13. Strategic Moves
Strategic Moves
brIELLE
W atching Annabelle approach August feels like she’s stepping into a lion’s den.
Everyone’s holding their breath, wondering if this red-headed fire juggler can connect with Hayes’s mini-genius, or if she’ll get intellectually mauled like Gabby did minutes ago.
I adjust my sundress—the navy one with tiny stars that feels appropriately cosmic for meeting a nine-year-old obsessed with astrophysics—and try to quiet the drumming in my chest. Because here’s the truth: I’m more nervous about impressing this bespectacled chess prodigy than I’ve been about any date with his father.
The photography challenge from two days ago still stings—watching Hayes guide Gabby’s hands on the camera while she leaned back against him, batting those Disney princess eyelashes.
The way she monopolized the entire session, strategically dropping her lens cap so Hayes would crouch beside her to pick it up.
The way she went in and kissed him, long and sloppy for all to see.
The satisfied smirk when he announced she’d won the one-on-one date.
The whole performance was as subtle as a billboard in Times Square, but the worst part is, after knowing Hayes got physical with Luna, I’m worried that he had sex with Gabby too.
And as much as it makes me sick, it’s also the game we’re playing.
I’m trying to be okay with it, but I’m not, or I don’t think I am. But I’m staying here because I want to be sure, and right now, I’m not.
I glance around at my competition, all of us arranged in a semicircle of anxiety dressed in casual-but-camera-ready outfits.
Luna catches my eye and gives a nod of solidarity.
Since our kitchen bonding session four days ago, we’ve developed a friendship, especially since we’ve been roommates after Taylor left.
“Do you think the kid actually likes chess, or did production force it on him?” she whispers, leaning close enough that her perfume—something expensive and French—tickles my nose.
“Look at his face,” I murmur back. “That’s genuine passion.”
And it is. Even from here, I can see August’s eyes light up behind his glasses.
Then my observation is proved as August leads all the contestants through a brief chess tutorial, explaining how each piece moves with the patience of a professor addressing particularly slow students.
I notice Hayes watching from the sidelines.
Our eyes meet briefly, and something passes between us—recognition, maybe, of the effort we’re both making to connect with his son on his terms.
The game board is spectacular—giant black and white squares painted on the lawn where we will be the pieces. August directs us with the authority of a tiny general, his voice clear and confident as he calls out moves.
Facing Annabelle as he explains something, his small hands move in precise, excited gestures. There’s an intensity to him that reminds me of myself at that age—the focused absorption of a mind that runs several steps ahead of everyone else’s.
Hayes stands nearby, watching his son with a mixture of pride and protective vigilance that makes something flutter in my chest. The softness in his expression, so different from the camera-ready smile he wears during Lock & Key ceremonies, reveals the man beneath the show’s facade.
Luna sighs. “I was terrible at chess as a kid. My brothers always beat me in like four moves.”
“The Scholar’s Mate,” I say automatically. “It’s a common trap for beginners.”
Luna raises an eyebrow. “Of course you know that.”
I smile, flashing her a knowing look. But I don’t have time right now to explain that chess was a game where being smart was an advantage, not a social liability.
We become pieces on the board, and Annabelle seems to be holding her own with August, her natural warmth good for a child.
They’re both laughing now, August’s serious demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the child beneath the prodigy.
When she stands to leave, she high-fives him, earning an approving nod from Hayes.
“That looked... not disastrous,” I say as Annabelle takes her place on the board.
“He’s so smart,” Annabelle whispers, eyes wide. “Like, scary smart. I tried to talk about my baby goats back home, and he started explaining the genetic modifications that could theoretically produce a glow-in-the-dark goat.”
“But he smiled,” Serena says. “That’s what I’m aiming for. One genuine smile.”
One by one, the women take their turns. Kavita tries to impress with stories about meeting celebrities. Luna discusses her travel adventures. Serena actually manages to engage him in a conversation about chemical reactions, earning a rare moment of animated enthusiasm.
Then it’s Gabby’s second attempt. She sashays toward August’s chess throne with the determined strut of someone who will not be bested by a nine-year-old, not even one who corrected her during their first interaction.
“August, sweetie,” she coos, loud enough for us all to hear. “I brought you something.” She produces a candy bar from her purse with a flourish. “Every little boy loves chocolate, right?”
August regards the offering like it’s a suspicious laboratory specimen.
“Actually, I’m allergic to peanuts,” he says, pointing to the wrapper.
“That contains traces of peanut oil. It could potentially trigger anaphylaxis, resulting in compromised breathing, cardiovascular collapse, and death if not promptly treated with epinephrine.”
Gabby’s smile freezes. “Oh. I didn’t—”
“Additionally,” August continues, warming to his topic, “referring to me as ‘little boy’ is reductive and developmentally inaccurate given my cognitive abilities and emotional maturity.”
Hayes steps forward, placing a hand on August’s shoulder. “Buddy, remember what we talked about? Sometimes we can just say ‘No, thank you.’”
August considers this. “No thank you,” he says to Gabby with exaggerated politeness. “But I appreciate the gesture despite its potentially lethal consequences.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Beside me, Luna doesn’t bother hiding her snort of amusement.
Gabby retreats, her face a fascinating study in humiliation masked as condescension. “Wow, he’s special, all right,” she tells no one in particular.
We reset ourselves again, and then Skye is calling my name. My turn. My palms suddenly feel slick with sweat.
“You’ve got this,” Serena whispers. “Just be yourself.”
Easier said than done when “myself” is a socially awkward writer who spent most of her childhood talking to fictional characters instead of real people. But I square my shoulders and approach August’s chess kingdom, determined to make a genuine connection.
Up close, his resemblance to Hayes is even more striking—the same thoughtful eyes, the same way of tilting his head slightly when considering something.
But where Hayes’s features are softened by charm and ease, August’s hold a wary intelligence that recognizes the world as a place not designed for minds like his.
“Hi August.” I deliberately avoid the condescending tone some of the others used. “I’m Brielle.”
He studies me, assessing. “You write for television.”
Wow, an acknowledgment of my professional identity. I feel a surge of respect for both August and Hayes.
“That’s right. I work on a show called Hallucination AI . About a real phenomenon that impacts people in a supernatural way.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Supernatural as in scientifically implausible phenomena attributed to magical or paranormal forces?”
“Definitely paranormal.” I settle into the chair across from him. “Though we try to give scientific-adjacent explanations for the magic where we can.”
He considers this, his expression serious. “An acceptable narrative compromise. Fiction requires suspension of disbelief.”
“It does.” I smile, relieved we’ve established some common ground. “Though I still try to get the real science right when it appears in the scripts. Last season I consulted with an actual quantum physicist for an episode about parallel dimensions.”
A flicker of genuine interest crosses his face. “Did you incorporate the Many-Worlds Interpretation or the Copenhagen Interpretation?”
“Actually, we created a hybrid theory drawing elements from both.” I watch his eyes light up. “Our main character had to travel between quantum realities where different versions of herself had made different choices.”
“Like The City on the Edge of Forever. ” August references the S tar Trek episode. “Where Captain Kirk has to let someone he loves die to preserve the timeline.”
“Actually, that episode was an inspiration of mine.” I’m impressed.
He nods enthusiastically. “Dad and I watch episodes together on Saturdays. It’s our tradition.”
The mention of this father-son ritual softens something in me. I can picture them—Hayes and his brilliant, serious son—curled up together, finding connection through shared stories about space exploration and ethical dilemmas. “Respect for that. Good choice.”
“What’s your favorite ice cream?” August asks suddenly, consulting what appears to be a prepared list of questions.
The abrupt topic change throws me momentarily, but I roll with it. “I have to have part chocolate, part Oreo, with chocolate sprinkles on top in a waffle cone,” I say. “It’s a very specific order, but I’ve optimized it through years of rigorous testing.”
August’s eyes pop. “Chocolate is my favorite, too! I’ve never tried it with Oreo, though. That’s an additional 14.3 grams of sugar per serving.”
“Worth every gram,” I assure him. “The textural contrast between the smooth ice cream and the crunchy cookie pieces creates what I call the optimal dessert mouthfeel matrix.”
He laughs—a genuine, unguarded sound. “Optimal dessert mouthfeel matrix,” he repeats. “That’s funny. And scientifically descriptive.”