Check & Mate

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.

Why would you keep something that makes you think of me?” I feel him shrug. “Because I think of you anyway, Mallory.

Galaxies pass through his black eyes, and I wonder whether this second could last a century. Whether the universe could be just me and him, understanding each other on a forever loop.

I look at him looking at me, and overflow with something I cannot put a name to. “Because when I’m with you, Mallory, everything is different. When I’m with you, I want to play more than I want to win.

I’d rather drink a can of Axe body spray while feral raccoons feast on my exposed bone marrow than sit across from this twat.

Chess is a bad idea. Why? Look where it got me. It got you here. To me.

Are you going to run away?” I frown. “What?” “You usually run away from me. Are you going to?” He’s right. He’s also rude. “You usually lose your king to me. Are you going to?

Then, since you have never even been part of a super-tournament, what makes you qualified to be here today? Why you and not someone else?” I swallow. “I just . . .” Nothing. I got lucky. It’s a mistake. I’m not good enough and— “Man”—Nolan snorts into the mic—“she literally won the qualifying tournament to be here. Keep up, will you?

Sometimes I’m scared that I imagined you. Sometimes I think you’re only in my head.

Way to make me feel excluded, bitches.” “Darcy,” we all say at once, all in the same disapproving tone. “What?” She shrugs from the door. “I thought we now just sprinkled the word generously in conversation. For seasoning.

Nolan stares like I’m the center of gravity of the room, like nothing else ever existed but me in all of space and time.

In my experience, commitment leads to expectations, and expectations lead to lies, and hurt, and disappointment-stuff I'd rather not experience, or force others to experience.

because when I asked myself if I had the right to those tears, the answer was always no, and it was easy to stop myself.

He leans toward me over the table, dark eyes earnest, stars traveling on his skin. “Do you know how incredible you are?” I cannot breathe. Temporarily. So I force myself to laugh. “Really? You’re wasting your question on this?” “I am serious. Do you realize how exceptional you are, Mallory?

I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d love to play. Who’d probably pay just to sit across from you.’ ‘But I want you, Mallory.

You should stop swearing in front of twelve-year-olds. Mrs. Vitelli says that my brain’s still all squishy. I’ll probably end up in juvie if you swear just once more.” “Fuck.

I want to be the thorn in his side that he is in mine. I want him to dream of my stupid eyes.

I’ve got you, Mallory. Nothing bad is goi bc to happen. You can let yourself want this, because you already have it. You have me.

Nolan?' 'Hmm?' 'Why did you come to Vegas?' His fingers tighten around mine. my heart cartwheels. 'Mallory. I came because you did.

I smile faintly. “Is ‘less punchable’ Oz-speak for ‘nice’?” He arches one eyebrow. “And what does that mean?” “Well, you’re not the nicest guy I’ve ever met.” “I am a motherfucking delight, Greenleaf. And for the record, you and I are equally hot.

He is offensively, uniquely, devastatingly handsome.

This apartment he left you . . . It’s big for one person,” I murmur. “Want to move in?” His tone matches mine, intimate.

And if you “ship them hard” and “want to believe,” you might enjoy this little clue: three weeks ago, at a charity event, Nolan Sawyer—who is a notoriously bad loser—did not stop to take questions from journalists. But eyewitnesses reported that when asked how he felt about the possibility of Mallory Greenleaf accruing enough points to take the No. 1 spot from him, he simply smiled before walking away.

It has its ups and downs. I used to love it, but a little…sameness set in, and I actually thought about quitting. Then Mallory arrived. Now I love it again.

He wakes up earlier, falls asleep later, works harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. The rigors he puts himself through, the single- minded, indefatigable stubbornness as he stares at the engines, dissecting, retracing, combining, projecting. He’s tireless, unshakable. Driven in an indomitable, near- obsessive way. This iron- hard tenacity of his is an oddly attractive quality.

I think about a deserted chessboard. Only the white king on it, standing on the home square. Alone, untethered, safe from threats. Free to roam.

Did you guys break up?” she asks. “What’d he do?” “He . . . lied to me.” “Ah, yes. Lying. Something you’d never stoop to.

They don’t know what it’s like, being told that you’re inherently destined to be second best.

when I find Defne outside, sitting next to a sullen, gloomy, seething Oz. “What happened?” I ask. “My wedding planner is out of peonies. What do you think happened? I lost.” He glares. “This entire tournament could have been an email.