Page 34 of Forgotten Sacrifice
Vince returns with a bottle of water and a questioning look, but I hold up a finger.
“I verified your story. Impressive,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“What’s your email? I send contract now,” he says, and I tell it to him.
We end the call, and I do another happy dance.
“Petrov agreed to be my chess coach!” I exclaim to Vince, who’s watching me with an amused expression. “What happened to my soda?”
“Who?” Vince hands me the water. “And you drink too much soda.”
“You’re so annoying,” I mutter, unscrewing the top and taking a sip. “Grandmaster Petrov is a world-renowned coach. He used to coach Grandmaster Morrell.”
“Why did Petrov stop coaching Brit Boy?”
“Brit Boy?” I snort; I’ll have to tell Bridget of Wesley’s new nickname. “I’m not sure,” I admit. “But what better person to train me than someone who trained the number one player in the world?”
“Price tag?”
“Why do you have to be a buzzkill all the freaking time?” I check my inbox, finding an email from Petrov. “Five hundred an hour.”
“Expensive,” he chides.
“Come on! If we want to take my game to the next level, then I need a Grandmaster coach,” I explain.
“Alright, I’ll look at the contract when we get home,” he says. “Now, tell me why you let Brit Boy off the hook.”
“I let him off the hook, as much as it pained me, because I want an invite to the Chess Hall. I’m not sure how much pull he has, but since he’s the resident Grandmaster, I’m guessing it’s a lot. Had I embarrassed him with an upset, which way do you think he’d vote on my application?”
“Always thinking two moves ahead.” Vince shakes his head with a rue smile as we enter the parking garage.
“Five moves,” I correct him, and he barks a laugh. “It was really disappointing, though…”
“What was disappointing?”
“Wesley. I was a big stan?—”
“A big what?” Vince side eyes me.
“Like a huge fan. Sorry, I sometimes forget the boomer needs translation.”
Vince snorts a laugh.
“But turns out Wesley’s a complete ass.”
“Don’t ever get to know your heroes,piccola.That’s one I…” He trails off.
“One you what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says dismissively.
“And this is why we only get along for five minute increments,” I gripe.
“Five minutes is still being generous,” he informs me.
We reach his SUV, and Vince opens my door for me as I climb into the passenger seat—making sure there’s no physical contact this time.
