Part One

 

Chapter 1

An Unexpected Opponent

 

Panting and red-faced, I tugged open the heavy oak door at Pub-D-Lish at 6:57 PM, just three minutes shy of the start of the tournament. Stupid traffic. Damned lack of parking. Literary luminaries like Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens glared down their disapproval from the walls of the local pub, apparently disinterested in my litany of excuses. I stuck up my nose in defiance and silently quoted fellow novelist Evelyn Waugh: Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.

Still, this was not the night to be late. I ranked a dismal fifth in the Maple Ridge Scrabble Club after a full three years of membership and competitions. Unacceptable-especially since words were my business. I'd promised myself that this year I'd make it to Nationals. And this was the moment of truth. If I won all three games tonight, I'd have earned enough points to qualify.

I grabbed my playlist from the tournament official and assessed my opponents for the evening. Though it was an open competition-meaning anyone could participate-I immediately recognized the names of two of my three challengers. Easy pickings. But the third, Grahame Gaines? I didn't know that name. Or his skill level. Troubling. Unfortunately, there was no time to scan the room and size him up.

I hastily dispatched my first two rivals, smiling and chatting only after the game had been completed. My rule was to never schmooze during play. I'd heard somewhere that silence intimidates your adversaries and gives you a leg up. I never turned down a leg up, so to speak, or discounted an advantage. It was something I learned as a child. In my house growing up, the loser at any board game forfeited dessert.

Finishing my second game a bit early, I retreated from the competition to the side of the restaurant where food was served and grabbed a burger and a soda. My fellow player and friend, Sabrina-Brie for short-joined me, chicken Caesar salad in one hand and score sheet in the other.

"How are you doing tonight?" she asked, greedily attacking her dressing-drenched lettuce.

"Two wins. I'm averaging three hundred fifty points a game and even put down 'quixotic' over a double-word score. How about you?"

"Not bad. One win, one loss, but at least I had two bingos."

"Cool beans."

Bingos were like grenades in this word game. I loved how using all seven tiles and clearing my rack freaked out my opponent, even if they fought to remain stone-faced and unfazed.

"I'm playing this Grahame Gaines guy next," I said. "You know him?"

"I played him first. The game I lost. He's the one over there playing Patsy. The preppy one in the sports coat."

She pointed. I strained my neck to see, but he was partially blocked by another set of players.

"Should I be worried?"

"Very. He's good. And..."

"And?"

"He's... I don't know the right word. Weird, maybe?"

"Weird how?"

"I don't know. Perhaps weird is the wrong word. Maybe guarded is better."

"Doesn't talk, you mean?"

"More than that. He kinda...stares right through you. As if he knows what you're thinking. I couldn't concentrate."

"Heh. He got inside your head. Psychological warfare. He's going to find he's met his match with me."

"You gotta chill, Kira. It's a game, not a battle."

"Wrong. I'm one ranking short of qualifying for Nationals. Every game is a battle. And this one, I intend to win."

We finished our meals, discussing things non-Scrabble, including the next night's upcoming trivia challenge. Brie, Patsy, and I were three of the five members of The Darwinners, Survival of the Trivial. My two indulgences: Scrabble and trivia. I rationalized, with my love life in the crapper, reduced to occasional kinky chatroom sparring and watching videos on the darker side of the internet, I was entitled to sublimate somehow.

Immersed in conversation, I missed the warning bell and was startled two minutes later when the official hit the buzzer, announcing the start of the last round of play. Damn, late again. I rushed back and found my seat, which was pretty easy since it was the only one unoccupied.

Across from me sat an unamused Grahame, stiffly upright and unassailable with salt-and-pepper hair, shamrock green eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses, and his angular features scrunched into a scowl. Not unlike Sean Connery circa Diamonds Are Forever. Yum.

But this was not the time for flirting. This was serious. Without comment, I drew a tile out of the bag. An O. He drew an A. As per tournament rules, the lowest letter started the game.

We both drew seven tiles and arranged them on our racks. Without hesitation, he laid down all seven of his letters, spelling apology crosswise from the Start square, hit the timer, and smiled. The word was worth only fourteen points-the second O falling on a double-letter score-but any score covering the Start square is automatically doubled. Plus, he earned a fifty-point bingo bonus for using all seven tiles. Seventy-eight points in all. Damn again.

"When can I expect it?" he asked in a semi-whisper, which was just loud enough to be heard above the cacophony of tile clicks and timer thumps.

What the fuck? I shot him a look of incredulity. If my modus operandi was to never speak to opponents, I certainly wasn't about to apologize to one.

I stared back down at my jumble of tiles. Two As, an F, an R, an N, an S, and a T. What to do, what to do? I rearranged them a few times, seeking inspiration. Ah, yes! Building off the Y in apology, I laid down fantasy, retaining the R on my rack. The A fell on a triple-letter score, and the F fell on a double-word score. Thirty points total. Still less than half of his points for the round, but it suited my purpose.

I lifted my head triumphantly and caught him watching me instead of his tiles or the board. Brie was right. His stare pierced right through me. It was appraising and gauging. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, but I wasn't about to divert my eyes and let him win. We held that stare for about a minute, neither willing to back down.

Want to waste your precious turn time staring at me instead of your letters, buddy? Fine. It's your funeral.

He finally ended the standoff with an amused huff and returned his attention to the board. After a moment, he laid down defy off the F in fantasy. It was worth almost nothing-only eleven points-a throwaway move. In fact, I could even see where with one small adjustment, those same letters could have easily scored four points more. I guessed he was trying to make a point of his own.

The remainder of the game proceeded without further stalemate or drama-infused code. He won handily, 425-380. I glared at the board, telekinetically willing it to disintegrate.

"Pleasure beating you, Kira. Would you like to..."

I nodded a wordless congratulation and abruptly pushed back from the table, eager to drop off my points log with the scorekeeper and end the evening's debacle. Handsome or not, Grahame Gaines was clearly my strongest competition in the league and obviously an obstacle I had to overcome-nay, obliterate. There were only two weeks left until the end of the season. If I didn't qualify during either week, I'd have to wait another year to achieve my quest of hitting Nationals.

So, sorry, Mr. Gaines, save the chit-chat for someone who gives a crap about that sexy body and forceful demeanor. You might have won the game, but I'll be damned if I'm going to fraternize and risk winning the war.