Page 51 of Incompatible

Thank you, Tobias.

I answer with g4. A dangerous move, but perfectly calculated. Tobias looks at me, then at the board. His lips move silently, as if he’s trying to compute something. Sweat trickles down his temple, his glasses slide again.

"You sure about that?" he mutters, more to himself than to me.

I don’t respond. I just watch his eyes dart over the pieces. After a moment he moves his queen to e7, defensive, like he’s trying to cover up his mistakes.

And that’s exactly where I wanted you,I whisper to myself.

I make the next move, knight from f5 to d6. Check. Tobias freezes, his hand pausing mid air. The king has nowhere safe to go. He tries to find a way out, but every move exposes something else.

I watch his face harden, his clenched jaw start to tremble. He takes a deep breath, but he already knows.

"Check," I say calmly.

Silence. Then another clock clicks at a nearby table. Tobias slowly raises his hand and tips over his king.

I let out a breath and lean back in my chair. Yes. My pulse is still pounding in my temples, but the smile comes on its own. I watch the arbiter record the result.

For a second I sit completely still. Quiet. Only the ticking of nearby clocks fills the air.

Then, from the row just behind the tables, I hear a quick, muffled cheer.

Bay.

He can’t help himself. He knows he’s not supposed to, but he jumps up, claps once, maybe twice, then quickly drops his hands and looks around like he’s apologizing to the whole world. But his face, bright, beaming, says everything.

He’s happy for me. Proud of me.

The arbiter, an older beta man with graying hair, walks up to the table and notes something on his sheet. He glances up at me.

"One zero for Alex Strada, Jackson High," he announces loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Tobias offers me his hand. Hesitant, but he does it. His palm is sweaty and cold. I give it a quick shake and nod.

"Good game," I say quietly, keeping it sportsmanlike.

He doesn’t answer. Just adjusts his glasses and walks off between the tables where his coach is waiting.

The arbiter writes the result on the big scoreboard near the podium. I see a gold strip appear next to my name with the word Champion.

Here we go.

The audience applauds, someone cheers, Bay, my dad, Bay’s dad, and the tournament director is already stepping forward with a microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the new state Under-18 champion, Alex Strada from Jackson High!"

The applause echoes against the gym walls. I recognize a few teachers from my school, all math teachers, standing and clapping, someone whistles excitedly.

Bay is standing too, his hands raised, waving enthusiastically. His eyes shine with pride, maybe relief, maybesomething more. He’s smiling so wide he looks like he might run straight to me, but he stops himself, fists the air, and keeps clapping.

When the ceremony ends, the arbiter shakes my hand and hands me the medal. Then Bay finally moves. He pushes through the crowd and stops right in front of me. I can see he wants to hug me, he’s practically vibrating… but he only extends his hand. For a second, a brief flicker, our eyes meet.

"I knew you’d win this," he says softly, almost a whisper. "You’re amazing, the best, the smartest." His voice is intense, full of force, of conviction.

I can’t say anything, emotion swelling in my chest. I want to tell him the same, how incredible he is, but then my dad and Bay’s dad, Lake, rush over to me, and the moment slips away. So I just smile back at him.

It wasn’t just a tournament. Not for me. Not when he was there, watching me like everything I did was some kind of miracle. I wish I could tell him what a miracle he is for me. But I can’t. I’m scared.