by Molly Joseph
He ignored the nickname. “New York,” he said. “Born and raised.”
“But you speak Arabic?”
“I was in the Army, and worked in the Middle East for a number of years.”
“Hm.”
There was a world of suspicion in that “hm.” Apparently anyone who didn’t play chess was not to be trusted. Arabic speakers, even less. Well, he’d encountered such prejudice before, enough prejudice that he’d changed his name.
Coward, his conscience whispered. It was cowardly to hide behind fake names, and lie about how he’d learned Arabic. He was the opposite of his client. He looked strong on the outside, while inside he was so, so weak.
*** *** ***
Most of the time Grace felt okay, but sometimes she suffered a gnawing restlessness. She felt caught in a bubble, a secret otherworld where she had to wait until she could do what she was supposed to do, which was win the World Chess Championship in the name of girl power. It was a lot of pressure. Was Al Raji better prepared than her? What openings would he use? Who were his seconds? Who were his spies?
In the midst of all these questions, she’d glance up at Sam and remember his words about roaring lions, and vanquishing the souls of her enemies. And then she’d think, I wish you would vanquish me. She didn’t even know what that meant. She only knew that she’d developed an entire catalog of escapist fantasies in which he grasped her and kissed her, and ripped her clothes off, and threw her down on the bed...
He never said or did anything to perpetuate these sorts of fantasies. He never touched her or flirted with her. He hardly even smiled, but Fredrik was right, he was always around her. He always knew where she was. If she looked up, he was looking back at her. She got used to having him in her space, even though she’d never get used to his body. He was so large, so built. He exuded power, which sort of scared her.
But it sort of made her fantasize about him throwing her down on a bed too.
And what if he did, Grace? What would you do?
Start crying, probably. Freak out. Have multiple, spontaneous orgasms. Who the hell knew? She’d never had sex before, and—all fantasies aside—there were probably better candidates to start out with than a six foot four, taciturn bodyguard who outweighed her three to one. There was Fredrik, for instance. Fredrik had offered to sleep with her on several occasions, in several hotel bars at several tournaments in the past couple years. But she never, ever fantasized about Fredrik, and she fantasized about Sam every day, crazy, ridiculous fantasies she had to push out of her head.
It would be easier if he wasn’t always hovering around her in his tight jeans and pectoral-hugging sweaters, with his freaking arm muscles flexing under the knit. She couldn’t get away from those muscles. If she wanted to go to the corner store, he walked with her there. If she needed fresh air down at the harbor, he walked with her there too. Sometimes Fredrik or Renzo would tag along, all of them wrapped up in coats and hats and scarves so no one could have identified her seconds even if there were spies. Which there probably weren’t.
Walking was the only exercise she got, the only escape from the pressure of her otherworld. As for Sam, he worked out at night, upstairs in their third floor room. Jesus hell. He did twenty or thirty minute blitzes of pushups, situps, jumps and curls, squats and planks, hardly breaking a sweat. He used no weights at all, just body resistance. He explained to her once why it worked. She couldn’t remember any of that conversation because she’d been ogling his muscles as they flexed and relaxed under his shirt, the same way she was doing now from her strategically placed chess board across the room.
She looked away, rubbing her eyes. Don’t think about him sexually. Don’t objectify him just because his body is a wonderland.
The problem was, she hadn’t been around a lot of attractive, muscular men. She’d never been on a date, and she’d never been kissed except for that one disgusting time in Bucharest when Fredrik had drunkenly stuck his tongue down her throat.
She shuddered at the memory. Grace hadn’t really wanted to use Fredrik as a second. Fredrik wanted the best for her, she believed that, but he was so full of himself. In the end Zeke had convinced her that she needed Fredrik’s talents of manipulation. Fredrik was ruthless. She wasn’t. Fredrik would help her develop not only game strategies, but mental strategies to psychologically mess with her opponent.
Meanwhile, she was fighting her own psychological battle with muscles and shoulders, intent brown-green eyes, and a firm, deep voice...
What’s your next move, Gracie? She forced herself to concentrate on the board in front of her. She had to keep her mind on the game. She had to buckle down, because the whole world would be watching in a few weeks when she took her seat across the board from Saad Al Raji. Lots of people were counting on her to inspire women and advance gender equality. An equally large number of people wanted her to suffer a humiliating defeat.
She tossed in bed at night, dreaming of staring, whispering crowds and the grim faces of match arbiters. She dreamed of the not-completely-kind faces of her fellow chess players, who congratulated her on her success while she thought, deep down inside, they wanted her to fail. And then there were those other voices she dreamed about far too often. Feelthy American bitch. Stupid, feelthy cunt.
“Are you okay?”
Sam’s question broke through the grim memories. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “Just thinking.” Just thinking that you should sleep beside me at night, so those dreams will go away.
He finished his stretches while she stared at her pieces and tried to put together a new line of defense for her bishop. It was useless. Sam was too close to her, and too perfectly magnificent. She saw him approach in her peripheral vision. He slid into the chair across the board, his face covered in a light, beautiful sheen of sweat.
Beautiful sweat, Gracie? Really?
“You look serious,” he said, gesturing to the palm she pressed against her eyes. “What are you trying to figure out?”
How it would feel if you touched me. “I’m working on a particular defense,” she said aloud. “Part of chess is being prepared for anything.”
His gaze raked the board. She could tell just by the way he looked that he didn’t have a clue about the position of the pieces. She’d worked herself into an impossible fix. With a sigh, she started replacing the figures in their opening positions. Sam helped her on his side—the white side, for a white knight. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s the least I can do. It’s all I really know how to do.”
“You know how they move, don’t you?”
“Mostly.”
Mostly? He knew so little about chess, while she knew too much. Somewhere along the line, chess had become less of a joy and more of an obsession. “Do you want to play?” she blurted out. She didn’t know why. Because of his beautiful sweat, and that dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and because his fingers looked so capable moving the pieces around the board.
“Play you? Right now?”
“If you want to.”
He shifted in his chair, ran a hand through his dark hair and smiled. It was hard for her when he smiled, because that was when she ached for him the most, and she didn’t want to ache for him.
“I don’t know, Grace,” he said. “I doubt I have much of a chance.”
“There’s such a thing as beginner’s luck.”
His laughter rang out, masculine and powerful. That laughter. Even worse than the smile. The growing intensity of her feelings frightened her.
“All right, I’ll take a crack at it,” he said. “How many people get a chance to play the World Chess Champion?”
“I’m not the champion yet. I’m the challenger.”
“How many people get to play the future World Chess Champion?” he amended. “Does that work?”
She could have lectured him about superstition, about claiming wins that hadn’t yet happened, but she didn’t want him to stop smiling, so instead she said, “You go first. White alwa
ys goes first.”
He spread his hands, his long, calloused fingers splayed wide. “I don’t even know how to start. What’s the best opening move?”
“Most people start with a pawn. Most move the queen’s pawn to e4.”
“Uh...e4?”
“Two spaces forward. On its first move, a pawn can move two spaces forward. After that, just one. And of course, they only attack diagonally.”
“Of course,” said Sam. Now he was the one pressing a palm against his eyes. “How does the horse move again?”
“It’s called a knight.”
“I knew that.”
“It can move like this, or this.” She demonstrated the various “L” shaped patterns that were allowed. “And remember, it’s the only piece that can jump over other pieces.”
He moved his pawn rather than his knight, while Grace willed away mental images of Sam on horseback, in a suit of armor, gazing down at her in his intent way. Sam swinging down off his horse and grabbing her, and kissing her with his beautiful lips. Sam caressing her with his firm, strong hands, and whispering...what? What would a knight whisper? She didn’t even know what modern-day guys whispered because she didn’t know anything about any of that shit.
You’re being stupid, Grace. So stupid and ridiculous.
Sam wasn’t a knight. He was a professional who’d been hired as her bodyguard. That was all. There would be no gazing and no kissing. No whispering or touching. Or stroking.
Ugh.
She settled into a low-key Queen’s Pawn opening to make the game last longer. He immediately made a ridiculous move. She pretended he hadn’t. They made a couple more moves, each of his increasingly cringe-worthy. She could tell he was thinking, but he wasn’t seeing. He wasn’t planning ahead or considering consequences. But wasn’t that a good bodyguard trait, to be in the present moment?
She slid a glance down his post-workout body, then looked back at the board, trying to figure out the best way to keep him out of check. He wasn’t making it easy. He moved his bishop to g5 for no apparent reason, leaving his queen vulnerable, and by extension, his king. He glanced up to gauge her reaction to this debacle.
She swallowed hard and kept her mouth shut.
“It’s like going to the executioner,” he said. “A hopeless situation. I know you see a thousand things right now that I don’t see.”
“I’ve had a lot more practice than you. I grew up playing chess every day with Zeke. Whenever I made a mistake, he always explained to me what I did wrong. At least, until I got older. Then he let me lose.”
“You’re going to let me lose?”
“I don’t see a way to help you win at this point.”
He looked down at the board in shock. “I’ve only made five moves.”
Four of which were horrible. “It’s hard if you don’t know the strategies and all that,” she said. “Your expertise lies in different areas. I’d be a terrible bodyguard.”
“Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
She didn’t answer, just stared at his pieces and hers, and the endless ways things might have gone differently.
“What do you see?” he asked as the silence strung out. “What do you see that the rest of us can’t see?”
She didn’t know how to explain. She waved a hand over the pieces like she could show him, but that wouldn’t work either. “Chess is like music,” she finally said. “There are lots of variations, ways to put the moves together. Like the way you’d put notes together for a song, but they have to be...” She threaded her fingers together. “They have to be harmonious. The moves have to lead somewhere together.”
She shook her hands out. She could tell he wasn’t understanding what she was trying to say. “It’s hard to explain if you can’t hear it. Or see it. There are patterns of cause and effect. There are like, you know, an infinite number of possible games, so you have to get into thinking ahead, strategizing. If I do this, will he do that? If he doesn’t do that, what will my next move be, and what will happen after that? You win if you can stay a few steps ahead of your opponent. You lose when your opponent plans better than you.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose, because I’m not really making any plans right now. I’m still trying to remember the rules.”
Grace smiled because he was joking, but she felt sad as she moved her rook. What had she hoped to accomplish with this little interlude? Did she want to impress him? Deepen their friendship? Entice him to throw her down on a bed? Fat chance of that happening now. Chess wasn’t sexy, and she wasn’t sexy. Sam scratched his big, long bodyguard fingers through his stubble and stared at the board.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“For suggesting this. It wasn’t fair to ask you to play me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got that pitying look. You’ve seen my demise, haven’t you? Played it all through in your mind?”
“I see about four different demises. Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He made another move, bold in his defeat.
She tapped the head of her bishop, then moved it into position. “Checkmate.”
There was nowhere for him to move his king. The game was over.
He looked up at her, leaning back in his chair. “Well, that went about as well as I expected. Better really. Didn’t think I’d last three moves.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she could have defeated him at three moves if she hadn’t wanted to draw the game out longer. “You know, there are a lot of things I’m really awful at. I mean, really, really awful at. The only thing I’m good at is chess, so don’t be too impressed.”
He frowned, pinning her with a dark gaze. “Why are you doing that?”
“What?”
“Tearing yourself down. You beat me fair and square. Don’t apologize for it.”
Was he scolding her? She shrugged and ducked her head. “I feel conflicted about the chess sometimes. Like I don’t deserve to win all the time.”
“You deserve to win, Gracie. You’re really fucking good at this.”
Gracie. He’d just called her Gracie for the first time. But he’d also used the word “fucking” for the first time, which made her think he was really frustrated. Or really angry at her.
“Excuse me,” he said tightly. “Pardon my language.”
“It’s okay, I’ve heard it before.” Fucking bitch. Fucking cunt. Grace shivered and hugged herself.
Sam leaned his elbows on the desktop. “I just think you ought to be proud of your talent, of what you’ve accomplished.”
“I haven’t accomplished anything. I haven’t won yet,” she said. “I have a lot of work to do. I have to get ready, and then I have to go beat the guy. I don’t have the right yet to be proud.”
“Because you aren’t the top chess player in the world? How about being second best in the world, out of seven billion people? You don’t feel the smallest twinge of pride about that?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked back at the board and started resetting the pieces. “I feel proud of you every day,” he said after a moment. “For what it’s worth.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’m never playing you again. My ego can’t take it.”
He put the last pawn into line and stood, and said something about taking a shower. Grace watched him go with her heart in her throat.
My God, his ass in those sweatpants.
Had they just had a fight?
She rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t play him again, not ever.
And the fantasies had to stop.
Chapter Five: Spies
“With less than a month to the World Chess Championship, neither contender is in sight. Are they ready? Who will emerge victorious? For the first time ever, it may be a woman.” —Washington Post
The following night, while Sam helped Renzo clear the table after dinner, Fredrik came to Grace and asked for a moment alone.
&nbs
p; “A moment alone where?” Grace asked.
“Wherever.” Fredrik looked over his shoulder at Sam. “Somewhere private.”
Grace glanced at Sam too. Even though he was talking to Renzo, she knew he was aware of their conversation.
Fredrik snorted and took her arm. “Come on. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly safe.”
When they got upstairs, he closed the door and turned to her. “How well do you know that bodyguard of yours?”
“Really, Fredrik?” Grace threw up her hands. “You asked me up here for this?”
She turned to leave but he caught her by the door. “Come here! Come over here. We need to talk.” His intent blue eyes snapped from under swaths of honey-blond hair.
She gave in and joined him at the chess board. “Should we whisper?” she asked in a loud, fake rasp. “Cover our mouths in case there are secret cameras?”
“There are cameras. He checks them on his laptop.”
“There are cameras on the doors, Fredrik.”
“Those are the ones you know about,” he said. “You think there aren’t other ones in the house?”
“There aren’t.” Were there? Sam would have told her if there were other cameras.
Fredrik took her black king and banged it twice on the board. “He said you played chess with him yesterday. Why would you do that?”
“Why does it matter? He doesn’t know anything about the game. You heard him at dinner—he lost to me in five moves.”
“That’s just what someone would do to make you think they don’t know anything about the game.”
She stared at Fredrik. “Are you being serious? Do you seriously think Sam’s a spy? One of Al Raji’s team?”
“He speaks Arabic, doesn’t he?”
“A lot of people speak Arabic. Millions of people.” She swung her arm when she said “millions” and almost swept a few pieces from the board. But the insinuation that Sam was a spy…that he wasn’t trustworthy... It unsettled her in a visceral way. Doubt wormed inside her like some slithering, venomous snake, but only for the slightest moment. There was no way. No.
