Check & Mate

A sedan picks us up from the Las Vegas airport and brings us to the Westgate. In the elevator, a businesslike FIDE employee tells me about the press conference room, the VIP lounges, and a daily meal expense allowance that thoroughly humiliates the Greenleaf monthly grocery budget. There is a black embossed letter on my pillow: an invitation for an opening gala— Nevada governor in attendance. The US ambassador to Azerbaijan, too, since he’s scheduled to make the ceremonial opening move.

That’s how big of a deal the Challengers is. So big, I have to wonder if the current world champion is present. Then promptly slap myself for it.

Since thinking about Nolan has only been a source of problems.

“Are you sure there isn’t a dress code?” I ask Defne across our neighboring balconies. I wish Darcy and Sabrina were here. Mom, too, would love making fun of the ridiculous extravagance. But they’re back home, nursing the lie I’ve left them with (“visiting Easton in Boulder”). Mom’s relieved that I get to hang out with her again. Sabrina hates me because I am “more self-centered than a dartboard.” Darcy is googling me hard enough to make Silicon Valley stocks rise two hundred points.

And I’m here alone. Well— almost.

“No dress code,” Defne says. “Though it’ll probably be a blazer- over- button- down parade. Lots of grays.”

“Should I buy a black pencil skirt?”

“If you want. But I’d miss seeing you onstage in your primary colors crop top.”

I grin, feeling a sudden surge of affection. “Lucky for you, I packed it.”

For the gala, I put on a sheath dress Easton bought me at Goodwill for seven dollars. Because my life is a shit McMuffin, and because I’ve given up on any attempt not to eat it, I’m not surprised when the first person I meet is Koch.

“Well, well, well,” he says, like a poorly written Austin Powers villain. “Look what Sawyer’s dick and FIDE’s pity toward the less fortunate dragged in.”

“Is it very expensive, Malte?” I ask, plucking a chocolatecovered strawberry from a tray.

“What?”

“The vintage sexism you wear all the time.”

His eyes narrow and he steps closer. “You don’t belong here, Greenleaf. You’re the only player who didn’t earn her place in the Challengers. You’re nobody.”

I want to push him away. I want to punch him. I want to stuff the strawberry in his nose. But the room is full of press. I spot PBS cameras, cable TV mics. ChessWorld.com is going to milk the shit out of this event, probably live stream the players plucking their eyebrows. There is no margin of error.

So I smile sweetly. “And yet, the last time you and this nobody played, this nobody won. Food for thought, huh?”

I whirl around and look for an alcohol- free drink, cherishing the image of Koch’s eyebrow twitching. I can’t find Defne, or anyone else I know, but I’ll get acquainted with the other players soon enough: the tournament is round robin, one game per day. A lively piano song plays, and I drift to the table, eager to stuff my face, where someone hugs me from behind.

“Hiiiii!”

“Tanu!”

“This dress,” she tells me, looking at the bright green embroidery. “Daddy likey.”

“Tanu, we’ve been over this.” Behind her, Emil shakes his head and leans in to hug me. “I cannot take her anywhere, Greenleaf. I don’t know why I persevere.”

“Guys, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“School, shmool.” Tanu waves her hand. “We live freely. We’re not chained by the obligations of modern mundanity.”

“Winter break,” Emil explains.

“Ah.”

“We’re here to study. For when Nolan preps for the World Championship.”

“Oh. Is Nolan here?”

“Mal, we’d love to help you, too,” Tanu says. Not answering me.

“Help me?”

“Most players are here with a team of seconds. You only have Defne, right?”

Seconds are players’ assistants who help them train and debrief, analyze old games, come up with new attack and defensive strategies. “Defne, yeah. And . . .” And Nolan. Nolan’s texts. Which seem to answer my questions before I ask them. Not that I’ll admit it. “Oz Nothomb said he’d be available to talk strategy.”

“Then let us help. We could meet in the mornings. Go over your opponent’s weaknesses and strengths. Some openings. Mal, you’re so talented, and this stuff— it could make a difference.”

“Did Nolan put you up to this?”

They exchange a short look. “Listen,” Emil says, “Nolan might want you to win, but so do we.” He pouts like a child. “Did that poutine we shared in Toronto mean nothing to you?”

And that’s how I find myself walking into an IHOP with Defne at seven the following morning. Tanu and Emil are already sharing a custard- filled French toast, and if Defne needs an introduction . . . she doesn’t. She hugs them tight and asks Tanu how Stanford is treating her, when she got bangs, and what about her cat? I’m considering demanding a drawn schematic of how everyone knows everyone else when Emil whips out a board and says, eyes NFL- coach sharp: “Thagard- Vork. Danish. Thirty- six. Excellent positional player, though well past his prime. He loves opening with d4 and c4.”

“But sometimes he does some weird queen stuff, e4, c5, qh5. You gotta see this, Mal. It’s nuts.”

It is nuts. And three hours later, when he does some weird queen stuff and I know exactly how to answer, it’s even more nuts.

My name, and the US flag next to it, are everywhere. Not taped pieces of paper, but embossed on the side of the table, the panels, the chair, like someone spent a whole lot of money at Kinko’s. There are five tables on the stage and five hundred deadly silent people in the audience. Live- stream screens are everywhere, and ominous graphics run during idle moments.

10 players.

9 days.

45 matches.

1 winner.

Zum zum zuuuum.

The press crowds every corner, but in a respectful, distanced way, as though the players are not to be disturbed. I glance at the monitor while Thagard- Vork eyes my knight. All the players look the same, little soldiers in neutral colors frowning down at little boards in neutral colors. Except for the girl at the fourth table, who sticks out like a sore thumb with my white- blond hair and teal sweater.

I smile, close my eyes, and win without ever being in jeopardy. It takes me eighteen moves.

“She was a million miles ahead of me,” Thagard- Vork says at the post-game analysis press conference. My first interview. I tried to skip, but one of the directors showed me his fancy badge and said, “It’s mandatory.” “When she sacrificed her knight . . .” He shakes his head, looking at the replay screen. I notice a weird cowlick on my forehead. “She was a million miles ahead,” he repeats.

“It was a challenging game,” I lie to the host.

I don’t fully relax until I’m alone in the elevator, away from all the cameras.

Chess computers are so powerful these days, so quick to find the perfect move that electronic devices and even watches— hell, even lip balm— aren’t allowed in the tournament to prevent cheating. Which means that my phone is charging at my bedside table, full of notifications. When I get back to my room, I open Darcy’s first.

DARCYBUTT: How can the entirety of your hair be as straight as a limp noodle except for one single curl smack in the middle of your forehead?

I laugh.

Eight games to go.

I WIN THE FOLLOWING GAME (KAWAMURA; US; #8) THANKS TO a half- open file, and the one after (Davies; UK; #13), although it takes me five hours.

By the end of day three I’m number one in the tournament, tied with Koch and Sabir. All other players have either suffered a loss or settled for draws. That’s when the press decides that respectful distance won’t cut it, and starts circling around the lounge area, where I’m sitting with Defne eating pistachio Oreos.

They look thirsty. Sharky.

“Maybe you should give an interview. Before they corner you at the IHOP with Tanil,” she muses.

“Tanil?”

“Tanu and Emil. It’s their ship name. Anyway, the other players have been giving interviews. You should do the same.”

“I already do the post- game analyses.”

“You don’t get it. They don’t want to know about your chess. They want to know about you.”

And that’s how I find myself with a CNN mic hovering an inch from my mouth. It smells like burnt plastic and cologne. Or maybe it’s the journalist.

“How is it, being the dark horse of the Challengers?”

What’s a dark horse again? “It’s . . . great.”

“Is it odd, being the only woman?”

“It’s odd that there are so few women in chess. But I don’t feel odd.”

“You’re the daughter of a GM. What would he say if he were here?”

Breaking news: I officially hate giving interviews. “I don’t know, because he’s not here.” Darcy better never see this.

“What about Nolan Sawyer? How would he feel if you ended up becoming the Challenger, given your relationship?”

There is no relationship. “Good question. You should ask him.”

“A lot of people think that it might come down to you and Koch. What do you say about that?”

I’m not sure why I choose that moment to look at the camera. And I’m not sure why I lean a bit into the mic, which really does smell foul. “I’m not afraid of Koch,” I say. “I’ve defeated him once, after all.”

“We might have to work on your interviewing skills,” Defne tells me the following morning at the IHOP with Tanil (it’s growing on me). They have taken to bringing a list of openings and positions that they want to show me. The list has three different handwritings on it, but I pretend not to notice. Their analyses are sharp, on point, brilliant, brilliant past what I’d expect from two talented players who never quite got to the top. I pretend not to notice that, either.

My first draw is on the fourth day, against Petek (Hungary; #4). The game is a mess of Najdorf Sicilian, which I knew he’d play, long pockets of mind- numbing boredom, and me attempting to surprise him into a retreat Defne once taught me when we were looking into Paco Vallejo’s games. I come this close to winning— this close— but after six hours, when he holds his hand to me and offers a draw, I take it.

“It’s for the best,” Defne tells me the following day. “Tomorrow you’d have been exhausted otherwise.” But I draw on my fifth game, too, and then on my sixth and seventh, and I’m exhausted anyway, exhausted from worrying and second- guessing myself and hating the opportunities I’m missing. I’m not good, after all. I’m a mediocre player. Defne was wrong. Nolan was wrong. Dad was wrong. CNN is suddenly less interested in interviewing me. I leave the post- game analysis with my head down, and I can barely thank Eleni from the BBC when she smiles and tells me that she’s rooting for me. Maybe if I pull a Lindsay Lohan and trash my room I’ll feel better?

DARCYBUTT: Koch has one more win, but he also has a loss against Sabir. You’re not out of the running. At all.

DARCYBUTT: Though it would help if you beat Sabir tomorrow.

MALLORY: bb do you even know how to play chess?

DARCYBUTT: I don’t need to know how the little priest moves to understand a score system.

I’ve been starfishing in bed and woe-is-me-ing for one hour when someone sends a bowl of noodle soup and three Snickers bars up to my room. I refuse to think about its origins as I devour all of it, and then, with my stomach full and my skin warm and the sweet taste of chocolate lingering in my mouth, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The following day I wake up rested and win against Sabir with the Trompowsky.

IT DOES COME DOWN TO KOCH AND ME.

Sabir trails a point behind, but with only one game left, he might as well be fracking on Jupiter. Some overworked intern from the IT department whips up new graphics: the monitors are now pictures of Koch and me from previous games. I bite down on my lip; Koch looks at the ceiling. He squeezes his eyes shut; I nibble on my thumbnail.

I didn’t even know that I do that. But I’ve looked at myself on camera more in the past week than in the previous decade. Every time I see myself play with the tips of my hair, I want to shank myself and flip the monitor table. Instead I smile politely and tell the post- game analysis host, “There, I was considering knight e5. But then I went for d4. More pressure, I figured.”

Good Morning America, Defne tells me, did a short piece on me. NPR requested an interview— Terry Gross. I’ve been asked for at least twenty autographs— which, I realize around the seventh, are the same signatures I use at the bank and put me at significant risk for identity theft. An Etsy store sells T-shirts, sweaters, onesies, with my stylized face on them. Eleni from the BBC wears one.

People must be unhinged. I can’t really comprehend it. I might be dissociating, but focusing on Koch’s old games makes it better. Mom calls at night, asking how I like the mountains, and I want to tell her, I want to tell her so bad that my guts are twisted and I feel like crying and tearing apart this entire hotel and people need to stop, stop, stop looking at me and asking me how my form is and I wish she was here, I wish Dad was here, I wish I didn’t feel so alone.

Instead we talk about Sabrina’s birthday next week, how the backpack I ordered for her should arrive any day and Mom should intercept the package.

“I’m afraid that I always forget to tell you,” Mom says in the end, “but I love you. And I couldn’t be prouder of you.” I want to say it back, how much I love her and miss her, not only having her near, but . . . being someone’s daughter, taken care of, protected. Having someone standing between me and the world. But it seems wrong to add that bit of truth to all the lies I’ve been saying, so I hang up and sit on the edge of the mattress, head in my palms like some tortured action hero from a nineties movie, thinking that I will have to tell her. About the chess. The second I get back home, I will. If she doesn’t catch sight of me on Good Morning Fucking America.

I dry my eyes and shuffle downstairs to steal a sandwich from the lounge area. Some of the other challengers are sitting there, eating and drinking and laughing. They’re all going to be playing tomorrow, but the stakes are low for them. Their tournament is over.

Davies, the British guy I beat on day two, notices me and beckons me closer. My previous informal interactions with other chess players have taught me to just . . . not, but I can’t believably pretend I didn’t see him. I go to him, clutching my caprese panini, fully expecting some version of She doesn’t even go here. The group quiets. “Greenleaf, we need to ask you something.”

I brace myself. “Yeah?”

“A favor. Not a question.”

The bracing intensifies. “What’s that?”

“Could you please massacre Koch tomorrow?”

Everyone laughs. At me? With? “Excuse me?”

“We’d be really grateful if you could humiliate the shit out of him,” someone adds.

“Every time he loses, a dragon shits a goldbrick.”

“Sex is good, but have you ever heard Koch’s little whine when he’s checkmated?”

“Basically,” Davies cuts through the others, “we despise him as a human being and we’d revel in any unhappiness you could provide for him.”

“Please, Greenleaf, don’t doodle on the score sheet.”

This time when everyone laughs, I join in. “Wow. And there I was, thinking I was alone in my revulsion.”

“No way. He’s been a total dickhead to every single one of us.”

“And his stupid tricks. When he trash- talks during a game while you’re trying to focus.”

“Or when he starts walking in circles around the chessboard. I’m thinking about the next move and he’s making me dizzy!”

“You’ve only been dealing with him for a few months—we had to put up with his cologne phase.”

“Sauvage by Christian Dior. Jesus.”

“He bathed in it.”

“I’m pretty sure he drank it.”

I shake my head, laughing. “I’d love to win. I just don’t know if I can.”

“You are an alchemist,” Thagard- Vork says kindly. “You can do anything you want, Greenleaf.” I feel myself flush.

“Hey, Greenleaf.” Kawamura. “Are you on Discord?”

“Discord?”

“The messaging app. We have a server with most of the toptwenty players. We talk chess, gossip about FIDE, the usual. I’d love to send you an invite.”

“Oh.” I scratch my neck, looking around. These guys range from my age to late thirties. Would I even fit in? “I’m not in the top twenty.”

They laugh. Someone says, “Yet,” and they laugh harder.

“Koch isn’t in it, by the way. Which is great, since we have a whole channel dedicated to him.”

“And we’d rather crap glass twice a day than voluntarily interact with him.”

“Our love language is anti- Koch memes.” More laughter.

“Nolan’s also not in it.”

“But we did invite him. He declined.”

“Yeah, we don’t hate Sawyer. Though he did used to be a little shit,” Petek says.

“He just used to be a teenager,” Kawamura says. More laughter. The mix of accents and intonations is almost musical, and it makes me feel a little uncultured. I barely speak English. I don’t really know the difference between lay and lie, and I keep forgetting when to stick an apostrophe in your.

“But Sawyer is not important, you see,” Davies explains. “We can’t beat him— no one can, except for you. So we like to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Petek clears his throat and turns to me conspiratorially, voice pitched low. “Please don’t tell Sawyer I said that he used to be a little shit. He’s really fit, and I have a wife and two beautiful daughters back home who would really miss me. I’m teaching them to play chess, and they were rooting for you during our game. They wouldn’t mind an autograph, actually.”

“Why would I tell . . . Oh. Oh. No, Nolan and I . . . we’re not really dating. We’re barely friends. Don’t believe the press.”

“I usually don’t. But I thought that might be true, since he showed up for the Challengers. He usually doesn’t. My apologies. Would you like to see a photo of my family?”

Like it’s becoming a habit of mine, I lean forward to see the picture, and pretend I didn’t hear the rest.