The match between Koch and me is delayed, because the livestreaming demands are record high and something needs to be done to adjust FIDEâs websiteâs 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. Iâm wearing the longsleeved white maxi dress that Darcy and Sabrina call âmy outfit,â purely because itâs Momâs 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, itâs catchy) recommended and open with the Ruy Lopez. Itâs the opening Koch has the worst track record with, and Iâm 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.
Thatâs when the problems start.
âTouch- move. Bishop,â he says when Iâm in the process to move my knight.
I look up. It is, I realize, the first time Iâve looked at him since the game started. My contempt for him is almost physical. âExcuse me?â
âTouch- move. If you touch a piece, you have to move it. I know youâre not familiar with chess rules, butâ â
âI barely brushed against the bishop with the back of my finger.â
âThatâs touching, isnât it?â
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 Iâll be the one having to defend myself, heâs hoping that whatever happens next will upset me enough to destabilize the rest of my game.
Iâm not saying heâs the worst human being in the world. Iâm 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 Iâve ever met.
I exhale and look at my bishop. I didnât 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 Iâve studied a bunch of games with it. Which means that . . .
I press my lips together and advance my bishop.
âHere,â 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 Iâm 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 doesnât, however, think as far ahead as I do, and itâs just a matter of time before I have him.
He might know it, too. Heâs starting to get nervous, judging by how much he stands to pace around. Heâs a fidgety player, but this is a lot, even for him.
I feel an optimistic, voracious sort of hope bloom inside me. Iâm going to do this. I do this. I am going to the World Championship. Iâll play against . . .
Nolan.
Itâs , 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 havenât let myself think about it, or dream of it. I havenât 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, âDo you know how incredible you are?â 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 Iâll smile back at him, and neither of us will hold back, and it will be the perfect game toâ
Koch sits back in his chair, moves his queen, starts my clock. I drop back into my brain from whatever was.
I frown. Iâd figured heâd 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 couldâ no. Heâd check me in two moves. But I still need to back my knight. If I donât . . . a mess. A disaster. No. I could counter with my other bishopâ though he would easily block the diagonal. And thereâs the fact heâll be queening in three moves. It wasnât really a problem before, but now that his queen is , it changes everything. I cannot really fight back there.
But I can elsewhere, Iâm 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 itâll 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, Iâd 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 itâs 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 Iâll never know, and my eyes stumble on Defneâs familiar hair. She streaked it pinkâ so pretty. I wonder what sheâll tell me when all of this is done. Iâm sure she has the right words. Iâm just sorry sheâll 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.
âI resign.â