Work Text:
Hell has just frozen over.
I am dumbfounded. Completely flummoxed. In a total state of awe. I have never, ever, in my 20 years on this earth, had an experience this exhilarating yet peculiar. This is not how I thought I’d spend my Saturday morning.
I entered the tournament expecting to play easy, boring games for a good cause. It’s not like anything was out of the ordinary. It’s a smaller venue, far too close to Brooklyn at far too early an hour. Your usual demographic was in attendance: nerds, dickriding chess bros, and highschool students looking for a prestigious extracurricular. Nothing seemed different when walking up to the board, no indication of the brilliance I would shortly bear witness to.
Truthfully, I didn’t pay much attention to who my opponent was before the game. I only noticed her fidgeting with the pieces before I walked up. She seemed nervous while introducing herself— also not out of the ordinary, as I tend to have that effect on people. Her trouble recalling basic rules at first was, honestly, annoying. A divine red herring disguised as a nuisance. Though, as the game started to pick up, I realized that this wasn’t a regular play. It was absolutely beautiful; almost like a dance, back and forth, call and response, perfectly in sync. It had mental stimulus. It had personality. It had artistry. It had passion. I loved every second of it. Games like these are why I’ve dedicated my entire life to studying the sport. Why I’ve made it my profession. Why I still get up and do it despite the business aspect being nothing short of painful. Just playing was more enriching than the win could ever be. This is what I fell in love with as a child, what I used to play with my grandfather. Her play is the kind I’d used to pore over, stuck in a daydream of nothing but intellectual bliss while the rest of the world faded away. It reminded me that I loved chess and of why I loved it. And it’s the first game I’ve lost in a while. When it ended, it was like being awoken from a wonderful dream. After she checkmated me, I looked at her for the first time this morning.
And she’s pretty. Really pretty, gorgeous even. Not that that matters or anything. She looks to be about my age. It seemed she was as surprised as I was, with her icy blue eyes being in a state of shock. And then, the final kicker in a whirlwind experience, she quickly thanked me for the game, and then bolted. Like, properly ran away. A move that forewent shaking my hand and resulted in her metal chair being knocked over, might I add. So now I’m here, waiting for my next game, wondering what the actual fuck just happened and how I can make it happen again.
…
”So, let me get this straight,”
”Yeah?”
”You go to the charity tournament,”
”Yes.”
”And first game, you get matched with an unranked player from Jersey,”
”Correct.”
”And she ends up fucking annihilating you?”
”Pretty much.”
”Damn. You finally peaked, man.”
”Shut the fuck up, Emil,” I retort. He makes an over-exaggeratedly offended gesture in response.
”What? It’s not my fault you’re the worst loser in the history of man.”
”But that’s the thing.”
”What’s the thing?”
”I don’t care that I lost.”
”What?”
I repeat myself.
”Holy shit,” he curses, taking a handful out of whatever snack he’s stolen from my pantry. “I didn’t think it was possible.”
”I was so focused on actually playing that I didn’t care about the outcome. And I still don’t care about the outcome because I’m so focused on playing her again.”
”Wow.
”Yeah.”
”Do you have any information on her?”
”All I know is that her name is Mallory Greenleaf and she presumably lives in Paterson.”
”Have you done your weird FBI shit?”
”No, I haven’t searched for her online.”
”Why?”
”Feels like an invasion of privacy. I’d rather just ask Defne for details.”
”This really is not the time for you to finally learn boundaries with your dumbass Young Sheldon bullshit, I want to meet this chick!”
”Well I plan to ask about her! Make sure she has the right opportunities, too.”
“Well, good for you, Mother Teresa. Did you get any other information before she booked it?”
”Aside from the fact that she likely has an anxiety disorder, no.”
”Damn. All I’ve seen or heard from her is the viral footage of you getting your shit rocked this morning.”
”Emil.”
”Okay, Jesus. When are you going to talk to Defne?”
”I sent her a text a little while ago, but she hasn’t responded.”
”Bloody hell. Can’t we just google her? I’m feeling nosy.”
”No.” I don’t exactly know why, but I say no. To which I am met with a “Why!?” paired with a Guinness-worthy whine.
”You know, you’re strangely overprotective over this girl, especially considering you usually want to strangle the people who beat you.”
“What?”
”You talk about her with a weird fondness, despite having only briefly interacted with her and getting absolutely wrecked in the process.”
”I’m not following.”
”Christ above, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but do you have a thing for her?”
“What?”
”Oh my god, you do. I can’t believe you finally got beat at chess and found your first viable mate all in the same day. I owe Tanu so much money—”
“Dude, I do not have a thing for her.”
”You sure?”
”Definitely sure.”
”Okay, if you say so.”
…
I am no longer definitely sure. I’ve been thinking about what Emil said. And her. But mostly what Emil said. But also a lot about her. Especially after she declined and then accepted the fellowship I may or may not have funded at Zugswang. And after a girl with pretty eyes and porcelain skin and silky hair started to appear in my dreams. Not like that, though. Definitely not like that. Just kind of padding around. Making herself at home in my mindscape, the image of her running away playing over and over again in my head. Which I surprisingly don’t mind. Nor do I seem to mind the other frequent image of bafflement on her rather lovely face.
Well, shit.