Chapter 37
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
Vince
Luna’s advanced to the third round, her opponent the little bitch who’s daddy hired the private investigator. Before the game commences, Aspen waves over an arbiter, and there’s a discussion. I’m too far away to hear what’s being said, but the tournament director’s flagged down.
There’s a back and forth, and Luna unfastens her moon pendant, handing it over. The director runs a radio-frequency device over her necklace, and I feel like the biggest asshole in the world. Any suspicion cast on Luna is one-hundred percent my fault, but I still might kill this little bitch and her father.
The necklace is handed back to Luna, and she fastens it around her neck—her hands trembling ever so slightly. Dammit, this has thrown her off her game. No, I’ve thrown her off her game.
The game progresses, and I watch in horror as Luna enters into a draw with Aspen .
Luna silently walks off the floor, and her coach and I hurry to catch up with her.
“What happened to you?” Luna’s coach demands when we enter the skittles room; no idea why it’s called that.
“Him.” She points at me with venom in her eyes. “I want him gone.”
“You heard her. Out,” the coach says to me.
She crosses her arms. “Not gone from this room; gone from this venue.”
“Luna,” I start, but quickly realize I have nothing to say. No platitude. No maximum. No joke. No defense. “Alright, I’ll go. I’ll be back to get you?—”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take the train.”
I want to shout. I want to punch something. I want to kill someone.
I do none of those things. Instead, I nod and walk out.
Luna
After my embarrassing blunder in my game with Aspen that lead to a draw, I’ve turned it around in back to back wins. Looking at the scoreboard, there’s now a little GM designation beside my name. Why I’m not more happy about it, I have Vince and Grandmaster Wesley Morrell to thank. The former I’ve kicked out, and the latter, I’m about to take down.
I smile politely, extending my hand, and Wesley gives me a patronizing smile, glancing down to my tits as we shake.
The game commences with the grandmaster opening with the move Vince gave the highest probability: the Queen’s Gambit.
Hate when that man’s right.
I mentally go through my options, deciding on the Semi-Slav Defense; annoyingly, Vince suggested this as my most statistically sound play.
I lock in my move and make a notation as Wesley considers the board.
We continue with play as the time ticks by, me moving my pawn to e3.6 to create the beginning of my triangle of pawns, thus stabilizing the center of the board.
Wesley’s hand hovers over his knight as I pull my sweatshirt over my head and lay it over the back of my chair.
He grabs the knight in shock; jerking his hand away, he slams the pause button on the clock, waving an arbiter over—the same man who threw up earlier. This time, the man doesn’t look like he’s going to throw up; more like he’s going to have a heart attack.
“My opponent is in violation of the dress code,” Wesley says haughtily.
“Rule. 3.1 of the Federation handbook on dress code: acceptable dress for women include T-shirts,” I parrot the handbook. “I’m wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt.”
“But look what’s written on it!” Wesley points, exasperated.
“A direct quote from my opponent.” I look down to where I’ve written Parlor Tricks and Big Tits with the permanent marker.
“Rule 11.1, she’s distracting me?—”
“With Grandmaster Morrell’s own words?” Or is it my big tits that are the distraction?
“Ms. Barone?—”
“Grandmaster Barone,” I correct the arbiter.
“My apologies,” he fumbles, clearing his throat. “ Grandmaster Barone, in the spirit of the rules, I would ask you cover up the T-shirt in question.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t want to violate the spirit of the rules.”
I pull my sweatshirt back over my head, and the arbiter allows for the game to proceed.
“Arbiter,” I raise my hand.
“Yes, Grandmaster Barone?” he says wearily.
“My opponent touched his knight before he called you over about my shirt. He’s now attempting to move a pawn, which is prohibited. Rule 3.7.”
“Grandmaster Morrell, you must play the piece you touched.”
“But I paused the game?—”
“After he touched the knight.” I wouldn’t put it past Wesley the weasel—that’s an even better nickname—to lie, but because this game is being live-streamed, he’d risk being called out in post-game analysis.
“Of course.” He smiles politely, and the game recommences as he moves his knight.
It was a mistake on his part, and he fucking knows it.
I shift into endgame, and five moves later, there’s nowhere for Wesley to run. “Checkmate,” I capture his king.
He smiles politely, extending his hand. “Well played.”
“Thank you.”
Based off his look, I can tell he’s dying to say something horrible, but he bites his tongue when the arbiter approaches to tally the score.
My next step is filling out the paperwork for the prize money: fifty thousand. That might pay off some interest on my father’s debt, but I’ve yet to touch the principle. I’m reminded yet agai n that I hate Vincenzo Rossi.
I’m awarded a trophy and plaster on a smile.
“Luna, how does it feel to become a grandmaster?” A reporter shouts .
“Amazing, knowing my hard work and dedication has paid off. I’d like to thank Coach D’Agustino for helping me take my play to the next level.” I make no mention of my manager .
“How do you feel about your nickname, ‘The Chess Vixen?’” A chess blogger asks, holding up a recorder.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never checkmate me.”
“Based on your T-shirt, you’re aware of the video circulating online of Grandmaster Morrell saying, quote, ‘Luna Barone is all parlor tricks.’ A hot mic catches him finishing that quote with, ’Parlor tricks and…a vulgar word I won’t repeat.’ He has since issued an apology. Has the grandmaster apologized to you personally?”
I shake my head. “But in his defense, I was too busy winning.”
The crowd laughs.
“What would you say to girls looking to get into chess?”
“Come this weekend to the grand opening of Madhouse Chess Club in Atlantic City. The club’s mission is to have the most diverse club in the country. It will also have the best resident Grandmaster, who happens to be my coach, and above all, respect for every member.”
I give a final wave before exiting the playing hall with my coach and entering an empty skittles room. “Well done.”
“Thanks.” Compliments are rarely given by Coach D’Agostino. “You have much work to do.” He points to me.
And that’s more like it.
“I’m surprised Morrell told the truth about touching the knight,” he comments.
“Yeah, I figure the only thing keeping him honest was the live-stream of the final.”
“I don’t trust him,” Coach admits.
“Do you think we’re both a little biased because of our history with him?” Me, because I despise Wesley for being a misogynist douche, and Coach because he, well, despises him for dethroning him from the number one spot.
“Perhaps, but I was watching him closely. The game you blundered?—”
“Are we still on that?”
“The player, Aspen. She and Wesley were making eye contact when she was in the crowd during his game with you.”
“So?”
“So maybe it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“We can’t accuse players of cheating unless we have something concrete,” he admits.
“Then we drop it for now.” Fucking Vince strikes again.
Coach nods. “No partying tonight; I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
“Yes, Coach.” Ha, like Vince would allow any fun to be had on his watch.
I find Bridget, who makes a bowing down show with her hands, and I laugh. “You’re a legend, my friend.”
We hug. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Glancing over her shoulder, I say, “Are you serious?”
“What?” She turns around, her eyes going wide.
Aldo makes his way through the crowd. “Congrats, Luna.”
“Thanks. Makes sense you’re here, being that you love chess,” I tell him with narrowed eyes.
“What’s not to love? Hello, Bridget.” He winks at Bridget, and her cheeks flush.
“Let me guess: Vince sent you to bring me home.”
“Now, would my brother do that?”
I cross my arms. “Yes.”
“Then yes, Vince sent me to bring you home,” he agrees.
“Bridget, when are you moving to AC?” I ask.
“This weekend,” Bridget says. “I never thought I’d leave New York, but honestly, I’m tired of the grind. And my rent will be cut in half, which is amazing!”
“Will you still be bartending?” I wonder.
She nods. “I’ve got a couple of interviews lined up with casino bars.”
“There’s a part-time bartending position open at my sports bar, if you’re interested,” Aldo says.
“I didn’t know you owned a bar. Where can I find an application?” Bridget asks.
“Apply in person at Al’s Sports Bar,” he tells her.
“Yeah, I might do that.”
“Do you need help moving?” I ask.
Bridget shakes her head. “Thank you, but no. The movers are handling it. But why don’t you come over to my new place after the club’s grand opening? We can order pizza, and you can help me get my apartment all Feng Shui’ed.”
“I’d love to.”
“I’ll bring the pizza,” Aldo interjects.
“Will you butt out?” I elbow him, and he releases a melodramatic Ooof .
“Pizza would be great.” Bridget smiles softly at him.
“Pizza it is.” He smiles at her, turning to me. “You ready?”
I let out an annoyed huff. “Fine. Bridget, I’ll see you at the grand opening.”
“See you at the grand opening, Grandmaster .”
“Okay, enough,” I tell her with a laugh.
Aldo and I walk to his car, and he opens the door for me. “I don’t like the idea of Bridget working at your bar,” I tell him. “Vince handles all his business there, and she doesn’t know about that world.”
He grins. “Don’t worry. There’s no job opening. I needed an excuse to see Bridget again.”
“Aldo, that’s dirty!” I smack his arm.
He shrugs unapologetically. “Why are you and my brother fighting? ”
“Who says we’re fighting?”
He gives me a look. “To be this genius chess player, you can’t see the board right in front of your face.”
I bristle. “I see the board fine.”
Aldo drops me off at Vince’s house, and I use my key, entering the kitchen through the garage. “There’s my little Grandmaster,” Vince says, working behind the stove. “I made your favorite: pizza Margarita and salad with ranch. For dessert, I’ve prepared a chocolate semifreddo , topped with a cherry compote and whip cream.”
There’s a bundle of yellow roses on the table, and I grab them, flinging them in the trash. “We’re not friends, Vince!”
I storm to my room and hang up a fitted sheet over the door. Not as good as slamming the door, but it’s the best I can do.
I fall to the floor, hugging my knees. Vince has laid so many chess traps, but I refuse to be dumb enough to fall for any of them.