‌The match between Koch and me is delayed, because the livestreaming demands are record high and something needs to be done to adjust FIDE’s website’s capacity. It takes about twenty minutes to fix it, which I spend in the lounge, eyes closed. I try to think about nothing, but flashes of critical positions pop up behind my eyelids, snatches of earworms I cannot purge.‌

Koch and I are alone on the stage. I’m wearing the longsleeved white maxi dress that Darcy and Sabrina call “my Corpse Bride outfit,” purely because it’s Mom’s favorite.

I think I need a hug.

But I also think I might be able to win this, if I manage not to go all Bob Ross over my score sheet.

I do what Tanil (God, it’s catchy) recommended and open with the Ruy Lopez. It’s the opening Koch has the worst track record with, and I’m happy to be playing White. He answers with the Berlin variation, and I reply with the anti- Berlin. A couple more moves, and Koch castles short.

That’s when the problems start.

“Touch- move. Bishop,” he says when I’m in the process to move my knight.

I look up. It is, I realize, the first time I’ve looked at him since the game started. My contempt for him is almost physical. “Excuse me?”

“Touch- move. If you touch a piece, you have to move it. I know you’re not familiar with chess rules, but— ”

“I barely brushed against the bishop with the back of my finger.”

“That’s touching, isn’t it?”

The audience cannot hear us, but they can see us talk, and there are curious murmurs creeping up to the stage. Koch is well aware that this is a stupid moment to call touch- take, but I can see exactly what he wants me to do: turn to the tournament director and kick up a fuss. Since I’ll be the one having to defend myself, he’s hoping that whatever happens next will upset me enough to destabilize the rest of my game.

I’m not saying he’s the worst human being in the world. I’m sure there are worse ones hanging out on 8chan or on the board of directors of British Petroleum. But Malte Koch is, quite frankly, the shittiest person I’ve ever met.

I exhale and look at my bishop. I didn’t plan to move it, but . . . But.

Defne is a fan of attacking the king with the bishop pair. She just loves that stuff, to the point that I’ve studied a bunch of games with it. Which means that . . .

I press my lips together and advance my bishop.

“Here,” I smile sweetly, activating his clock. His eyes widen in shock, and it feels good.

I gain the upper hand quickly. No chance to finalize the game, but minutes go by, then hours, and I’m the one showing the most initiative, dominating the center, building attacks on the sides. Koch is, and it hurts my brain and my heart to admit it, an excellent positional player, able to fend off the little locks I lay out, the threats I prepare, the combinations I orchestrate. He doesn’t, however, think as far ahead as I do, and it’s just a matter of time before I have him.

He might know it, too. He’s starting to get nervous, judging by how much he stands to pace around. He’s a fidgety player, but this is a lot, even for him.

I feel an optimistic, voracious sort of hope bloom inside me. I’m going to do this. I can do this. I am going to the World Championship. I’ll play against . . .

Nolan.

It’s incandescent, the blend of joy and excitement that seizes me. Something utterly new and reckless finally allowed through the floodgates. As impossible as it sounds, I haven’t let myself think about it, or dream of it. I haven’t admitted it to myself before now, how much I want to sit across from Nolan, a chessboard between us. How much I want to look him in the eye as he does the astounding, magical things only he is capable of. I want to be his adversary. I want to tear his strategy apart, I want to field his attacks and terrorize him with my own, I want to chip at every little tactical choice, till he looks at me and says again, “Do you know how incredible you are?” He will smell like he did on his couch, soap and leather and sleep and that unique scent of him. He will smile, small, lopsided, and I’ll smile back at him, and neither of us will hold back, and it will be the perfect game to—

Koch sits back in his chair, moves his queen, starts my clock. I drop back into my brain from whatever that was.

I frown. I’d figured he’d go for my rook, or break a file. But he moved his queen to a position I did not expect, so I study the board. I could— no. He’d check me in two moves. But I still need to back my knight. If I don’t .

. . a mess. A disaster. No. I could counter with my other bishop— though he would easily block the diagonal. And there’s the fact he’ll be queening in three moves. It wasn’t really a problem before, but now that his queen is there, it changes everything. I cannot really fight back there.

But I can elsewhere, I’m sure.

I start scanning the board again, deconstructing every position, every move, every combination, listing long- range threats, analyzing possibilities, scouring for the one choice that will end up saving my useless king, sure that it’ll become apparent any moment now.

Any second.

When I come up for air, fifty- seven minutes have passed on the clock, and I have not found a way out of this pin.

Because there is none.

My mouth is dry. My throat stings. If I were to move a piece, my hand would shake.

Because if I were to move a piece, I’d be dooming myself to defeat.

I look up to Koch, and I see it in his eyes, in his knowing, cruel smile: he was just waiting for me to come to the realization that it’s over. I was running in circles all along, and he was watching from the sideline. Triumphant. Entertained.

I turn to the overflowing audience. A sea of faces I’ll never know, and my eyes stumble on Defne’s familiar hair. She streaked it pink— so pretty. I wonder what she’ll tell me when all of this is done. I’m sure she has the right words. I’m just sorry she’ll have to use them.

I take a long, deep breath. Then I force myself to look back at Koch, and I force myself to say what I must.

“I resign.”