Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“All pro players do. You’ll need one, too.”

I won’t be a pro, Nolan. You know it. “Would you recommend Elle?”

“Hell no. Save yourself.”

I laugh. “Can I . . . think about it? The charity thing.”

“Sure.”

We fall quiet, cocooned by the soft cotton of sheets, impossibly close. Did last night really happen? I wonder, feeling stuck in a dream. Did it happen to you like it happened to me?

Then he murmurs, “Good morning,” while pressing a kiss on my forehead, and it all starts to seem warm, and precariously good, and true.



NOLAN HAS NO POKER FACE. NO ABILITY TO LIE, OR TRICK, OR hide. No intention to, either.

He tracks my movements with a small smile whenever I step away from the chessboard to grab a glass of water. He kisses me against the fridge while the three GMs are talking about the French Defense five feet from us. He takes my hand and pulls me out for a walk in the snow as the sun is about to set, like healthy habits are something he suddenly cares about.

I wish I could say I minded, but I love every second of it.

There’s a curious, painfully honest confidence about him. Last night was good, really good, but it was also his first time, our first time: messy and imperfect, full of hushed questions and trials and errors. His hands on me were bold, but inexperienced and tentative. Other guys would be drowning in their fragile masculinity today, but Nolan just seems deeply, genuinely happy.

Then again, remembering the sounds I made, the gasps . . . I guess he got glowing feedback.

“Can’t believe he used an Evans Gambit three years ago,” he says about the Koch game we just analyzed. His footprints in the snow are almost twice as large as mine.

“Yeah, well. It was a bad choice, since Thagard- Vork destroyed him.”

“Still. I haven’t seen the Evans since the week I learned how to play.”

I smile. “When was that, by the way?”

“What?” He gives me a curious look.

“When did you learn to play chess?”

“I don’t remember. Pretty sure it’s on Wikipedia.”

“Yeah. But unlike my sister, I refuse to read it. Boundaries and stuff.” I stop him with a tug on his coat. I’m wearing his gloves, because it’s freezing and I forgot to bring mine. They dwarf my hands, and Nolan smiles at the sight. “But I still want to know.”

“I was . . . five? But I didn’t really understand. Not until I was well over six.”

“Your grandfather taught you?”

“Kind of. He was training a lot of people at the time, and I just . . . I wanted to be in the midst of things. He was the coolest person I knew, and I wanted him to pay attention to me.”

“And your parents didn’t want you to?”

He shrugs. “My dad’s an asshole. And even if he weren’t, he just doesn’t have the chess bone. When I was little, I would spend hours thinking about puzzles or Legos or toys, reasoning over them, analyzing, and he couldn’t understand why. He thought there was something wrong with me. Put me in all sorts of sports. And I was good enough at them, because I was tall and quick, but they were never . . .”

“They weren’t chess?”

He nods.

I think about Dad. About how he was the opposite, constantly pushing me toward chess. About how if he were still alive, we’d probably be just as estranged as Nolan and his father are. Vastly different paths, same results. “Do you hate your parents?”

He lets out a small laugh. “I don’t think so. I don’t think about them much. Haven’t for a while.” He swallows. “Somehow, it hurts even worse.”

I reach out, sinking my hand in the pocket of his coat. He exhales, a white chuff in the late afternoon air. “It didn’t matter when my grandfather was around, because he got me. He’d been like me as a kid, or similar enough. When my parents divorced, they stopped feeling like they had to care about me. Mom remarried. Then Dad. Then his new wife got pregnant and it was almost a relief. I was an afterthought, and I could just stay with my grandfather for weeks at a time. It was just me and him. Playing, playing again. Playing some more.”

“Did you ever win?”

“Oh, no. Not for a long time. Not until I was nine or ten. Then I did, and I was almost afraid. He hated losing as much as I do. I thought he’d be mad. But . . .” He shakes his head. “I think it was the happiest I’d ever seen him.”

“So maybe he didn’t hate losing as much as you do.”

“I think . . .” He stops, and so do I. Holds my eyes. “He told me once that sometimes, with some people, it’s not about winning or losing. That with some people, it’s just about playing. Though for the longest time, I didn’t really believe him.”

“Yeah?” I look away, toward the setting sun. “I still think about losing to Koch. Every day. Every hour.”

“I know.”

“Stop reading my mind.” I poke him in the stomach. He snatches my hand and pulls me closer to him. “How do you deal with losses?”

“I don’t.”

“So you just feel like shit? Every time?”

“You basically have to hate losing to be a top player. Pretty sure the genes are on the same chromosome.”

“Is that why you’re a terrible loser?”