force myself out of my reverie to shake it, I hear a deep voice say,

“Marshall Chess Club Player One. Nolan Sawyer.”





He’s not looking at me.

He’s holding out his hand, but his eyes are on the board, and for a split second I can’t figure out what is happening, where I am, or what I came here to do. I can’t figure out what my name is.