Page 32 of Forgotten Sacrifice

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 withthis 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.”