Chapter 2
two
. . .
Ellory Campbell, the twenty-five-year-old chess prodigy from Lethbridge, Alberta, was recently awarded the final position in the Candidates Chess Tournament happening at the end of August. She, along with long-time rival and wildcard candidate, Margot Lawrence, have been recruited for a rehabilitation program in addition to their training in Caroline, Alberta.
The last time these two traveled across the world together, the tabloids couldn’t print fast enough.
Only the chess gods know what’s in store for these two: a sizzling success, or a dramatic disaster.
The pieces will fall where they will, and only time will tell if they are able to keep their hearts in check.
Signing off, I am Richard Locus, and this is Endernet, coming to you from Lethbridge, where community grows. Back to you, Han.
Dick.
If I were a man, good-ole-Richard would be reporting on my success and potential on the board, not my prospects of getting into Margot’s pants.
Not that I want to, of course. She’s intolerable.
And I believe I said as much when I got the news that she was accepted as a wildcard to the Candidates.
Not that the reporters would know, but there are eight other people aside from Margot and me who make up this year’s list. It’s not important that I can’t remember their names either.
Maybe one of them is George? Well, and I guess there’s always Randy.
“They should really find something else to talk about,” Margot says as she steps into our room, one towel on her head and the other wrapped neatly around her body, tucked in under her armpits.
I am absolutely not looking at the small drop of water coursing its way down her bare leg, nor do I notice the small pool it makes on the navy carpet just under where she stands.
I was rightfully upset when I found out that Margot and I were assigned the same room.
Being the only two women in an elite sport should be a reason for bonding or rebelling or something, I guess, but not when she’s your ex-girlfriend who deserted you in the city of love out of nowhere, and certainly not when she’s Margot fucking Lawrence, bane of my existence and single subject of all my dreams and nightmares.
Somewhere, Cupid is giggling his stupid little love-drunk ass off.
Well, guess what, Cupid? I’m not laughing!
She let you win.
“Don’t you think?”
I blink, trying to clear my head. It’s just another one of Margot’s games. One to throw me off. To convince me that I’m not worthy of being here. To remind me that she has had control of the board the entire time.
She gives me a knowing grin before releasing her hair, silky black tendrils just barely kissing the curve of her collarbones. “Or maybe you don’t think?”
I roll my eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. “I think plenty, thank you very much.”
Margot lets her hair towel fall to the ground as she strolls toward me. I can smell her shampoo from here, the familiar scent of cucumber and fresh mint that used to be permanently infused in my pillow. “You know,” she says while taking a seat next to me, “I actually believe you.”
Are two eye rolls in the same amount of minutes too much?
It’s nearly impossible to focus with Margot next to me, only a thin towel on her side separating us, so I pull out my laptop from the bedside table and boot up Stockfish. I’ve already analyzed the game on the screen, but there’s no harm in going over it a fifth time, right?
“The Johnson-Iresh game again?” Margot teases as she peeks over my shoulder. “Waste of time. Johnson’s performance was a one-off.”
“We might have missed something,” I reply. I agree with her, of course, but I don’t dare say those words out loud. One more hit and her ego will surely explode. And I don’t think any of us could deal with those consequences.
“Fine.” She sighs before standing up and making her way to the closet. “You’re the boss.” She says the words in a way that makes me feel anything but in charge.
Margot reaches for the shelf above the hangers.
The towel pulls up, revealing just a tease of her ass cheek.
It gives a hypnotizing jiggle as she pushes onto her tippy toes.
I imagine the towel slipping, revealing the curve of her back, the trail of freckles along her spine that I know more intimately than my favourite constellations.
She would turn to me, falsely abashed, and I would stop her from picking it back up.
We’d lock eyes before my gaze would fall to her plush lips, the arch of her cupid’s bow calling to me like—
I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.
I slam my laptop shut, throw my Crocs into four-wheel drive, and race out of the room.
My heart pounds in my chest as I lean back against the door and run my hand through my tight blonde curls. Eyes closed, I try to catch my breath, desperately clawing at the fantasy playing through my mind, trying to tear it to pieces, only to find it becoming more vivid with every scratch.
Cold shower? No. I need a fucking polar plunge.
“Rough morning?”
My breath catches in my throat as I find Randy Carlisle leaning against the mezzanine railing in front of me.
He’s just as picture-perfect as every photo I’ve seen of him in the Last Knight Standing magazine.
His sandy curls are perfectly arranged, and his skin glows as if he’s just finished a five-step routine, which, for all I know, he might have.
The top three buttons of his white shirt are undone, revealing the golden-tan skin of his tight pecks and the shadow of his perfect collarbones, the chords of his neck working as he swallows.
What have I walked into here in Caroline? A bisexual fever dream? Give a girl a break.
I clear my throat and readjust the collar of my dress. The little rocket ships decorating the fabric don’t deserve to be out of place just because my hormones can’t keep themselves in check.
“Rough sleep,” I say, which isn’t necessarily a lie if the bags under my eyes are any indication. The alternating dreams of Margot as villain and vixen left me feeling emotionally whiplashed when I woke up.
“Ah.” Randy holds out a hand to his side as if in invitation. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt pull against the lean muscles of his forearms. “I have some eye masks if you want them.”
Of course he does.
“Oh, no thanks. I couldn’t.”
“It’s no problem,” he says, taking my arm and leading me to his room before I have a chance to argue further.
The layout in his suite isn’t much different from ours, except he only has one bed, a king-size complete with pillows of every shape and size imaginable adorning it.
I realize he must have made it himself when he got up, since house cleaning hasn’t come by yet.
Unless we missed them? What time was it anyway?
“No roommate?” I ask, stopping my thought spiral.
“No.” He chuckles lightly. “One of the perks of being a long-time Candidates winner, I suppose. Why?” he gives me a wry smirk as he places the masks in my hand. “You offering?”
Damn, I really can’t catch a break today, can I?
All I can do is blink at the pink crescents sticking to my fingers as I try to process his words. But my brain is full out of power, enough that I can basically see my mental check engine light flicker to life.
“I’m kidding, Lore. Wouldn’t want to get between you and Margot anyway. Unless you both—I mean—it’s kind of hot, right?”
Ew.
Acid burns the back of my throat as my stomach flips.
Randy laughs and claps his hands together as if he’s just made the joke of the century. I force a smile on my face and try to act amused.
“The look on your—” His fit of giggles is borderline theatrical.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says after catching his breath.
“I shouldn’t tease. I know you two had an ugly breakup.
The line was just right there, you know?
I had to.” He gestures to my hands. “Come on. Those eye masks will change your life. Trust me.”
Did I say bisexual fever dream? I meant nightmare. It’s such a curse to be attracted to men.