Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

But I would still have it. If things had been different, my instinct would still be a raw ball of unknowns knotted inside me: waking me up at 3:05 a.m. on the most important day of my life, thrumming within me, pulling me out of bed.

I don’t even remember falling asleep. The TV is still on, Netflix pointedly asking if we’re still watching Riverdale, and I have no idea why my sisters decided to infiltrate my room instead of returning to their overpriced suite. Climbing out of bed takes Cirque du Soleil– grade coordination and a nearly sprained ankle. Once I’ve peed and drunk what’s left in my water bottle, I’m just not motivated enough to dive back in.

I try to keep quiet as I put on Easton’s CU Boulder hoodie. It stops just below my shorts, and I should probably grab a coat and some thick sweats, but I don’t bother turning on the light for something warmer, and instead let myself out of the room.

The hallways are silent and gelid. The sea, quiet. There are no ferries, no boats, no seagulls, because all of Venice is fast asleep. I make my way down the stairs, the shiny pinks and whites of the marble floors pure ice under my bare feet, hair bouncing over my shoulders.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know in my stomach that it feels right. It’s good, this: being alone with the night sea breeze, exploring the deserted gardens, inhaling the smell of grass and salt. I spot some lights in the distance, from the little glass house where I’ll spend the next two weeks, immersed in chess and heartache. I follow the stone path, shivering, tracing the steps for the first of thirteen times. Wondering if come morning, the precious calm I feel right now will tangle into a pile of exposed nerves.

I stop in my tracks when I see him, but I’m not startled. Maybe I should be surprised to see him there— the time, the place, the coincidence don’t exactly make sense—but my gut tells me that this is fine.

This is why I’m here: for Nolan.

He gives me his back, standing tall in front of a familiar frame. Marcus Sawyer’s picture has been moved into the glass house, flanked by three others— all the world champions who have been crowned here in Venice. Tomorrow, when the first game starts, they will surround the players. Place them right within history.

I watch the relaxed line of Nolan’s shoulders and think about my next move.

Think about turning around.

Think about my cold limbs and the pile of sisters back in my room.

Think about his messy hair and a box of Froot Loops and his wide eyes as he said, Kasparov was there.

Think about him nuzzling my belly button, and his penchant for the Scotch Game, and the way I liked being with him so much, maybe I got a bit scared.

A lot scared.

My next move, then, is to keep on walking. Horizontally, through an unoccupied path. Like a rook would. And Nolan . . . he must hear me open the glass door and enter, but he doesn’t turn. Nor does he acknowledge my presence. He continues to study his grandfather’s picture, dark eyes to dark eyes, stubborn jaw to stubborn brow. When I come to stand right next to him, close enough to feel his heat, and say, “I’ve been studying his games,” his answer is simply:

“Have you?”

I missed his voice. Or: I missed the way his voice sounds when it’s the two of us and no one else. Rich. Lower than usual. Stripped of its coats and edges. I missed letting it flow through me.

“Because I couldn’t bear to study yours.”

“That boring, huh.”

I exhale a shaky laugh. “No, it’s just . . . Come on. You know.”

He nods, still facing the picture. The soft lights play beautifully across his skin. “I do know.”

“Yeah. Anyway.” I push my hair behind my ear. I’d love to meet his eyes, but it’s not going to happen. Not if we continue this way. Not if he won’t look at me. “My favorite was the one he played against Honcharuk at some point in the early eighties. Tata Steel, I think, back when it was called . . .”

“Hoogovens?”

“Yeah.”

“That game when he offered a draw even though he had the losing position?”

“Yes.” I chuckle. “It must be such a mindfuck, having Marcus Sawyer do that. You have to assume he’s seeing something you’re not.”

“Right. I still can’t believe Honcharuk accepted instead of slapping him.” He shakes his head fondly. “God. What an asshole move.”

“Clearly runs in the family,” I say. He laughs a little, silent, wistful, and I immediately want to kick myself and take it back.

I’m sorry

I didn’t mean

I lied when

“Clearly.”

“No. No, I . . .” I cover my eyes with my hands. I’m a mess. I’m making a mess. “I didn’t mean to . . . For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re an asshole. Or manipulative. Or selfish. Or . . .” Unloved. “Or most of the other things I called you in New York, really. Or maybe you are, a bit, but no more than any other chess player in the entire universe. No more than me.” I try to take a deep breath, and the air almost chokes past the ache in my lungs. “I really didn’t think any of the things I said. And when I called you ‘crazy’ . . . I’m really ashamed of that. I was . . .”

I don’t know what I was. But Nolan does. “Angry. Tired. Hurting, and wanting to make me hurt just as much. Scared out of your mind.”