Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

In the last row, someone is grinning and waving at me. Eleni from the BBC, half submerged by the small mountain of equipment she’s carrying. Clearly, still an intern. I smile back at her and feel marginally better.

The table on the podium is long and narrow, with three sets of mics and plaques. The middle one is already taken by the moderator, a middle- aged man who happens to be one of FIDE’s many VPs and whom I vaguely remember from the Challengers. The one on the right bears my name, and that’s where I sit.

The remaining one, at the moderator’s left, is empty when I arrive.

And stays empty for one minute.

Two.

Two and a half.

Three, and I was already a bit late, because the ferry system is not exactly straightforward, and Easton and I needed a fourth breakfast. We’re now almost ten minutes past schedule, which is why the journalists, and there are dozens of them, whisper like this is a scandalously juicy Victorian ball.

I look at the moderator in panic.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers conspiratorially, hiding our conversation with a sheet of white paper. “He won’t dare no-show. We’ve learned our lessons with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He hates press events and always tries to skip them. But”— he points behind us, to the panels decorated with sponsors and brands— “FIDE makes lots of money from them, especially this year. So we write steep fines into his contracts that make it impossible for him to avoid them.” He gives me a cunning, if warm, smile, and lowers the paper before clearing his throat and turning on his mic. “Well, everyone. It seems like there are some delays. Why don’t Ms. Greenleaf and I entertain you all with a game of chess. I’ll take White.”

The murmurs get louder. I glance around, find no set, then realize what his plan is when he says into the mic, “d4.”

“Oh.” I scratch my nose. “Um, d5?”

“c4.” His eyes shine and he turns toward the journalists. “Will she accept my gambit?”

I usually don’t. I usually decline the Queen’s Gambit with e6 and then build up a solid position, but he looks so hopeful, and people do love an accepted challenge, so I grin and say, “c4, take pawn.”

People cheer. My grin widens. The tension in the room melts a little as the moderator laughs and nods, pleased. “e3,” he says, and I’m considering moving my knight to f6 just for the fun of it when—

A door opens.

Not the door I came in from, but one on the side that I hadn’t even noticed. The cameras start again. A red- haired woman whom I recognize from Philly Open— Nolan’s manager, who must be better than Defne at obtaining press passes— walks briskly into the room, looking less than happy, and right behind her . . .

I thought I had successfully fortified my defenses. Because I spent those three minutes with Easton in the bathroom, following her instructions on how to brace myself. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and repeated at her insistence: I’m a big girl, and I can handle a reunion with my ex in front of a dozen countries’ major TV outlets— okay, Easton, no. This is counterproductive.

Still, I did think I’d be fine. But when Nolan enters wearing his usual combo of dark shirt and dark jeans, eyes guarded, hair shorter than the last time I ran my fingers through it, I’m not fine.

I’m not okay at all.

He doesn’t glance in my direction, not once. He calmly steps onto the podium, and when a woman from the fourth row says, “You’re late, Nolan. Everything okay?” he just answers, “Yeah.” He speaks into the microphone, effortlessly confident. He’s done this before. He might hate it, but he has a decade of experience on me. “My car broke down,” he adds, and everyone laughs.

I fist my hands in my lap until I’m sure they’re not shaking. By the time the moderator goes through a few introductory words and picks the first question, I’ve recovered. At least a little bit.

“Karl Becker, DPA. Nolan, you haven’t made a statement about Malte Koch’s cheating scandal. Is the three- year suspension he received fair? And what do you think about him?”

“I try not to think about him at all.” People chuckle. “And it’s up to FIDE to decide what’s fair.”

“Lucia Montresor, Ansa. Nolan, how is your playing shape compared with the Pasternak?”

He half huffs, half winces. “Can’t possibly be worse, can it?”

More laughter. Nolan hasn’t changed much since that talk show interview several years ago, the one that makes me think of Mrs. Agarwal and baking soda. He’s still charismatic, almost despite himself. He still doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t mind admitting to it, and yet manages to navigate the questions in a relaxed, charming, uncomplicated way.

I look at him not looking at me, and my heart squeezes.

“And a question for Mallory: This was your breakout year. How does it feel, being here?”

“It’s . . .” Everyone turns to me. Except for Nolan, who keeps looking straight ahead into the crowd.

He hates me. For what I said. For leaving. I screwed up, and he hates me, and he’s right.

“It’s an honor.” I attempt a smile. “I am happy and grateful.”

“AFP, Etienne Leroy— question for both. You two have close family members who used to play chess at high levels but are not here anymore. Does that make your championship more meaningful?”