Work Text:
Chess is a relatively simple game.
So simple even a monkey—or myself—could play it, given enough time and effort. It’s an egalitarian sport, open to everyone regardless of class or status, and one might even make a fair bit of money off it once one has a high enough rating to hit the tournament scene.
But I digress.
For me, it’s more of a hobby and a way to hone my strategic thinking skills—not that I would mind being a woman world champion one day, or by God, a world champion, by some fluke. But as of now, my prodigy days are long past and I must suffer along with the rest of the middling crowd, eking out a living. A living, which, sadly, has a firewall blocker on any chess websites in the office, leaving me to resort to chess games during my lunch break.
I sit in the lobby of my office complex and watch the deceptively warm sun pour through the glass windows of the foyer, having only moments before been shocked by the wind soaring through my inadequate sweater and skirt. I had hoped to sit outside in the sun to receive just to morsel of sunlight in my eight-hour bloc of boredom known as “work” and play chess under the blue sky—but that will have to wait for tomorrow.
Today, I play.
I click on the knight logo on my phone and login to my account. The first thing to do is check my score—it’s alright at 1600, but definitely needs to improve, especially if I want to hit the women’s tournament in Arlington in the next few months. The puzzle of the day is relatively easy, if one knows her checkmates. Today, it’s a dovetail mate. As I am white to move, I move my queen one square diagonally from the mated king, blocked by his friendly pawn and rook. Having successfully solved the puzzle, I move on to the meat of it—the game. If puzzles are the weight room, the match is the field of play, where one truly meets her match and proves her prowess of the sport.
I go for a quick game for a 30-minute random pairing and wait until I am matched with a player and the game began. I am assigned white. I make the classic move to develop my pawn to E4, the app hitting the clock for me. While I wait for my opponent to decide his next move, I do not expect a chat window to open.
JBrrrrx69: seriously? What a lame move
I could only type on response:
CaissaCat: I beg your pardon?
JBrrrx69: I said what I said
My opponent, “JBrrrrx69”, puts his pawn at E5, meeting my pawn and blocking it. A classic move for a classic move.
CaissaCat: a bit hypocritical, no?
JBrrrrx69: It only matters if I do it ;)
The game continues. It is highly amusing to play with a live color commentator, and my opponent isn’t too shabby. I place my knight on F3 to threaten his pawn, which he blocks with his knight on C6, protecting his pawn in the process. I hesitate and scan the board for my next move, finally sighing as I resign and develop my bishop to B5. Naturally, my opponent has to make a quip.
JBrrrrx69: The Ruy-Lopez opening? Not bad…but still too easy. Everyone knows this move
CaissaCat: no one asked your opinion
JBrrrrx69: Can’t wait to beat you! :) Time to bring on the Morphy defense suckaaaa
My opponent develops his pawn to A6 and I scowl and castle my rook kingside and continue the game as he takes my sacrificed bishop.
JBrrrrx69: what a loser lmao
CaissaCat: we’ll see about that
The rest of the game continues in an aggressive beat, each of us moving for control of the center of the board and taking pieces left and right. While I lost my first bishop, the game was not a foregone conclusion. While my opponent may have the upper hand while opening, he makes a mistake—his king is open for a perfect diagonal attack. I develop my knight to F7, and he takes the bait with his queen. I move my queen up to H7 and take his pawn and then overpowered by his king.
JBrrrrx69: ooof that’s gotta hurt 😢 don’t cry if I win
CaissaCat: Oh shut up
I move my rook E5 and wait for his response. From his king’s quick retreat, it appears he wasn’t expecting that move. I move my rook up to H8, and with protection from my bishop at B2, I win. I smile at my screen in vindication that the cocksure cretin must be full sore at his devastating loss.
JBrrrrx69: God damn it. Well, gg
CaissaCat: gg
JBrrrrx69: You were actually a great player and I definitely didn’t expect that move there with the rook—really impressive! What is it?
CaissaCat: The Anderssen’s mate
JBrrrrx69: I’ll have to read up on that lol
JBrrrrx69: would you want to play again sometime?
That was odd. First, he was insulting me and my prowess, and now he’s complimenting me and wants to play again?
CaissaCat: Why on earth would I want to do that?
JBrrrrx69: Because it’s fun????
CaissaCat: You just insulted me not a few seconds ago. Not sure if I want to play with someone so unsportsmanlike
JBrrrrx69: You clearly haven’t played COD. It’s nothing personal
JBrrrrx69: And I really did enjoy the game. It was quite informative! Kept me on my toes
I pause and consider his offer. The prim side of me clearly wishes to have nothing to do with this scoundrel, but I can’t help but feel chuffed at his compliments. It’s not an everyday occurrence when someone compliments your checkmate strategy.
Ah, fuck it.
CaissaCat: Fine. But you’ll have to lay off on the insults next time. Capiche?
JBrrrrx69: Roger that. My schedule is weird, but I can do next week if you can make it
CaissaCat: Next week works for me 👍
JBrrrrx69: Cya
The chat window closes, and with that my lunch break. Of course, I had no idea that this little game with a random player, however coarse he might be, would be the prologue of a madcap, mind-boggling romance that would transcend time-zones and security clearances. That’s for future me to find out, and of which present me to be blissfully ignorant.
“…And that’s how it’s done!” I grin as I virtually mated Joe’s king. It wasn’t too hard—his king was smothered by his friendly pieces, leaving his king with no room to maneuver.
“You’re a real bastard,” Joe says, shaking his fist at the screen. I could only smirk in response.
“Maybe if you actually developed those pieces, you wouldn’t have lost.” I shrug even as he scowled.
Joe simply throws his hands in the air. “If only my opponent wasn’t the goddess of chess, maybe I’d have a chance,” he said, placing a hand on his forehead in mock annoyance.
“I am not!” I shake my head, even as I grin at our ongoing gag. “At least, no one’s dedicated a sacrifice to me yet.” I pout while Joe can only chuckle into his mug of questionable liquid content.
As we played against each other in the following weeks since our first engagement, we slowly but surely began to learn about each other. Most of the basics have been covered: where we live (he lives in Ohio; I live in D.C.); what we do (he does something related to “sports” and “travels for work”, I do “cyber and infrastructure stuff”); where we went to college (he went to LSU, whereas I went to Loyola in New Orleans). The last hurdle to cross was, funnily enough, names—or rather, mine.
“Well, if you aren’t the goddess of chess, then tell me your real name,” Joe replies with narrowed eyes. I can only shake my head as we go over the same old spiel.
“Once you beat me, I’ll tell you! That’s how it works. As you have yet to win a game, that will have to wait.” I smile while Joe loudly sighs in desperation.
Perhaps it is unfair that I know more about Joe than he does about me. The wager started as a joke. Joe, the eternal extrovert, was an open book—everything about him laid bare for me to read. I, meanwhile, was a bit more cautious. Sure, he may learn some rather broad strokes about myself, but anything deeper was a different matter. One of the first things we discussed was our usernames. Joe’s naturally reflected his name; mine was a different matter altogether.
“Oh, you know, I’m ‘Joe Brrr’ because I’m cool under pressure,” he said. “And sixty-nine because it’s the best number,” he added with a smirk. “What about you? Caissa is a nice name.”
“It is a nice name,” I agreed. “But it isn’t my real name—it’s just the name of the fictional goddess of chess.”
“There’s a goddess of chess?!”
“No, it’s just a fictional goddess, but I sure wish she was real,” I nodded. “it’s at least better than my given name.” Shit—why did I say that? I moved my hands to my mouth and hoped my face’s imminent reddening wasn’t too obvious through the screen.
Joe’s eyebrows raised and he tilted his head in thought. “So, what is your name? It can’t be that bad.” He stared at me; his brows furrowed in incredulity.
“It really is,” I grumbled. “It’s so bad that if given the chance to time travel back to kill Hitler or have my parents change my name, I’m pretty sure I’d see my parents.” I could hear Joe chuckle as I rubbed my eyes into my hands.
“I won’t poke fun of it, I promise,” Joe finally responded in a softer voice. “I won’t tell a soul.” I shook my head—I simply couldn’t comply with his request.
“Well…” I considered for a moment. How could I prolong this? “If you ever beat me in a game, I’ll tell you. How about that?”
Joe swiveled his chair in thought. “I suppose I can hang in suspense for another week.” He tapped his finger against his lips in a small smile.
Joe and I virtually shook hands, and that was that. We have been playing for a month now, and he still hasn’t beat me. At first our routine was merely a way for me to retard the inevitable reveal of my name, but now it’s a game between us—I feel like Scheherazade delaying the ending of her nightly stories, but thankfully I’m not at risk of death when I finish the tale. At this point, a reveal feels anti-climatic; why not let it go on forever? I can at least pretend it will.
“Alrighty then, Caissa, if that’s your real name,” Joe says. “Can’t wait to learn it next week.”
“And next week I’ll beat you, again!” I wag my finger at my opponent before we log off. I do appreciate him being a good sport about it—and who knows?
Perhaps he’ll win next time. Perhaps not.
Ping!
I look down and check my phone and see a chess meme from Joe. I chuckle and send one back. As I put my phone back into my pocket, I apologize to my tea date for the interruption.
“Who ever it is who’s been buzzing you all afternoon, it must be someone interesting! It’s certainly been a while since I saw you so glued to your phone.” Alice giggled over her teacup. What was supposed to be a regular afternoon tea and gossip catch-up between old friends turned into a conversation interrupted by intermittent pings and buzzes emitting from my phone, all from one singular source.
“Oh, it’s just a friend I made playing chess,” I dismiss her curiosity and grab a finger sandwich from the tiered tray.
“A friend, or a friend?” Alice waggles her brows, and I can’t help but grimace and cough into my teacup at her innuendo.
“Really, he’s just a friend—”
“A friend who whenever he messages you, a big old smile pops onto your face.” Alice folds her arms and leans forward, almost dipping her hair into her teacup in excitement. “Is he cute—I bet he is!”
“Yes, he’s pretty cute,” I admit. Alice begins to respond in glee, but I cut her off. “Just because he’s cute doesn’t mean he thinks I’m cute. Besides, he lives in Ohio, so it’s not like anything can happen.”
Alice shakes her head in clear disagreement. “That’s what long-distance relationships are for, duh! Never say never.” She sipped her tea and continued. “Besides, who is he anyway? You know, what’s his name? What does he do?”
After giving the rundown of our interactions up to that point, Alice sits back in her chair contemplating the information she received. She nibbles on a scone and says, “He sounds like a nice guy for you! At least he’s patient—I can’t believe you still haven’t told him your name, and that he’s going along with it!”
“But it’s an awful name! It—“I catch myself yelling, and quickly compose myself. It wouldn’t do to make a scene during tea. In a quieter voice, I continue, “it rhymes with queef!” I almost tip over my teapot in a frustrated attempt to calm myself with another cup and squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment.
Alice reaches over to pat my hand in consolation. “Caoimhe is perfectly fine name! It’s like a name for a sexy, mysterious Irish sorceress who the hero needs to beat at chess in order to get her golden fleece or something.” She tilts her head in thought and concedes, “though I do admit your name was pretty funny when I first heard it.” In a more serious tone, she adds, “If this Joe guy is as nice as he seems, I’m sure he won’t poke fun.” She pats my hand again for good measure.
“You and everyone else,” I roll my eyes. Even though Alice is being a bit too supportive, I suppose she has a point. My Scheherazade routine is getting stale. Poor Joe is probably too polite to ask me to retire the joke, even if it is rather entertaining motivation to see if he can beat me at a game. I reach for another petit four and reply, “I guess I’ll tell him next week, regardless if he wins or not. He probably won’t.” I reach out for another one—these are addictive! “Just so we’re even, of course.” Well, maybe we’d be even if he, by some miracle, managed to stack enough wins against me, but who needs to be pedantic?
I just hope I don’t lose my head.
After three months(!?!), part three is here under the cut. Thank you to my fans for spurring me on and reminding me to actually write! :) Everything I’m writing is completely unedited besides my own, so beware!
My planned reveal was far more anticlimactic than I had anticipated. Unlike a game of chess, where one can, with practice, reliably foresee an opponent’s plan of action and counter it, human interactions are much more unpredictable. Case in point:
“When you told me I had to beat you at chess to learn your real name, I thought it was going to be ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ or something, not something cool!”
Joe, for his part, is a good sport about it. It wasn’t hard for him to play this round—I was black—and after a few rounds of teaching him how to say my name without giggling, he claims he has something to share as well.
“Okay, it’s not like revealing anything like a name, but it might be relevant…” he hesitates and picks at his cuticles, frowning a bit.
“Alright, share with the class,” I tease. “it can’t be that bad—unless you mean to admit you’ve been sent by a foreign intelligence service meant to honeytrap me all along,” I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise.
“Oh, no! Nothing like that,” he laughs. In a more serious tone, he continues, “So you know how I travel a lot for work?” He shifts in his seat and furrows his brows. “Well…I’ll be in the D.C. area for work in a few months—”
“Oh, for a conference?” I interject, but Joe wags his finger at me for interrupting him.
“As I was saying,” he continues, shaking his head at me, “I’ll be in Baltimore, to be precise, because…”he stops again, his brows furrowing even more. I lean into the monitor of my computer, curious what could possibly be so difficult to say.
After a beat, he continues in a jumbled rush, “becauseiworkforthecincinnatibengals.” I can barely understand anything he says and ask him to repeat himself.
He takes a breath, and slower this time, he says, “I work for the Cincinnati Bengals as a quarterback.” He squints his eyes closed, a grimace—of embarrassment?—pouring onto his face. To be honest, I’m not sure why the man appears to be so reticent at admitting this. Like he said earlier, it’s not like he’s admitting his name is Rumpelstiltskin.
“So my team will be playing against the Ravens on October 9th,” Joe concludes, swallowing his anxiety. His eyes flicker back and forth over my face, looking for any reaction. To be fair, I’m not sure what to think—finding out one of your friends is some sort of famous sports person isn’t an everyday occurrence.
Blue eyes look into green for what what feels like an eternity until I blink and cough out, “All I can say is, I hope you beat those birds!” I give a hearty clap, to which Joe responds with a mock bow.
“So, uh, I guess I’ll let you know when we fly in we can meet up, if you want,” Joe says with a shrug.
“That would be great! Let me know.” The words tumble out of me before I realize what I just assented to –meeting up with who? A chess acquaintance who turns out to be some sort of NFL star? Moreover, the fact that he wants to see me at all is, frankly, insane. Neither of us know how to end this awkward exchange.
“Er, right. Uhh..see you next week.” Joe smiles and gives a small wave.
“See you next week.”
Great, just great, I think as our video call ends. I sit in shock at my desk, still not sure just what happened. Not only did I discover I had inadvertently been playing chess with some hotshot NFL quarterback, but for some reason, unknown to me, said hotshot NFL quarterback wants to see me. This all seems like something out of a schmaltzy fanfiction written by a lovestruck fan. At least he can pick up the tab and not complain about it. I chuckle at the image of escorting Joe around Federal Hill and Hampden, hopping from bar to bar looking for the best deal on Natty Boh and crabs and, obviously, doing our best to avoid any vengeful Ravens fans. It’s certainly not a bad one, and the more I develop this potential meeting, the more accustomed I become to the surrealness of it. In spite of the revelation, he’s still human. What’s the worst than can happen? Shift around awkwardly and never speak to each other again?
Actually, that would be pretty bad, I think. I’ve grown to appreciate our tentative friendship. From our discussions on the best openings to whether Admiral Thrawn would ever see the light of day in a Star Wars adaption, our weekly matches have become one of the highlights of my week. I’m going to fuck it up, aren’t I? One stupid comment about something and it’s bye-bye to Joe and one of the few things that make life worth living. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I spiral into an even worse panic. Get a fucking grip, Caoimhe. Don’t worry about something that hasn’t happened yet. That is, if I even can go —it would be a moot point if it’s on a Monday night.
But first, some double checking —can’t plan for something if you show up on the wrong day.
I check the calendar in the bottom of my laptop screen, just to make sure I have the date right and click until I see the month of October pop up. The good news is, it’s a Sunday game; doesn’t look like I’ll need to take any PTO. The bad news, which Joe forgot to mention, is that it’s less than two months away.
Ah, fuck.
Shit.
Shit fuck.
Are there even any tickets for the game still around? I click open a tab to the tickets page, and thankfully there’s still plenty left, even if it’s the nosebleed seats. Before I finalize any purchases, however, worry slips into my mind once again. Should I even go? He didn’t even really invite me to attend the game — just ‘meet up’. What if it goes terribly? Would I even want to see him play? I groan, feeling a headache coming. I rub my temples in frustration and sigh when I hear my phone ping with a message from Alice. If anyone would know what to do, it would be her.
Alice, we’ve got a problem, I texted. Need your advice, pronto. Emergency meeting required.
Be there in 20, she replies. There had better be alcohol.
There is. I just hope there’s enough for both of us.
Oh, look, an update! I hope you enjoy! :)
To say Alice lost her mind when I told her what had happened would be an understatement. A more exact description would be that she was temporarily braindead for nearly a minute before spurring herself back to life, spitting out the beer she had been drinking for good measure.
“When you said, ‘we need an emergency meeting’, I thought it was because you saw someone get murdered someone or something, not to tell me that apparently your chess friend or whatever is actually one of the hottest players in the fucking NFL. This is—is—absolutely fucking insane!” Alice paces along the floor of my studio apartment, muttering more expletives to herself than me at this point.
“Well, would you rather I did see a murder?” I respond, taking a sip from my own beverage at my desk, still looking over the tabs of ‘intelligence gathering’ Alice and I have now opened on my laptop in order to gain more information on what on earth I have just gotten myself into.
Alice snaps out of her state and frowns at me. “Obviously not. But at least that would just involve a police report and not, you know, planning five months in advance to meet an incredibly famous person and his equally famous teammates. I’m not even you, and this is infinitely more stressful!” She flops down into the seat next to mine and rubs her face with her hands. She narrows her eyes at me before taking a sip of her beer and says, “Honestly, you should be much more freaked out about this than I am.” I only roll my eyes in response and look at my screen, making sure to memorize the facts and figures of the Bengals roster.
“I already did the hand waving freak out before you got here, thank you very much.”
“Good, so that means we can focus on the important stuff: not looking like an idiot.” Alice points at the roster on the website. “Can’t show up as his date and be a complete dumbass who doesn’t know anything about sports-ball or what his favorite color is—what is Joe’s favorite color, by the way?” She turns, her finger now pointing towards me with a mischievous grin on her face.
“Blue,” I respond at once, which makes Alice’s grin even wider. “Oh, come on! It’s not a date. He would have said so if it was!”
Alice, not impressed with my protest, continues. “Pretty sure it is, Caoimhe. Guys don’t just ask to ‘meet up’ without a reason, especially if he’s never met you before. Don’t be surprised if he asks you to come up to his hotel for some strip chess.” Alice gives a good impression of a leer, waggling her eyebrows up and down.
I glower and take a long swig from my beer while I process Alice’s statement. While glib, she does have a point. All things being equal, if she had told me she was in the exact situation I’m in, of course I would make the same assumption. Of course I’d tell her that Joe—or whomever—is likely looking to get some action. Even so, I can’t help but be bothered by this conjecture. I shake my head in disagreement. “I don’t think that’s in the cards but thank you for the encouragement.”
“Whatever you say, Caoimhe, but keep a condom or two on you just in case—how big do you think he is?”
Alice was about to say more, but a swift face full of pretzels shut her up.
Strangely enough, the following chess meetups between Joe and I become more relaxed than our earlier sessions. If anything, he was more jovial, if it’s even possible. I suppose when one reveals one’s not-so-secret-and-actually-pretty-cool identity, there’s nowhere to go but up in one’s interpersonal relationships. Conversations turned more towards our own mundane activities. Joe regaled upon his surprisingly complex routine: meals, practice, exercises, and tactics preparations that were more akin to a Pentagon wargame than what I imagined a football match even needed. Naturally, this included the schedule for future games in the upcoming season—and one game in particular kept creeping into our conversations.
“Joe, stop worrying about the Ravens! You’ll beat them like you did last year, and the year before, and the year before that…” I honestly want to throttle the man out of this obsession. “Honestly, you probably need to focus more on improving your ELO than those guys—your streak has gone to shit!”
Joe shrugs at the screen and chuckles. “Some of us have just have a bad one, Caoimhe,” he tries to assure me, but the distracted look in his eyes does little to convince me otherwise.
“Well, you’d better shape up before you come out here—I don’t want to beat you in under ten moves,” I tease. Joe’s eyes widen at my remark, and a smile slowly appears on his face.
“Well, now that you’ve reminded me, I guess I do need to up my game if I’ll be in the presence of a chess goddess,” Joe chuckles. “Speaking of,” he continues, “know any good chess spots in Baltimore?”
“I know the perfect place,” I smile, “but you’ll have to try to be a bit inconspicuous, considering it’s in broad daylight and all. No Cartier glasses!” I wag a finger at him, and Joe only rolls his eyes. “Seriously though, you might get hustled right of your clothes if you’re not careful!”
“Wandering around nude in Baltimore doesn’t sound pleasant,” Joe concedes with a chuckle, but I feel the heat rise in my face at the mention of such a thing. Between Alice’s needling and my own anxieties, I’ve done my best to not ruminate any further on any sort of hanky-panky between us. Joe’s comment isn’t helping with that.
I cough and try not to sputter the rest of my tea onto my monitor. “Yeah, it would be,” I mumble, looking into my cup to hide my redness. If I get upset this easily now, how on earth am I going to deal with this later?
Before I can ponder this any longer, Joe and I are interrupted by his phone alarm going off, signaling his need to sign off and go on one of his many exercise regimens.
“Well, looks like we’ll have to talk about wandering around Baltimore in various stages of undress later,” I joke (or am I?).
“Oh, definitely,” Joe winks, and if he didn’t log right after I’m pretty sure I would have been petrified into silence. I definitely need to get sorted out before we meet in meat-space. I’m not the goddess of chess for nothing.
It is safe to say I never once imagined that I would one day escort one of the most recognizable figures in American sports to an outdoors chess club in Baltimore a scant few days before said astronomically famous man was scheduled to play against longtime franchise rivals at their home turf. Yet, here I am, scurrying through downtown Baltimore to attend the early morning iteration of an outdoors-only chess club, right outside War Memorial Plaza, with a hulking man beside me hellbent on checkmating a king or two. Only a few weeks ago I had told him about a few chess hotspots in town, and he jumped at the chance to attend one before his own much more physically demanding match later.
As we scan across the plaza to find the club, I look back on how I came to this peculiar junction. Joe and I, after much earnest exhortations on his part and hesitations on mine, finally managed to create an itinerary he could squeeze in among his professional obligations. In between Joe’s questions on why Baltimore loves flamingos or comments on how the Ravens should be the Crabs, and even advice from Alice on how to dress to impress, I somehow managed to keep my cool even when the MARC train left D.C. and pulled into Baltimore that sunny October afternoon. It wasn’t hard to spot Joe at the station; although he wasn’t dressed as flamboyantly as his earlier public appearances, being the tallest and bulkiest person in the vestibule made him stick out like a sore thumb as I saw him pace on the tiles, waiting for me to arrive. Any sense of calm I tried to cultivate was destroyed the moment he made eye contact. His intense gaze towards the arrival clock at once transformed into a soft smile once he became aware of my presence.
“Hey, you! I thought I’d pace a hole in the floor before you got here,” Joe joked and motioned to hug me. I melted into his chest as he squeezed my back. “I finally met the chess queen in person,” he said into my ear, and the rumble of his voice made me look up into his eyes and smile.
“Well, maybe if the train got delayed for an hour or two, then maybe you’d make some headway.” Joe met my gaze and laughed. The chuckles made my nerves fade, but the air was still full of tension. I couldn’t help recognizing it as the same friction one feels on a first date-nervous, yet hopeful, and hoping neither one shows a bad hand.
Wait—a date?
Alice would be happy to hear that her insistence that this occasion ought to be considered a date had finally wormed its way into my brain. Now the mere friendliness we had just shown each other had taken a more romantic tinge: was Joe’s smile only a smile, or did I see him lick his lips in anticipation? Was his gaze filled with longing?
Joe broke my musings when he asked, “So, where’s the chess haven you’ve been hyping?” He still held me, and I was distracted by his hands which still caressed my back. I felt my face redden when I finally remembered we were still standing in the middle of a train station. “Oh, it’s the War Memorial Plaza just up the way—we can just walk up there if you don’t mind some walking.”
“It’ll be the easiest exercise I’ll have all weekend—of course I don’t mind!” Joe gave my back one last pat before releasing me and followed me to the exit. I was about to open the door myself when he grabbed it before I had a chance, giving his best impression of a doorman.
“After you,” he said with an exaggerated bow. I couldn’t help but giggle when I curtsied back.
Not a bad start at all, I think as we leave the train station and start our pilgrimage to the War Memorial Plaza. Not bad at all.
“If I get beat up by a bunch of Ravens fans, I’m definitely going to blame you,” Joe mutters as we reach the center of the plaza, already bedecked with upright folded chairs and portable chess sets warming in the sun.
“Well, you not wearing Cartier helps you blend in,” I say as I elbow Joe in the side as we approach the group clustered towards the plaza’s center. As we search for an open table to play, a familiar voice calls my name just behind me. Joe and I turn around to find tall, lanky man wearing a Carhartt beanie and oversized glasses approaching us and narrowing his eyes toward Joe in curiosity.
“Hey, Keevy—uh, and guest—glad to see you could join us!” The man offers his hand to Joe, and they shake hands before I formally introduce my friend.
“Hey Eli, this is Joe—he’s visiting from Cincinnati for the weekend. We met playing chess online, so I’m just showing him around town.” I gaze up at Joe, and he looks down at me with a soft smile and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Joe, Eli runs the chess club!”
“It’s always great to see new faces out here—I hope Keevy won’t give you too much of a hard time!” Eli nudges Joe in the ribs. Joe frowns down at Eli in confusion and I can’t help but snicker a little.
“Anyway,” Eli continues, completely ignoring the look of annoyance on Joe’s face, “you two have fun!” Eli turns on his heel and walks off to a pair sitting near the limestone horse statue, overlooking their moves.
Joe and I look at each other and I give a small shrug. “Time to play some chess, I guess.”