Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

I slide into bed, toss and turn for a handful of hours, admit to myself that I’m too something to fall asleep, slide out.

There is a large pool downstairs that the fancy brochure informs me is fully heated, and I’m splashing in it less than five minutes later. The water is filtered from the ocean and smells like salt rather than chlorine. I let the complimentary Nashville Open T-shirt I tried to sleep in billow around me, and stargaze.

Remembering the last time I was in a pool would be rolling down a dangerous path, full of unbearable things I don’t like to think about. So is the time before that: Easton and me, housesitting for one of her neighbors. It was the summer before senior year, and that pool was full of bugs and stuff that I refused to believe was squirrel turds. Easton kept repeating, “Ew,” but I managed to persuade her to dip her feet. I spent one hour floating about while she read her SAT prep questions out loud in a fake French accent.

I haven’t heard from her in two months. Before August, our record was two days. I oscillate between being angry, begrudgingly wishing the best to her and the girl she’s Instagram-official with, and being taken aback when I find myself still on the verge of sending her a Dragon Age TikTok despite our lack of recent history.

It’s risky business, focusing on the past. The future, the utter humiliation that’s to come in four days, even riskier. The now is where I am: ice- cold stars, mellow water, and Korchnoi’s inexplicable rook to a1 drifting inside my head.

It’s the deep of the night when I push out, shivering poolside in the cold air. All the hotel lights are off, except for a single window. I think I spot a tall silhouette through the curtains, but my eyes must be tricking me.

I blink once, and when I open them, there’s nothing left to see.





“Your next three days are wide open, so we’ll just be running your games through engines and looking for weaknesses. The day before the match is when things start filling up. You’ll have the morning for yourself, but there’s a press conference in the afternoon. And the opening gala at night, but just an appearance is fine.” Defne smiles from across the breakfast table. This morning she appeared out of a room that she may or may not be sharing with Oz. Sabrina mouthed “Schrödinger,” and I nearly choked on my spit.

“Defne, why is this hotel so deserted?” Mom asks.

It’s just us in the ocean- view dining room, and a small mountain of flaky, warm, gooey Nutella croissants. Darcy ate so many, she had to go back up for a nap before leaving for a glass factory sightseeing tour. We’ll never be able to talk her back into oatmeal.

“Hotel Cipriani doesn’t open till mid- March, so FIDE rented it out of season. They hold the championship here every few years— I’ve always wanted to come, but never got a chance before. I assume people will start trickling in, though. Organizers, commentators, FIDE higher- ups. The current champion and his team.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes. My heart tugs.

“Then there are the chess superfans who always show up, mostly Silicon Valley and tech people. Some press will be staying here, though most journalists will have cheaper accommodation and ferry in for the games.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe NBC is broadcasting the event this year. What are we, the NFL? The curling league?”

I wistfully wave at my family as they board the shuttle to Murano, and then turn to Defne, ready to be scolded for my inability to equalize tough positions in time trouble.

“Should we do it in my room or yours?” I ask. I’m wondering if I can use the situation to solve the Ozne mystery once and for all, but one of the concierges nose- blocks me.

“There are training spaces set aside for players,” he says, Italian accent heavy through perfect English. “Shall I show you?”

He leads us through a set of gardens that are surprisingly beautiful and green. “Not at their best in this season, I’m sorry to say. We call them the Giardini Casanova.”

“Like the manwhore?” Defne whispers at me.

I shrug just as the concierge nods. “Like the legendary lover, precisely. And that’s where the match will take place next week.” He points at a construction in the center of the gardens that looks a little like a hothouse. It’s a simple square, but all four walls and the ceiling are made of glass. The inside is empty, with the exception of a wooden table, two chairs, and a simple chess set.

My heart kicks in my throat.

“It’s fully heated, of course. And soundproof.” His smile is reassuring. “This is the fifth championship we’ve hosted.”

“That’s a lot of camera tripods and lights all around.” Defne pats me on the shoulder and grins. “No worries. I can help you with that cowlick.”

Our training room is under a cloister, behind a wooden door. Inside there are chess sets, laptops we can use to connect to the engines, rows of opening and middle game books.

“This is incredible.” Defne runs her fingers over a glass set. “I’m seriously jealous.”

“Yeah. I’m not surprised they host lots of championships. They are prepared. I bet they . . .”

I notice the picture on the wall and forget what I was about to say. It’s of two men, standing in the same glass house I just passed outside. One is nearly bald, the other has a full head of dark hair and a small smile. They’re shaking hands on top of a developed board, and Black— the bald one— must have resigned, two moves from being checkmated, all his pieces disastrously pinned or mercilessly tied up. The other player’s eyes are hooded and stern, familiar in an almost disorienting way, and for a second I feel an inexplicable, leaden weight in my chest.