Page 96 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“Yes.” I release my fingers from my nose. “I’d rather not play in puke.” I pinch it again, breathing out of my mouth.
“Yes,” my opponent says sheepishly.
The man snaps his fingers, and we’re escorted to a new table, where they move the clean chess pieces on a new board to reflect our game.
The smell of vomit waifs from my opponent across the table, but I hold it together, pulling out a win.
I meet Vince and Coach in the hallway, and we enter an empty skittles room to discuss my play.
“Good job, Luna.” Vince hands me a takeout bag. I peek inside and smile: burger and fries, with a small container ofranch.
“Not a good job!” Coach D’Agustino barks.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused by his reaction.
“One of your pawns, it was not placed back on the board,” Coach says adamantly.
“Really, I didn’t catch that.” I dip a fry into ranch, and Vince makes a face as I pop it in my mouth.
“Exactly.” He points at me. “I do not care if your opponent is projectile vomiting and you are ankle-deep in bile.Neveragree to move to a new table.Neveragree to a new board!” He thunders.
Vince gets in my coach’s face. “Neverfucking yell at her again!”
“Will you both stop?” I jump out of my chair, getting in the middle of them to break it up. “I got the win. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be.”
Coach shakes his head. “Assume it will have to be next time.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Lesson learned.”
“I’m going to watch your opponents. Be back on the floor in twenty.” Coach points at me.
“Yes, Coach.”
My coach walks out, with Vince staring him down. Turning to me, Vince asks softly, “You need anything?”
“Another soda.” For some reason, I feel like I’m about to tear up. God, what is wrong with me?
“You don’tneedanother soda. I’ll get you a water.”
“Five minute increments,” I mutter at his back as he slips out the door.
I finish my lunch, mentally getting my shit together.
“Hey, there you are.” Bridget says, out of breath.
“How’d you do in the first round?” I ask.
“I’m knocked out, but that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. There’s a video going around; I debated whether to tell you, but figured you’d want to see it yourself.”
“Show me,” I say, and she hands over her phone.
I press play on the video, watching Wesley Morrell walk up the steps to the Chess Hall with his manager.
“Grandmaster, what are your thoughts on rising star Luna Barone?” Someone stops him.
“Luna Barone’s all parlor tricks; she’s someone I don’t concern myself with,” he says haughtily. “If you’ll excuse me.” The men disappear inside the club.
There’s another video stitched from inside the Chess Hall.
