Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“I don’t know how things went with your father— ”

“Let’s. Finish.”

He shakes his head.

I laugh, bitter. “You’ve supposedly been pining for this game for months— ”

“That’s not what I’ve been pining for, and you can stop lying to yourself about it. I don’t want to play with you like this.”

“So now you need perfect conditions to play? Should I rearrange the furniture? Sage the room? Let me know what your esteemed requirements are, what you want, and— ”

“You know what I fucking want, Mallory?” He leans forward, suddenly furious. “I want you to not be here.”

I gasp in outrage. “Screw you! You asked me to be your second— ”

“I want you to be elsewhere. Training with your own seconds in preparation for me. So we can play a real match in Italy. The real thing.” His eyes blaze. His hand is still flat on mine. Pressing. Warm. “Your presence in this house might be what gets me up in the morning, but we can stop pretending this situation is anything like what either of us wants or needs.”

I close my eyes. He is right. This . . . It’s wrong. All wrong.

“It was our only chance,” I whisper. “And I fucked it up.” Just like I fuck up everything. Friendships. Families.

“There will be other tournaments.” Nolan takes a deep, calming breath. “In two years there’ll be another World Championship— ”

“I’m not going to be doing this past the summer.”

He swallows. “Okay. Well . . . It is what it is.” He glances away. Then turns back to me, his expression softer. “I am sorry. You’re right— I don’t know anything about families. Please, accept my apology so you can stop playing the worst game of your life. Let’s just . . . let’s go to sleep. We’re tired.”

I look down at the board. Black’s position is an amateurish, reckless mess. “God, what’s wrong with me?”

“Transient global amnesia, one can only imagine.”

I let out a laugh, and my anger melts like snow in the sun. He laughs, too, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. We’re that close.

“I’m sorry. For this game.”

There are little specks of gold in his eyes. He has freckles, light and scattered, just a handful, and they look . . . pretty. Yummy. “You should be sorry.”

I chuckle. Clear my throat. “You might want to move away. Since there are other people in this house.”

He seems confused. “And?”

“They could come in. Think we’ve been making out or something.”

He smiles. “They’re more likely to think we’ve been murdering each other over an en passant— ”

My brain short- circuits. Maybe it’s the late hour, or how I just dropped my knight less than ten moves into a mortifying game. Maybe it’s Nolan’s clean, familiar smell. All I know is that one moment I’m looking at him, and the next I’m not— because I’ve leaned forward and pressed my mouth against his in a . . .

A kiss.

There’s no way around it. That’s what it’s called, this clumsy, juvenile peck. I’m kissing Nolan Sawyer, and—

I jerk back, appalled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I— ” I shoot to my feet. My knee knocks over the board, scattering the pieces. I lift my fingers to my mouth, and— it feels weird.

Different. Changed.

“Mallory.”

“I don’t know why I did that. I’m just— I’m so so sorry.” Nolan stares like I’m the center of gravity of the room, like nothing else ever existed but me in all of space and time. It makes my heart beat in my throat, it makes me want to kiss him again, it makes me want to run the hell away. “Sorry, I— ”

“Touch- take rule,” he murmurs. He stands, too. Every step back I take is one forward for him.

“I— What?”

“You touched me. Can’t stop now. Touch- take rule.”

“I . . . This is not chess.” My back hits an obstacle. “I can always stop.”

“Then just don’t.” His hands come up to cup my face. He towers over me, cages me against the wall, and I . . . I don’t mind. Which scares me. “Please, Mallory.”

“This is . . . We should finish the game. You said you wanted to play.”

“I said there were things I wanted more.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but Nolan is so here— I can smell him, feel him in every pore of my being. “Weren’t you the one who chose Kasparov over getting laid?” I say, petulant, whiny. When I open my eyes, his smile is faint.

“And you think it’s because I want to play you less than I did Kasparov?”

“Of course. Why else— Oh.” I close my eyes again. “Oh.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“But our game— ”

“I resign. You win. Can I kiss you?”

“No! I mean . . . why?”

“Because I want to.” He’s being patient. Why am I being a total wreck while he is being patient? “You don’t?”

“I . . .”

I do? It’s not a big deal. Nolan’s easily the most attractive guy I’ve ever met, and I’m not one of those kissing is too intimate, let’s do it from behind Tinder weirdos. I’ve done a lot of things, and regret none of it. So what’s stopping me?