13. Strategic Moves #2
“Science and humor aren’t mutually exclusive,” I say. “Some of the best jokes are based on logical incongruities and unexpected cognitive pattern disruptions.”
“Like puns.” He nods seriously. “Dad makes terrible puns. Mom used to groan, but I could tell she secretly liked them.”
The mention of his mother creates a brief, poignant silence between us. I don’t rush to fill it or offer platitudes. Instead, I just nod, acknowledging the weight of his loss without trying to diminish it.
“Ready to play some chess?” I ask after a moment.
His face brightens again. “Yes. Do you require a training session first, so you understand the basic movements?”
“I actually know how to play.”
August studies me with renewed interest. “What’s your favorite opening?”
“I’m partial to the Sicilian Defense. Though I sometimes go for the Queen’s Gambit when I’m feeling particularly aggressive.”
His smile widens. “Fascinating choices. Statistically sound with well-documented historical success rates.”
When it’s my turn to face him, I step into the role of the white queen, taking my place on the oversized board.
“White moves first,” August announces. “Your move, Brielle.”
The world around us fades as we begin our match, the artifice of reality TV temporarily suspended in favor of the pure logic of the game.
August is, unsurprisingly, a formidable opponent.
His strategic thinking operates several moves ahead, setting traps I barely see in time to avoid.
But I’m no novice either, and I manage to present enough of a challenge to keep things interesting.
“Knight to F3,” I call out, moving Chloe to that square myself since she’s playing the knight role.
“Interesting choice,” August remarks, studying the board. “Most opponents attempt to control the center more aggressively.”
“I’m setting up for a kingside castle. Planning ahead.”
He nods. “Strategic foresight. Essential in chess and life.”
As our game progresses, we fall into a rhythm of moves and countermoves, the competitive tension undercut by bursts of genuine conversation between turns.
“Do you play on a team?” I ask after narrowly escaping a clever attack on my bishop.
August’s expression clouds slightly. “No. The school chess club meets during my advanced math tutorial. And the other members don’t really...” He trails off, adjusting his glasses.
“Don’t really want to play with the kid who always wins?”
He looks up, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Because I was that kid too,” I tell him, moving my rook to capture one of his pawns. “Not with chess specifically, but with pretty much everything academic. Being the smartest person in the room can be...” I search for the right word.
“Isolating,” he says quietly.
I nod, recognizing the loneliness in his voice. “Exactly. I was always the new kid AND the smart kid. Double outsider status.”
“So you moved a lot?” August directs his bishop to a threatening position.
“Nine schools. Nine different chances to be the weird girl who read physics books at recess.” I smile. “Check, by the way.”
August moves his king out of danger. “Did it ever get better? Not feeling different all the time?”
The vulnerability in his question hits me somewhere deep and tender. I step out of character—both as the chess piece and as the reality TV contestant—and answer with honesty.
“Yes and no. The feeling different part never completely goes away. But I eventually realized that different isn’t the same as wrong. And more importantly, I found my people—other creative weirdos who got excited about the same things I did.”
“Like a tribe.”
“Exactly like a tribe. And once I found them, being different didn’t feel like a burden anymore. It felt like a superpower.”
August contemplates this, his next chess move temporarily forgotten. “Liam calls me Robot Boy,” he says. “Because I correct factual inaccuracies and don’t understand their jokes about bodily functions.”
“Liam sounds deeply insecure about his own intelligence. People who feel threatened by your brilliance will try to make it seem like a flaw.”
“Dad says the same thing.” August has a hint of pride in his voice. “He says Liam probably wishes his brain worked like mine.”
“Your dad’s a smart guy,” I tell him, warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of Hayes defending his son’s intelligence. “Though between you and me, I think you got all the chess talent in the family.”
This earns me another genuine laugh. “Dad tries, but he still falls for the Scholar’s Mate sometimes. Mom was better—she could beat me when I was five, but not after I turned six.”
We continue our game, but the competition seems secondary now to the conversation flowing between us. When I see an opening to capture his queen, I deliberately overlook it, making a slightly suboptimal move instead. August’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, and I know he’s spotted what I’ve done.
“You could have taken my queen,” he points out.
“I’m playing the long game,” I say with a wink. “Sometimes the obvious move isn’t the best one.”
He studies me, then nods, a silent acknowledgment of my choice. Three moves later, he has me in checkmate, and I hope he doesn’t see through me letting him win.
“You’re really good,” I tell him sincerely. “State champion material for sure.”
“Thank you,” he says. “You were a challenging adversary.”
Our time is almost up, but I feel a reluctance to end this connection. On impulse, I offer him another piece of advice—not as a contestant trying to impress his father, but as someone who recognizes the struggles of a kindred spirit.
“August, you should consider joining an advanced chess club. You’ll be challenged intellectually, and you’d meet other kids who think like you do.”
He considers this, head tilted in that way that reminds me so much of Hayes. “That’s... logical,” he admits. “I’ll discuss it with Dad and Grandma.”
Skye appears at the edge of the chessboard, signaling our time is nearly up. August stands from his throne-like chair, looking suddenly smaller, less certain.
“I know you let me win,” he whispers, his eyes meeting mine. “But I really hope my dad picks you.”
The simple statement hits me with unexpected force, sending a rush of emotion through my chest that threatens to overflow into embarrassing tears.
Before I can formulate a response, he turns and walks back to Hayes, who’s waiting with open arms. I watch them embrace, August’s small form fitting perfectly against his father’s chest, and something breaks open inside me —some long-sealed chamber where I’ve kept dreams I never acknowledged even to myself.
“Time for the next contestant.” Skye steers me back toward the board as a piece.
Luna raises an eyebrow as I return, her expression questioning. “How’d it go with the mini-genius?”
“He’s amazing,” I say. “Absolutely brilliant, but still a nine-year-old who needs connection.”
“You two looked pretty deep in conversation,” Serena jumps in. “What were you discussing so intently?”
“Chess strategy, Star Trek , and the social dynamics of elementary school. You know, the usual light topics.”
As the remaining women take their turns with August, I find my attention divided between watching their interactions and processing my own experience.
There’s something profoundly disorienting about genuinely connecting with Hayes’s son while participating in a competition for his father’s affection.
The artificial constructs of reality TV seem increasingly at odds with the very real emotions taking root inside me.
By the time the last contestant finishes her chess match, August looks tired but pleased with himself.
Hayes wraps an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close.
“I want to thank you all for making this day special for August.” His voice is warm.
“Seeing you interact with my son means more to me than I can express.”
August leans against his father, suddenly looking every bit his nine years as fatigue catches up with him. “It was statistically improbable that there would be multiple adequate chess opponents in a random sample of reality television contestants,” he says. “The experience exceeded expectations.”
Several of the women laugh, charmed by his formal assessment. I catch his eye and give him a small thumbs up, which he returns with the ghost of a smile.
As we disperse back toward the mansion, I find myself walking beside Serena and Luna, our steps synchronized in companionable silence.
My mind keeps returning to August’s parting words: I really hope my dad picks you.
Such a simple statement, yet so loaded with implications about futures I’ve barely allowed myself to imagine. And now, I’m not sure I want to.
“You okay?” Serena asks, nudging me. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
“Just processing,” I tell her, not ready to articulate the tangle of emotions that’s been stirred up.
“Well, process quickly,” Luna says. “We’ve got three hours to get ready for tonight’s ceremony, and rumor has it someone leaked to Hayes about Gabby’s missing bracelet drama.”
“Oh, boy.”
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of preparation—hair, makeup, careful selection of outfits that walk the line between elegant and approachable.
But beneath the familiar rituals of reality TV pageantry, my thoughts keep circling back to August’s serious face, to the connection we forged over chess and shared experiences of being different.
I make my way outside where I play with Onion for a while, falling for this adorable dog with the sweetest eyes that I swear sees into my soul.
I’m so glad Skye brought her to the mansion because she’s become my favorite being to hang out with.
Right now, she’s chasing a ball I throw, and when she brings it back, she doesn’t want to let it go so I can throw it again.
But then she finally gives up, dropping it, dying for another toss as she jumps straight into the air. I can’t help but laugh.
As I make my way to tonight’s Lock & Key ceremony, my mind won’t stop.
Whatever comes next, one thing is clear: the chess match with August has changed everything.
I’m no longer just playing for a potential relationship with Hayes.
I’m playing for a nine-year-old boy who trusted me with his insecurities and hopes.
A boy who said, with disarming directness, that he wants me in his life. And I want him in mine.
I’m reeling over the fact this has become infinitely more complex, the stakes exponentially higher. Do I forgive Hayes for being intimate with other women on a show where that’s basically the point? And aside from that, Hayes and August are my people, and my heart wants me to win.