Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

His voice is clinical. Like he’s turned this story in his mind so much, told it to himself so often, it’s a memorized thing by now. He thinks about it every day. Every hour. I know this, because I’m in his head. “I’m the one who gave my father that power. And my grandfather died in that institution, medicated to his eyeballs. It’s the last thing he wanted, and it’s something I have to live with every second of every day. So when you talk about guilt— ”

“What— no. No.” I twist toward him. The seat belt digs into my breast. “It’s not your fault. You did what you could, considering that you were— How old were you?”

“I was fourteen. How old were you, when you saw your father?”

I close my eyes. Because it’s not the same. At all. But he makes it sound like it might be, and I do not deserve to be let off the hook and—

Suddenly I am furious. Explosively, incandescently furious.

He— he manipulated me. He pretended to self- disclose, and instead turned me into . . . whatever the hell this is. He sacrificed his queen to checkmate me, and how dare he? How dare he come into my home and analyze my family as though we were a Morphy game?

“Fuck you, Nolan.”

His expression is indecipherable and unsurprised. “Did I say something untrue?”

“Fuck you. What do you even know about families?”

“Is that the problem? That what I said is true?”

“Stop trying to— to trap me. To checkmate me. You might want to play chess against me more than anything, but it doesn’t give you the right to— ”

“Not more than anything,” he murmurs with a lingering glance. I ignore him, enraged.

“Is that what’s happening? You want to win against me so bad that you’ll score points however you can? Tic- tac- toe? Taking cheap shots at my family?”

“It’s not— ”

“Nobody got stabbed in my family. I could have kept my mouth shut, and things would have been fine. It could have been my secret to keep, my burden, and no one would have known or suffered for it. Mom would have had health insurance, and my sisters would have had the family they deserved, and Dad would be alive— ” I stop. Take a deep, shuddering breath. “You don’t know me, or my sisters, or my mom, and you most certainly did not know my dad. So don’t try to pretend you and I are similar in any way, or like what I did is comparable to what happened to you.”

“You’re not being fair to either of us,” he says calmly. Maybe he’s right, but I’m past caring.

“You know what?” The seat belt cuts into my throat. I’m overflowing with anger now, anger at . . . at Nolan. Let’s say Nolan. “Screw this shit. We’re going to play. Tonight. We’re going to play this stupid chess game, and you’ll quit the armchair psychology.”

“I— ” He stops, registering what I said. His throat works. “You’re not serious.”

“If you’re not interested— ”

“I am.” He sounds eager. Young. “I am.” Then he’s silent, as though he’s afraid to spook me, that I’ll change my mind. He barely looks at me until after the car is parked, the passenger door slammed closed, our coats tossed in a corner of the living room. We usually work across from each other, but he sets the board on the coffee table, and we sit side by side on the couch. Because this is not an analysis of someone else’s game, and it needs to be clear.

It’s midnight. The heat has been off for hours, but I don’t feel cold. “Okay?” he asks, serious, making sure this game is consensual.

You know what wasn’t consensual? The stuff you said about my dad.

“You can be White,” I say, cutting, expecting— wanting him to be offended.

“Thank you,” he replies with no trace of irony. “I’m going to need that.”

It makes me hate him even more, and so does his stupid opening— pawn to e4. I answer with the Sicilian. I roll my eyes and put my knight in c6, just to derail him, some niche line I vaguely remember studying with Defne— Rossolimo Variation.

Lots of pressure, very fast, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even blink in the dim lights. His forehead is smooth. Hands steady. His knee brushes against mine, not every move, but sometimes. He doesn’t seem to notice, and I hate him. I feel clumsy, a lumbering, unwieldy, broken beast next to him. I feel raw, see- through, broken open, like he can reach inside my skull and pluck sharp, painful shards of my past and make me bleed with them.

Then I lose a pawn, and I feel stupid, too.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“It’s just a pawn,” he murmurs without looking up.

“Shut up.” I advance my knight with shaky fingers, and then it’s not just a pawn. I left my bishop uncovered, screwed up my castling opportunities. I watch Nolan unhurriedly take my piece and immediately attack him from the side with my rook— I’m going to make him hurt. Except, I knock over two pieces and completely overlook the way his queen inches toward my king and fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Mallory.” His hand covers mine, trapping it on my knee. I look up to his handsome, hateful face. “I’m sorry about what I said. I was out of line.”

I don’t want to hear it. “Let’s finish.”