Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Vince
I didn’t hear the exchange, but Brit Boy must have pissed Luna off. She has a hell of a poker face, mixed gaming metaphors aside, but I spot that tiny ember of fire in her eyes. She’s out for blood, and I’m happy it isn’t mine.
There’s a crowd of spectators gathered around the table, with more leaning over the upstairs railing as play continues. From the whispers, I’ve gathered Luna is up against the top-ranked Grandmaster in the world—whose face is almost as punchable as Frenchie’s.
I glance at my watch; they’ve been locked in a battle now for over an hour. Luna’s captured more of Brit Boy’s pieces than he has of hers, but I don’t know if that means she’s winning or not.
Brit Boy glances at the clock on the wall. “Sadly, I have a flight I need to catch,” he announces for all to hear. “We’ll consider this a draw.”
“If you leave the playing venue with no intent to return, it’s not a draw, but a win for me.” Luna’s confident voice cuts through the room.
It’s so silent you could hear a pin drop.
“This isn’t competition play, so etiquette dictates rather than competition rules.” Brit Boy waves his hand. “If I miss my flight, I risk my spot in the Paris Invitational. Are you declining my draw offer?” He raises an eyebrow.
I expect Luna to go for his jugular, but she surprises me by extending her hand with a polite smile. “I accept the draw.”
They shake on it.
Luna
Everyone’s buzzing about the hall, discussing my game with Wesley as I make my way through the crowd. “Good job, piccola. ” Vince smiles at me when I join him.
“Thanks.” I grin.
“I’m confused, though,” he says quietly. “Why’d you let him off the hook?”
Standing on my tiptoes, I lean in and whisper, “We’ll talk about this later.” My lips accidentally brush Vince’s ear lobe, and I jerk back. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I practically sprint down the hall to get away from him.
Locking myself in the last stall, I use the toilet and then close the lid, taking a seat on top. Snapping my eyes closed, I enter my mental house and walk down the hall, arriving at a new room. Stepping inside the library, I take in the deliciously-masculine smell—dammit, no! That’s Vince’s smell. But now the scent is infused with this room, and so I go with it, moving my pieces on the chess board to cement the game with Wesley in my mind. I get to the point where we abruptly ended the game, except play continues until I capture his king. Which is what would have happened, and Wesley fucking knew it.
I open my eyes and exit the stall, washing up.
A woman a few years older than me of Chinese heritage enters the bathroom. “Hi. Sorry to ambush you in the bathroom, but I wanted to tell you what an amazing game you played! What a freaking ballsy opening! I would’ve never thought to go beginner on the Grandmaster.” She shakes her head in awe.
“Thanks. What’s your name?” I ask, grabbing a paper towel and drying my hands.
“Bridget Lui.”
“You ranked in the top ten of the Saint Louis tournament last year, right?” I comment, tossing the paper in the trash.
She groans. “Thanks for bringing that up instead of my opening blunder in this year’s tournament.”
“It happens; ask Grandmaster Morrell.”
Bridget cackles. “I knew we’d get along. Please tell me you’re joining the club.”
I grin. “That’s the plan.”
She claps her hands together. “Yay! Us girls have to stick together; the club can be a pretty misogynistic place. They call me Bridget the Blunderer behind my back, but before my Saint Louis tournament fiasco, it was Bridget the Bitch.”
“How original.” I roll my eyes.
She nods. “Not to scare you off, but they’re already calling you the Chess Vixen,” she informs me.
“That is so dumb.”
“Agreed. But misogynists have never been accused of being smart. You’re pretty, and obviously a force to be reckoned with; be prepared for some of the ‘men’ to act like little boys. ”
“Thanks for the head’s up. What’s your number? I’m not sure what my schedule is going forward, but I’d love to meet you here at the club, assuming I’m accepted.”
“Absolutely. And I have no doubt you’ll be accepted.” She grabs her phone from her pocket and I grab mine—now with a cracked screen from my birthday outburst.
She gives me her number, and I send her a text. “Just messaged you,” I say.
“Got it.” She looks up from her phone. “I’m typically here on the weekdays; I tend bar on the weekends and some evenings,” she tells me. “New York is crazy-expensive, even with my parents helping pay for my coach and apartment.”
Ugh, I hate when Vince is right. “Who’s your coach?”
“Maksim Petrov.”
“Oooh. Retired Grandmaster and Russian Olympics gold medal winner. Is he accepting new students?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m happy to pass along his number.” She forwards me his contact.
“Thank you!”
“Luna, you alright?” Vince knocks on the door.
“Yes. Give me a minute!” Rolling my eyes, I tell her, “Sorry. That’s my ride back to Jersey. It was so nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
I find Vince in the hall and snatch the application from him. “I was making a friend before you interrupted.”
He shrugs unapologetically.
We stop at the front desk, turning in my application. “I heard about your game with Grandmaster Morrell. A draw. Well done,” the desk attendant tells me in awe.
“Thanks.” I smile.
“When will Luna be notified of a decision?” Vince asks.
“Oh, with a performance like that, I’d say Luna will hear something soon,” the man tells us .
We say our goodbyes, and I follow Vince outside, a huge grin plastered to my face.
“When you’re accepted to the club, we’ll figure out the logistics, but it would be easier to have a coach come to AC at least a few days a week,” Vince warns.
“So you’re saying yes?” I hold my breath.
“Yes.”
“Yes!” I throw my arms around his neck. He’s all warmth and hard lines and smells amazing, and oh my God, I’m hugging Vince.
Awkwardly, I drop my arms and take a step back. “I’m thirsty. I need a soda,” I blurt out, wishing the sidewalk would open up and swallow me whole.
“You don’t need a soda,” Vince corrects me.
“Don’t start,” I snipe, grateful Vince is acting like nothing happened. I can live with that.
He strolls over to a vendor, and I grab my phone, pulling up Coach Petrov’s number. I hit call.
“Yes?” A man with an intimidating Russian accent answers.
“Coach Petrov, my name is Luna Barone. Bridget Lui gave me your number at the Chess Hall, after I entered into a draw with Grandmaster Morrell.”
“With Grandmaster Morrell?” he repeats like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.
“Yes, and I want you to coach me so I can beat him next time.”
“What’s your rating?”
“2227.”
“Impossible.” He ends the call, and I stare at the phone in disbelief.
A minute passes before he calls back. “Okay, I coach you.”
“Really?” I jump up and down.
Vince returns with a bottle of water and a questioning look, but I hold up a finger .
“I verified your story. Impressive,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“What’s your email? I send contract now,” he says, and I tell it to him.
We end the call, and I do another happy dance.
“Petrov agreed to be my chess coach!” I exclaim to Vince, who’s watching me with an amused expression. “What happened to my soda?”
“Who?” Vince hands me the water. “And you drink too much soda.”
“You’re so annoying,” I mutter, unscrewing the top and taking a sip. “Grandmaster Petrov is a world-renowned coach. He used to coach Grandmaster Morrell.”
“Why did Petrov stop coaching Brit Boy?”
“Brit Boy?” I snort; I’ll have to tell Bridget of Wesley’s new nickname. “I’m not sure,” I admit. “But what better person to train me than someone who trained the number one player in the world?”
“Price tag?”
“Why do you have to be a buzzkill all the freaking time?” I check my inbox, finding an email from Petrov. “Five hundred an hour.”
“Expensive,” he chides.
“Come on! If we want to take my game to the next level, then I need a Grandmaster coach,” I explain.
“Alright, I’ll look at the contract when we get home,” he says. “Now, tell me why you let Brit Boy off the hook.”
“I let him off the hook, as much as it pained me, because I want an invite to the Chess Hall. I’m not sure how much pull he has, but since he’s the resident Grandmaster, I’m guessing it’s a lot. Had I embarrassed him with an upset, which way do you think he’d vote on my application?”
“Always thinking two moves ahead.” Vince shakes his head with a rue smile as we enter the parking garage .
“Five moves,” I correct him, and he barks a laugh. “It was really disappointing, though…”
“What was disappointing?”
“Wesley. I was a big stan?—”
“A big what?” Vince side eyes me.
“Like a huge fan. Sorry, I sometimes forget the boomer needs translation.”
Vince snorts a laugh.
“But turns out Wesley’s a complete ass.”
“Don’t ever get to know your heroes, piccola. That’s one I…” He trails off.
“One you what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says dismissively.
“And this is why we only get along for five minute increments,” I gripe.
“Five minutes is still being generous,” he informs me.
We reach his SUV, and Vince opens my door for me as I climb into the passenger seat—making sure there’s no physical contact this time.
I put on my headphones and ignore the man on the return trip home, except we don’t return home; I mean to Vince’s house, dammit . “Why are we stopping here?” I take off my headphones, glancing out the window to the AC boardwalk.
“To get your proof.”