Page 98 of Forgotten Sacrifice

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 writtenParlor Tricks and Big Titswith 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 thespiritof 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 remindedyet again that I hate Vincenzo Rossi.

I’m awarded a trophy and plaster on a smile.