Chapter Text
"Oh fucking... bloody... shit..."
Yaz Khan clung onto the bannisters of the winding staircase after tripping and nearly falling on her face. She was tired, out of breath, and not in a very good mood. She was also running quite late, which was why she’d been bolting up the stairs so hastily in the first place.
When she reached the top floor of the Museum of Liverpool, she was greeted for the sixth time this week by the same familiar sight: in front of the impressive glass front and the beautiful view over the docks, the temporary display space had been filled with twelve sets of tables and chairs, each with a chess board and chess clock, to host the first iteration of a new high-level chess tournament. All the other players were already seated at their boards, but the games hadn't started yet. She'd got here just in the nick of time, then.
Yaz let out a sigh of relief as she shrugged off her jacket and casually threw it over her chair opposite her opponent of the day - a sturdy, middle-aged white guy with a broad smile. Yaz put down her water bottle and angled her chair a bit towards the glass front through which the late afternoon sun shone and illuminated the floor in beautiful orange light. When Yaz sat down, she could just about overlook the docks and the Mersey. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her head.
Just then, she saw the arbiter, Mr. Jericho taking up his little microphone to address the assembled chess players: "Please start your clocks."
Yaz smiled and shook her opponent's hand firmly, and the man pressed a button on the digital chess clock, signifying the start of their game. All over the spacious playing area a general ruffling broke out as everyone started their clocks and began making moves.
Yaz briskly moved the pawn in front of her white queen forwards two squares and tapped the chess clock, all in one fluent motion. She took up her score sheet, which already read:
‘Round: 6/7. White: Yasmin Khan. Black: Daniel Lewis’,
and wrote down her move: d4.
Looking up, she saw her opponent scratch his stubbled chin for a while before also moving his d-pawn, reaching a symmetrical position. While Yaz had never played chess against Daniel Lewis before, she had spent some time in preparation for today's game going through online databases and finding old games of his - from what she had found, this new opponent of hers almost always replied to d4 with the move knight to f6, and she had prepared some interesting obscure opening lines to combat this. Now that he instead played the symmetrical d5 move, that preparation of Yaz's was for naught.
Apathetically, she pushed her c-pawn forwards two squares. Even though Dan Lewis hadn't played into her preparation, it wasn't like she hadn't played symmetrical d4-d5 positions hundreds of times before. She knew the theory, alright. The next six moves flew from Yaz's fingers as the game developed in the Queen's Gambit Declined. Yaz knew of course that everything up to this point had been played in 1972 between Fischer and Spassky, and that that game had ended in a draw. Fischer had played bishop to d3 in this position, but after some thought, Yaz played queen to c2 instead, in an attempt to catch Lewis off-guard.
She sighed inwardly. As a child, she’d always enjoyed playing chess, with her mum at home or with her friends at school. It had been one of her favourite pastimes, and she’d always jumped at the opportunity to get lost in the sixty-four squares for a while and block out everything around her. But, now playing in a professional capacity… she felt like all the joy had been sucked out of the game, and also, she admitted to herself, out of herself. All chess was now, was pure calculation, and opening theory, and preparation. You had to be a cold, emotionless machine to win.
Yaz rubbed her eyes and made another move on the board. She wanted to enjoy herself, really, but after a trade of knights and an exchange of bishops, her game wasn’t looking to become very interesting. Taking a sip from her water bottle, she looked around the playing area. At the board to the right of them, a person with short blonde hair was playing with the black pieces. Yaz immediately felt distracted by the person’s presence – they were erratically turning already captured chess pieces between their nimble fingers while they stared at their chessboard so intensely that Yaz thought it might catch fire. When their opponent made a move, the blonde scrunched their nose disapprovingly and immediately made a countermove, causing their opponent to stare at the board open-mouthed.
Yaz was just taking in this chess player’s apparel – a shiny white blazer over a tight black shirt, paired with equally white trousers held up by a black braided leather belt – when she noticed they were resting their head on their folded hands and were looking back at her with curious hazel-green eyes. Flustered that she had been caught staring, Yaz felt her face go scarlet, and simply smiled dumbly at the other player.
The blonde just smirked back at her.
And then, winked.
Taken aback, Yaz hastily turned her head. What the fuck. She could feel her heart pounding harder as she tried to refocus her gaze anywhere but on the blonde player. The orange sunlight gleaming through the glass front suddenly felt blinding to her eyes and hot on her skin, and Yaz gulped as her eyelids fluttered shut in a desperate attempt to regain control of her own senses.
Jordan Smith.
Yaz had seen the name under the player’s photo on the tournament website just over a week ago. She knew that they were one of the strongest players in the field. Opening her eyes again, Yaz dared take another glance at Jordan. They had just made a move that again seemed to shock their opponent and were now getting up from their chair. Yaz watched, enthralled, as they very calmly strolled over towards the glass front, exuding an extraordinary aura of serenity and confidence, completely unlike how Yaz was feeling right now.
They stopped right in front of the glass front and just stood there, looking out over the Mersey, hands in their pockets, their silhouette enveloped by that radiant sunset glow. It was like a beautiful shot in a movie, Yaz thought. Rays of orange light brightly illuminating their face, their chest slowly rising and falling as they took in the view.
After a long while, Jordan turned around, and Yaz quickly turned her head away – not before catching a glimpse of the expression on Jordan’s face. Deep – that was the only way Yaz could think to describe it. They looked lost in deep thought, and probably not about their chess game.
As Jordan walked by Yaz’s table on the way back to their own, they slowed down to a halt, stopping to look at the board. Yaz got a faint smell of their cologne - a woody, earthy scent. Maybe she was just imagining it, but it captivated her, nonetheless. She held her breath for a second, trying not to think about how nice that smell was, and again tried to refocus on the game.
It was Yaz's move. She knew she was at a crossroads, that the game could continue in one of two ways - she could castle to protect her king, play it safe, and the game would likely end in a draw after many more hours of boring play. Or...
Yaz shot a quick glance to her left. Jordan Smith was standing right by the table, hands in their pockets, looking at her board with an expression of mild interest.
This was nothing out of the ordinary of course, Yaz knew. Players would frequently get up from their own games during a tournament to take a little wander around, go to the bathrooms or the table with drinks and snacks, or look at other players' games. But Jordan Smith standing right next to her like this made Yaz feel... flustered.
Focus, Yaz. Castle the king... or...
She reached out for the pawn on the right-hand flank of the board and confidently pushed it forwards two squares, directly advancing towards Lewis's king. A risky move. A declaration of hostility. One of them was going to win this game, and one of them was going to be crushed. Which one of them was unclear – but what was clear was there would be no draw.
Impulsively, she looked over to Jordan, who shot her a quick glance and smiled, making Yaz’s heart skip a beat. Yaz turned away and shakily wrote down her move, then watched as Jordan walked back to their own table. They sat down unceremoniously, scoffed at the position on the board and briskly made a move with their king. Yaz was shocked to see Jordan’s opponent, his face crestfallen, stretch out his hand and shake Jordan’s in resignation. As the arbiter Mr. Jericho walked over, Jordan signed their opponent’s scoresheet, got back up again, and quickly left for the stairs. For some reason, Yaz expected them to look back. Back at her. Another wink, or smile. Some sort of acknowledgment that in some weird way, they’d just shared a moment of… of what, exactly?
But they were already out of sight.
Yaz felt like time was suddenly flowing with its normal rapidity again, after it had seemed like time had slowed down before. She sighed and looked back down at her own board. Daniel Lewis had pushed a pawn in front of his king forward in an effort to fend off her attack.
No chance, mate, Yaz thought. I’ll get to your king.
♟♟♟♟♟
Frustrated, Yaz closed the last tab on her laptop. For the past hour, she’d been sitting uncomfortably at the sterile-looking white desk in her fourth-floor hotel room, analysing the game she’d played earlier against Daniel Lewis. Even though she had won her game decisively and was now in second place in the overall standings, the chess software into which she had fed the moves of her game coldly informed her that she had played the middlegame inaccurately. Her entire approach after the opening had been fundamentally flawed. She’d completely misunderstood the position and only won the game because Lewis had made more mistakes than her.
Yaz took a moment to contemplate the life choices that had brought her to this place. Dropping out of police academy after waking up to all the systemic injustices inherent to the police establishment. Choosing to turn her favourite hobby into her job. Moving out from her parents’ home because she was so adamant to be independent, and now having to travel from tournament to tournament, having to perform well and win prize money just to pay rent for her tiny studio flat on the outskirts of Sheffield. At least at this tournament, her stay at the hotel was being covered by the organizer. Not always a given, either.
She was just about to slam her laptop shut and call it a night, when a notification in the bottom right corner of her screen caught her attention: A new email from the tournament organizer.
With bated breath, she clicked, knowing exactly what awaited her – the pairings for the final round of the tournament tomorrow. This was a Swiss system tournament with many players, so instead of everyone playing every other competitor, the players were paired based on previous performance. A window popped up, and Yaz started scrolling, anticipation building. Absentmindedly, she muttered out the names that popped up.
“Graham O’Brien vs. Adam Lang… Karl Wright vs. Tim Shaw…”
She scrolled further down.
“Daniel Lewis vs. Susan Foreman…”
She froze. Right there, almost at the bottom of the list, it said Yasmin Khan. And next to her name: vs. Jordan Smith.
Shit.
She took three very, very deep breaths.
‘Alright.’ Another deep breath. ‘Normal preparation procedure.’
She’d just have to look at the openings Jordan played, see if there were any weaknesses in their repertoire that she could exploit, and analyse their general playing style. Just like with any other opponent. Nothing unusual.
Shakily, she opened a chess games database and typed in their name. And right there at the top of the page: “Graham O’Brien - Jordan Smith, Liverpool Invitational, round 6”. Jordan’s game had finished so early that it’d already been fed into the database.
Right then, let’s see what I’m up against.
She clicked on the game and began scrolling through the moves. Sicilian Defence. Sveshnikov variation. Some weird moves by Jordan in the late opening stage of the game that Yaz didn’t quite understand. And after that, every single move, a precise strike at O’Brien’s position. Exploiting the tiniest weakness. Forcing him to create more weak spots just to defend himself. And then, a massive checkmating attack out of nowhere. A pawn sacrifice, to deflect O’Brien’s queen from defending. A knight sacrifice, to draw his king out in the open. A bishop sacrifice, opening up lines of attack for Jordan’s queen and rook. Yaz held her breath.
No fucking way.
She didn’t have to click through the rest of the moves to see the rest of the sequence. It was already playing out in her head. A beautiful rook sacrifice, luring the king into an inescapable cage. And a quiet king move, Jordan’s only defensive move of the game, stepping off that diagonal to avoid any checks or counterattacks. While setting up an unstoppable threat of checkmate with a pawn. And their opponent resigned.
Yaz smiled. It was such a beautiful, aesthetically pleasing game. It’d been a while since she’d seen a chess game that made her feel like that. A game that reminded her that chess could be more than just boring calculation, it could be so, so stunning and brilliant.
She knew she should look at more games, see if there were any weak spots. But her thoughts wandered. She realised that Jordan would’ve gotten that email too, and was probably sitting somewhere at a computer, analysing some of Yaz’s games in preparation for tomorrow. The thought of Jordan thinking about her, even if it was just in the context of chess, gave Yaz butterflies.
‘Good grief, girl,’ she thought to herself. ‘Snap out of this shit, you’re a grown adult woman.’
She got up, slammed her laptop shut a lot more aggressively than she meant to, and went off to the bathroom to take a shower.
Her hair tied up into a messy knot, she let the steaming hot water run down her shoulders. The heat felt soothing on her skin, she felt the muscles in her back slowly become less tense and closed her eyes in blissful relaxation. But as soon as her eyelids shut, the image of Jordan Smith grinning and winking at her formed in her head, and she involuntarily left out a soft moan that had nothing to do with the hot water.
“Fucking hell, this isn’t bloody helping, is it,” she muttered to herself, extremely embarrassed.
When she got out and dried herself off, she decided to put on some more comfortable clothes. Grey cotton joggers, an old Arctic Monkeys shirt, and a pair of very, very comfy socks. She slipped into her trainers, stuffed her room card and wallet into the pockets that her joggers thankfully had, and headed downstairs for the bar. Just a cola, maybe some bar food. Anything to distract her from tomorrow’s game. Or from tomorrow’s opponent, more like.
♟♟♟♟♟
The hotel bar was spacious and lively, the stripped-back wooden furniture interspersed with colourful neon lights and signs giving it a cosy yet fresh vibe. People mostly her age were sat at the bar and at tables throughout the spacious well-lit room, chatting away cheerily and enjoying their drinks and tapas and nachos. Yaz walked over to the counter, recognizing two people who were sitting together, other chess players she’d faced in previous rounds, also staying at this hotel for its proximity to the tournament venue. She wasn’t really here for social interactions though.
“Hi, what can I get for you?”
A bespectacled bartender wearing a lovely red bowtie to complement their work clothes smiled at her as she sat down on the bar stool furthest away from anyone else.
“Could I just get a cola please? Thank you.”
She tried to relax as well as she could on the uncomfortable stool, and watched as the bartender poured her cola. Behind the counter was a wall of rows and rows of different liquor bottles, hardly any of which Yaz recognized. She wasn’t someone who frequented bars, really.
“Here you go, love!”
Yaz smiled and paid, then took an appreciative sip of the ice-cold drink. Just then, she heard raised voices from the other end of the bar, where the counter turned around a corner. She couldn’t make any of the words out clearly but figured one of the people speaking sounded Scottish, the other from Yorkshire. Looking over curiously, she saw a different bartender, grey-haired and with big bushy eyebrows, intently talking in on –
She froze. Oh no.
Too late. Jordan Smith had turned their head away dismissively from the exasperated-looking bartender, and their gaze had fallen right on Yaz. Caught staring, again. But Jordan’s face lit up as they saw her, and they excitedly gesticulated pointing at themselves and then Yaz, mouthing, “Can I come sit with you?”
Without thinking about it, Yaz found herself smiling and nodding. Jordan grabbed their drink from the counter and walked over, being careful not to spill anything from the very full martini glass. They were wearing a black button-up shirt with white polka dots, that Yaz thought really, really suited them, along with black leather leggings and matching Chelsea boots. Yaz suddenly felt very aware of her own choice of outfit, which she thought was embarrassingly plain compared to Jordan’s dashingly handsome look. She wasn’t even wearing a bra under her shirt.
“Heya,” the blonde grinned broadly as they sat down next to her. “It’s Yasmin, isn’t it? I’m Jordan.”
As Jordan put down their drink and crossed their legs, the amazing smell of their cologne, as faint as it was, hit Yaz like a freight train and she shuddered.
“Hi!” she said, composing herself. “Yeah, I saw you at the tournament today. Lovely to uhm. Lovely to meet you,” Yaz stuttered, blushing. She suddenly felt like the ability to make conversation had fully left her body.
“So, you’re staying here too?” Jordan asked casually and took a sip of their espresso martini. “It’s nice and close to the venue, isn’t it? I’m on floor three.”
“I’m one floor above you then,” Yaz laughed. She desperately tried to think of something interesting to say. “Just had a look at your game from today,” she ended up saying. “Loved that combination at the end, that was really beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Jordan laughed embarrassedly. “I’ll be honest, that was mostly prep. Guy walked right into this trap I’d analysed in the Sveshnikov Variation.”
Their eyes lit up as they mentioned that chess opening. Yaz noticed that Jordan had applied mascara, but only on their top lashes, and not very neatly. She thought that was very cute in a way.
“I mostly got to just play out the moves I’d looked at before the game,” Jordan went on as they took another sip. “Nothing special, honestly.”
“Well, I suppose good prep is half the game at this point. Was still a lovely combination,” Yaz smiled. She appreciated Jordan’s truthfulness – there was a lot of chess players she knew who’d have pretended they’d thought that combination up over the board and bragged about it. Mostly men with fragile egos.
“Thanks. By the way, I really love your shirt,” Jordan grinned, pointing at the lettering reading ‘ARCTIC MONKEYS’.
“Yeah, Sheffield pride,” Yaz laughed. She felt herself relax. She’d been so nervous and tense when Jordan had sat down with her, but the more she talked with them, the more comfortable she was feeling. She drank some more of her cola. She was grateful that she’d chosen a seat at the far end of the bar, where no-one was bothering them or overhearing them. Felt like they had their own little space.
“Your game was nice too,” Jordan said. “That h4 pawn push was a really cool decision. Just keeping the game tense instead of just castling.” They grinned. “I’d have played it too.”
Yaz sighed wearily. “I analysed it on my laptop just now. Apparently, pawn to h4 was objectively a mistake.”
“Well,” Jordan chuckled, “the analysis software can suck my dick ‘cos that was a fucking beautiful move.”
“Yeah, I guess. Wait, suck your what?”
“Figure of speech, Yasmin. Don’t get too excited.”
Yaz was momentarily dumbfounded. The cheek!
“Well either way,” she muttered quietly, “my middlegame approach was flawed.” She downed the rest of her cola in an attempt to hide face, which she’d felt growing hot.
Jordan tutted. “You don’t need to be so hard on yourself. You won, that’s what matters. Also, you know what? After I finished my own game early, I went up to my hotel room and watched the rest of the broadcast for today’s round.” They gave Yaz a smile. “You know what the commentators said about your game?”
Yaz looked up curiously. She met Jordan’s eyes once more – were they hazel? Were they green? – and swallowed. Jordan wasn’t breaking eye contact, and Yaz felt herself melt under their gaze. Her eyes quickly moved down to Jordan’s lips, which parted as Jordan answered their own question. “They were astounded by your play, you know. Ace McShane even said you deserve a brilliancy price for that queen sacrifice.”
“Really?” Yaz couldn’t quite believe her ears.
“Yeah. But sure, I guess, your play was absolutely horrible,” Jordan sniggered. Yaz joined in, grinning broadly, and leaning forwards on the counter as she laughed. She hadn’t laughed that genuinely in a long while. They just looked at each other and smiled for a bit. Jordan started twirling their hair.
“So anyways,” Jordan said softly with an earnest smile. “Can I umm…”
They hesitated and suddenly avoided the eye contact they’d been holding with Yaz, who bemusedly noticed that they were fidgeting around with their hands, in a complete departure from their previous super confident demeanour. The moment only lasted a second or so before they looked Yaz in the eyes again, cool, calm, and composed, and grinned: “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I…” Yaz smiled weakly. “I don’t really… drink,” she murmured embarrassedly. “Alcohol, I mean.”
“Oh, they do brilliant mocktails,” Jordan raised a suggestive eyebrow as they grinned even more broadly. “Only if you want, of course,” they added hastily.
Yaz paused for a second before - “Oh, right, go on then.”
Jordan got the attention of the bartender with the bowtie and ordered their drinks – a grapefruit and ginger mocktail for Yaz that they’d recommended to her, and a gin tonic for themselves.
The drink was really refreshing, Yaz thought as she took a sip. Cooling and sweet with notes of citrussy tang and bitterness. The two of them sat together, chatting, and smiling, Yaz having the constant underlying thought that, since Jordan had bought her a drink, at some point this might go from a casual conversation to – well, they’d have to see when they got there.
The conversation moved back to chess. They talked a bit about their favourite openings, Jordan mentioning how tired they were of solid boring openings, like the Petrov or the Giuoco Piano: “Just a whole foreplay episode with nothing exciting going on for the first 10 moves,” they called that opening. “Prefer the more confrontational and spicy stuff.”
Yaz laughed, thinking that fit their personality quite well – at least the part of their personality she’d seen so far. But she somehow felt like she wasn’t really enjoying talking about chess, that she wanted to maybe talk about something else. She thought about how to express that.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s just me,” she started. “But don’t you sometimes feel like chess just isn’t as fun anymore as it was playing it as a kid?”
Not exactly what she’d been meaning to say, but it was out now. Jordan paused, had some more of their gin tonic, and smiled.
“Never played as a kid. Only started learning chess about seven years ago, when I was thirty.”
Yaz’s ears pricked up - she was extremely taken aback by this. Pretty much every chess player she’d talked with at big tournaments had started playing at a very young age just like her, joined some club, and then later turned professional. Jordan was definitely an exception here. The fact they’d become such a strong player in that short span of time was honestly astounding, Yaz thought.
“What did you do before chess, then?” She asked curiously.
“I…” Jordan hesitated. “I worked in a hospital, most my adult life. Junior doctor. Training to become a surgeon.” They swallowed. “Before…”
They suddenly looked past Yaz and off into the distance, their eyes glazing over.
“I…”
It was as though they’d frozen in place for a second. Something was up, Yaz felt.
“Sorry,” Jordan suddenly said. They looked at Yaz again, but the look in their eyes was completely disconcerted and confused.
“Hey, it’s ok,” Yaz said. For a second, she wanted to put a comforting arm around them but decided against it. “Is everything ok? If there’s anything you want to talk about, I’m here, okay?”
“No, I’m fine,” Jordan said. They looked down at their fingers, and Yaz understood that whatever was up, was private, and that they didn’t want to talk about it. That was understandable, Yaz thought.
Jordan fell quiet, and Yaz joined them in their silence, wanting to give them space. The two of them sat there like that for a while. Yaz wanted to say something, to cheer them up, but couldn’t think of anything. But then Jordan looked up, looked her in the eyes again, and smiled apologetically.
“I’m ok,” they said. “Just got lost in some memories,” they scrunched their nose and smiled a forced smile. “Happens to the best of us.”
Yaz nodded sympathetically.
“What you said earlier though, about chess no longer being fun,” Jordan started again. “I get that, I think. For me, I don’t think chess was ever something I did for fun, exactly. It can be exciting sometimes, of course.” They smiled. “But I guess… I guess it’s just this world I can get lost in. Just sixty-four squares, and pure logic. Everything you do, you have to calculate, and it’s either right or wrong, but any mistake you make is on you. Everything’s in your own hands. It’s so much easier than real life.” Jordan huffed a sad laugh and looked at Yaz. They looked so vulnerable in this moment.
“Sounds silly, but I guess it makes me feel safe,” Jordan laughed with a pretence of casualness. Yaz didn’t know what to say in response. It felt like all breath had been knocked out of her body. What Jordan had just described was exactly how she felt, too. She watched as they took another swig of their drink, their hand shaking a little. And then their eyes met again.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
It was a surreal moment. They gazed at each other, transfixed. Jordan swallowed. Yaz knew Jordan understood that she felt the exact same. She saw so much understanding in their teary eyes. Yaz’s breath hitched. And then Jordan reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of Yaz’s hair behind her ear. The touch of their fingertips felt electric on Yaz’s skin. She saw Jordan’s eyes wander down to her lips, transfixed. She nodded quietly, and Jordan cupped her check with the soft, warm palm of their hand. Yaz closed her eyes, her heart pounding fast, and moved in.
Jordan’s luscious lips met hers. Soft and warm, kissing her tenderly, enveloping her, their strong fingers still delicately stroking her cheek. Yaz let out hushed sounds of contentment, and Jordan, the scent of their cologne making Yaz’s senses tingle, replied with a long soft “mmm” as the kiss rapidly grew hungrier. Yaz felt Jordan’s hand move away from her cheek, and she unwittingly let out a desperate high-pitched whimper she’d never heard out of her own mouth before – but Jordan just assertively placed their hand on the back of Yaz’s head, in her hair, pulling her in even closer. Yaz felt an amazing rush of endorphins as she let herself be completely absorbed in the kiss.
Yaz never knew what to with her hands when people kissed her – not something that happened often either way. She reached out and put her hand on Jordan’s upper arm, feeling their biceps through the soft fabric of their shirt. Jordan playfully tensed that muscle. Woah. A low moan tried to escape Yaz’s mouth but all that came out, muffled by Jordan’s lips, was a soft vibration. Jordan pulled back just enough to give a chuckle, and their noses brushed together before they went back in for the kiss. This time with ferocious intensity. Jordan moved their hand downwards and softly stroked and circled a spot on the side of Yaz’s neck with their middle and index finger, and Yaz realised how much she wanted, needed, to feel those fingers… elsewhere. Her heart pounded fast at the thought that that was quite possibly where this was headed.
She felt Jordan’s lips parting, inviting her tongue in. She didn’t need to be told twice. Her tongue darted forward, ready to meet Jordan’s tongue in a moment of pure passion.
She suddenly pulled away. Hard. Her eyes snapped open. She caught Jordan, who’d fallen off their bar stool from the sudden shift of weight, in her arms before they almost fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” Jordan said, discombobulated, sitting back down. “Are you? Is everything ok?”
“I…” Yaz hesitated. Her eyes swept over the counter in front of her. The empty martini glass, the empty gin tonic glass. The taste of alcohol had hit her so suddenly when her tongue had entered Jordan’s mouth.
“Are you…” she started. “Are you sure about this? I mean. You’ve had a couple of drinks and uhm. I just… I don’t want you to regret this in the morning.”
Jordan laughed for a second, then abruptly stopped, realising Yaz was serious.
“I’m not drunk,” they said. “I’ve only had, like -”
They stopped, seeing the look on Yaz’s face.
“I’m sorry, I mean -” they looked her in the eyes again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be this defensive, that’s not ok.” They paused. “I do really want this… I want you. I’m sure. If you are.”
Yaz was conflicted.
“I… I do want this too, it’s just…”
Jordan smiled and their eyes lit up, as though they’d just had a fantastic idea. They turned around to the bartender again. “Hey Osgood,” they said. “Could you just get me a tall glass of lemon water?”
Yaz watched confused and bemused as Jordan accepted the lemon water from the bartender and took a big, long sip.
“Yasmin,” they said sincerely. “I promise that I’m really not feeling the alcohol at all right now, I’m perfectly able to consent.”
Yaz just nodded and didn’t say anything.
“Maybe we could just do something else for now and then see where we want to go with this?” Jordan suggested. “And maybe that can help you see that I am in fact clear-headed right now.”
“What do you have in mind?” Yaz asked.
“I’ve got a fun idea.” With a soft clank, Jordan put their half-emptied glass on the counter and spoke clearly: "Pawn to e4."
"What?"
But Jordan just looked up, their hazel-green eyes boring into hers, and raised an eyebrow. "I said, e4. Your move."
‘This is so silly, a tiny voice in the back of Yaz's brain called out. ‘And there’s no way I can play a whole game of chess in my head – ‘
"Pawn to c5." The words had escaped Yaz's mouth before she knew it. ‘What am I doing? I don't even play that opening,’ the voice in her head screamed.
The blonde put their elbow down on the counter, supporting their head on her hand, and smirked at Yaz like a dork.
"a3." It was less of a statement and more of a drawling moan, and Yaz felt her own hand under the counter inadvertently move ever so slightly up her own thigh.
Who the fuck plays pawn a3 on the second move in the Sicilian Defence?
Yaz swallowed. She was already completely at sea. Jordan controlled the pace of the game now. "g6," she heard herself mumble.
"D'you need a blindfold?" Jordan asked cheerily. "I have one in my hotel room upstairs. Sometimes blocking out visual stimuli can help you concentrate better. b4, by the way."
Images flashed through Yaz's head. She saw herself in Jordan's hotel room, on their bed, naked, a black blindfold over her eyes, as Jordan -
"Yasmin?"
"Uhm. No, I'm good. Bishop to g7."
Focus, Yaz! She closed her eyes, trying to visualize the board. Jordan's pawns positioned unorthodoxly on a3 and b4. Her own bishop on g7. Jordan, tracing her naked thighs with soft fingers - no.
Jordan announced their next move, and the pair of them traded moves back and forth, Jordan's voice becoming more and more tantalizing to Yaz's ears. She could feel Jordan shuffling closer over to her as she tried her hardest to keep track of where all the pieces were positioned, taking longer and longer to think with every move. Knight to c3. C captures, A captures. Knight to c6. b5. Knight to e5. d4.
"Knight to c4," Yaz announced firmly.
A quiet snort near her ear broke her concentration, and her eyes flew open. Jordan smiled apologetically and took a sip of their lemon water. Was Yaz imagining things, or hadn't the top button of Jordan's dress shirt been buttoned up before now?
The blonde bit their lip and stared her down, growling softly: "Bishop takes knight."
Yaz groaned as she closed her eyes again. Of course, the c4 square had been covered by the bishop since the very first move. She'd just lost one of her knights, with absolutely nothing to make up for it. But she wasn't about to give up. "Knight to f6."
Jordan chuckled. "Not resigning yet? Oh Yasmin, whatever am I going to do with you? Pawn to e5."
Yaz felt a soft tingling warmth between her legs that she tried very hard to ignore. What had Jordan said? Pawn to e5? Oh no. She’d walked her remaining knight straight into Jordan’s line of attack, and there was no way forward. “Knight back to g8.”
She was going to lose. She was going to lose, and she didn’t mind in the slightest. Dark patches began obscuring the chessboard before Yaz’s inner eye as the game continued further on. Jordan’s voice would call out moves instantaneously every time, and each of their moves was a precise strike at her position, exploiting every weakness and posing impossible-to-parry threats. Yaz was going to lose.
Queen to f3. f5. Knight to d5. Jordan’s voice was sharp and clear, almost commanding. Yaz felt their eyes on her, knew Jordan was probably enjoying seeing her struggle, with Yaz’s eyes clenched shut in concentration. “e6,” Yaz whispered, almost affronted at how keen her own voice sounded uttering a chess move of all things. “b6,” came the reply. What?
Yaz opened her eyes, momentarily blinded even though the lighting of the bar had turned moody. Jordan had shifted their barstool over to her, and they were once again twirling strands of their blonde hair. Yaz looked them straight in the eyes and said with confidence: “Pawn takes knight.”
This time, Jordan’s response wasn’t instantaneous. They slowly closed their strong fingers around their glass, drank the last bit of their lemon water and licked their lips. “Queen takes pawn.”
Yaz stared at their lips, thinking about how easy it would be to give in to temptation and lean forwards once again – no. They were still in the middle of a game, and the competitive part of Yaz’s brain hadn’t fully shut down just yet. She averted her eyes, trying her best to concentrate. This wasn’t helped by the fact that, when she shifted in her seat to be more comfortable, it hit her like a truck that she was soaking wet.
“You ok?”
“Yeah” she groaned. She braved a glance down and saw a small dark patch of wetness on her joggers. Fuck. She shivered, suddenly feeling a bit cold, wearing just that T-shirt. Needed Jordan to hold her. To -
“Knight to e7,” Yaz heard herself say.
Jordan grinned at her. “Queen to f7.” They placed their index finger on their own lips, kissed it, and placed it on Yaz’s lips, smiling.
“Checkmate,” they both said at the same time.
Jordan looked her up and down, their eyes resting for a second on her nipples that were poking through her baggy t-shirt, and again on the patch of wetness on her joggers. They chuckled, bemused.
“Take me...” Yaz groaned. “Upstairs. Now.”