I feel Nolan before I see him.
One second I’m struggling to drag my duffel bag onto the LaGuardia suitcase conveyor and wondering why the Greenleaf clan never invested in something with wheels (or a set of dumbbells, for upper body strength); the next, someone takes it from me, lifts it effortlessly, and deposits it on the belt.
I turn around, but my body already knows, like my atoms vibrate differently when he’s near. Which probably just means that his presence gives me radiation poisoning.
“Hi, Mallory,” he says. He’s wearing sunglasses and a dark shirt, but his voice is the same. He looks the same: Tall. Unsmiling.
Good.
A few pimples, that’s what he needs. A wart to break the perfect imperfection of his face.
“Hi,” I scratch out.
It’s been over two months since I was in his presence. Two months of chess, chess, chess. Wrangling my sisters, taking Mom to the doctor, then more chess. Being glared at by Oz, putting off checking Tinder, then chess. I won the Nashville Open and another online tournament. I haven’t lost a match yet, but my rating’s not even in the nineteen hundreds. There’s a little engine in a corner of my skull, constantly working on positions, pawn structure, square theory.
“Are you . . . flying somewhere?” I ask once he’s been silent a little too long. My voice sounds breathy. I hope I’m not getting sick right before the Olympics.
The corners of his lips twitch. “That’s what airports are for.”
I bristle out of my breathlessness. “You could be flying in. Or picking up someone. Or be like Tom Hanks in that movie, living in a terminal because of funky immigration paperwork.” I clear my throat. “Where are you flying?”
He tilts his head. “For real?”
For real, what? “Are you going to that tournament in Russia?”
“You haven’t figured it out?”
“What am I supposed to— ”
“Greenleaf.” Emil Kareem appears and hugs me like I’m his long- lost sister. There’s a girl with him, a supermodel who just flew into LaGuardia for fashion week. Wait, she’s familiar. From Philly Open—Nolan’s girlfriend, the one he hugged? I don’t know, but she is hugging me like I’m her long- lost sister.
“Mallory, I’m so happy you’re on the team. I cannot believe I’m going to have a meaningful conversation that doesn’t revolve around fantasy football. Wait— are you into fantasy football?”
She smells amazing. Lavender, I think. “I’m . . . not sure what that is.”
“Phew.”
“Greenleaf, this is Tanu Goel. She also has no idea what fantasy football is,” Emil says. “And of course you know Nolan. From trashing him back in the summer.”
I glance at Nolan. He doesn’t seem to mind being reminded— the opposite, in fact. Which, in itself, is annoying. I want to be the thorn in his side that he is in mine. I want him to dream of my stupid eyes.
“You guys know each other?” I say, glancing between Nolan and Emil.
“Unfortunately,” they say at the same time, before exchanging a long, brotherly look, and that’s when it occurs to me.
Nolan is on the team.
Nolan is coming to Toronto.
With us.
To play chess.
At the Olympics.
Emil never told me. Because I never asked. We’ve been in touch to arrange flights and accommodations, but I always figured that whoever the fourth member turned out to be, I wouldn’t have heard of them.
Because Defne told me that all Super Grandmasters would skip the Olympics and go to the Pasternak.
Because I’m an idiot.
A very rattled idiot, who has to deal with her rattledness through security and boarding. I’m not the self- conscious type, but I feel like the odd man out with these three. They’re warm (except for Nolan, who’s his usual inscrutable self) and try to involve me in conversation (except for Nolan, who’s his usual quiet self), but it’s clear that they’ve spent years memorizing each other. Their inside jokes are indecipherable, hidden behind a thick bramble of unparseable references. Their dynamics, too, seem to be a well- beaten path— several paths, made of shifting alliances and a healthy dose of roasting.
“Is she seriously buying that?” Emil asks when Tanu picks up a pack of Werther’s Original. “How old are you?”
“Leave her alone,” Nolan murmurs, paying for the Werther’s and peanut M&M’s with a black credit card. “They’re out of Jell-O salad.”
Not five minutes later two separate groups recognize Nolan as “that chess guy in all the TikToks.” It leads to selfies, autographs, and two beautiful women hastily writing down their phone numbers on Sbarro napkins, like he’s Justin Bieber or something. Tanu and Emil pretend to stand in line, audibly asking, “Sir, I’m your biggest fan. I love the way you always castle on your fourth move. Will you please sign my underwear?” (Nolan is surprisingly good- natured through all of this; he also immediately throws away the napkins.)
Then, while waiting for takeoff, Emil starts playing Candy Crush on his phone. “Are you for real?” Tanu asks. She’s half leaning back against Nolan’s chest, his arm casually wrapped around her waist. I’ve been avoiding looking at them, telling myself that I don’t care what they’ve been murmuring about in hushed, intimate tones. “We are scholars of the most sophisticated game in the world and you play Candy Crush? Nolan, say something.”
He shrugs. “Seems unfair to kick him when he’s so clearly down.”
“Candy Crush is actually a highly intelligent game,” Emil insists. “There’s strategy involved.”
Tanu groans. “Oh my God. Excuse me, Mallory, can we switch seats? I need to tell Emil how wrong he is. I need it right now.”
Which is how I find myself in the window seat next to Nolan, Tanu and Emil arguing loudly over jelly bean colors on the other side of the aisle. I study his profile, suddenly intimidated. Then I remember that he once came over to shoot my mom’s meat loaf up his veins and asked Sabrina whether Jughead was “a first or last name.”
“So, what’s the deal here?”
He turns to me, puzzled.
“Are the three of you in some polyamorous relationship?”
“Did you just ask if I’m sleeping with both our teammates?” He lifts one eyebrow. “I’m going to FIDE’s HR.”
“What? No— don’t go to HR.”
“You’re overstepping, Mal.”
“You came to my house and ate many of my ice cream sandwiches.”
“Right.” He clucks his tongue. “Unforgivable. Do report me.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. So, who’s dating whom?”
“No one’s dating anyone. Not anymore, at least.”
I glance at Tanu and Emil. She stole his phone and is scowling at it, tongue peeking out from between her teeth as she matches Swedish fish. Emil stares at her, surprisingly somber.
“Was it them?”
Nolan nods silently. “Then they went to different schools— Tanu’s taking the week off, but she’s at Stanford. Emil’s at NYU.”
“I see. Have you known them for long?”
“Forever. We trained together with . . . ” He stops. “Until they decided pro chess wasn’t for them.”
“When was that?”
“Three years ago for Emil. Tanu, before that.”
I wonder if they are his Easton. And because I’ve been hearing from Easton less and less, about stuff that seems more and more trivial, the question slips out:
“Does it feel weird? That they went to college, and you didn’t?”
He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like they’re on their way to have lives I can never understand. Sometimes I’m just glad I don’t have to read Great Expectations or study for a trigonometry final.”
I smile. “Pretty sure trig’s in high school.”
“It is?”
“Yup. You didn’t take it?”
He opens his M&M’s, offering them to me. “I was homeschooled.”
“Because of chess?”
“For many reasons. And I have no idea what a cosine is.” He pops a yellow M&M in his mouth. When he swallows, his throat bobs, a strong, mesmerizing movement that I notice because . . . I’m going bananapants?
“You’ll live. So Emil and Tanu broke up because of distance, but they’re still into each other?”
“And refuse to do anything about it.”
“Lots of pining, I bet.”
“I do get several angsty late- night phone calls asking why Tanu just liked the shirtless picture of some Stanford swimmer on Instagram, or who’s the skank who keeps dueting Emil on TikTok.”
“I bet you’re great at talking people off the ledge.”
“I’d be better at it if I knew what the hell a TikTok duet is.”
I laugh. Emil and Tanu glance at me, then exchange a glance I cannot decipher. “Were you jealous when they first got together?”
“Jealous?” He seems to find the question surprising.
“Yeah. I mean, you guys seem close. And they’re both really attractive . . .” My cheeks heat. I think he notices because the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I wasn’t jealous. I couldn’t understand how someone could be so enthralled by the idea of being alone in a room with another person without a chessboard.”
“But now you can?”
He gives me a long look through his sunglasses. “Now I can.” He turns away. “But if you are interested in either of them— ”
“That’s not why I asked,” I blurt out. “Besides, I don’t hook up with people I work with. It makes things messy.” Actually, I don’t hook up at all, lately. It’s been a surprisingly dry couple of months. Maybe chess kills my libido?
“Messy?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that?”
“Too much proximity. People get ideas. They think I’m interested in giving them my time. My mental energy.”
He studies me. “And you’re too busy taking care of your family for that.”
“How do you know that?”
He doesn’t reply, just studies me through those dark lenses for several seconds, until I can’t stand the stretching silence anymore and ask, “Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you going to that invitational next week?”
“Curious about my plans?”
The obvious answer is: yes. “They didn’t invite you, did they? They know you’ll hurl a chessboard at an arbiter and no insurance agency would let them have you.”
“I leave for Moscow from Toronto. On Friday.”
“You’re doing both tournaments?”
He gives me his best What, like it’s hard? shrug.
“Defne said that doing two big tournaments so close together would make anyone brain dead. And that most big players don’t see the point in the Olympics . . .” A thought occurs to me. “You’re not here because I . . . ?”
You’re not here because I’m here, are you?
Come on, Mal. He’s not here because he’s still into that idea of playing against you. No way. He wants to hang out with his friends. Maybe he lied and he is into Tanu. Or Emil. Or both. Not my business. Who cares—
“Yes,” he says.
My internal monologue halts. “What?”
“The reason you’re thinking.” His stupid, deep voice. Argh. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
He smiles. “True.”
“No, really. You don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying that. Stop pretending you can read my mind and— ”
The flight attendant rolls her cart, asking us if we want a drink. After that we’re quiet— Nolan staring ahead, and me sullenly nursing my Sunkist, thinking that no.
He cannot know.
