You were twelve when you first saw Benny Watts in person. He was tall and lanky, sort of funny looking. He wore nothing but dark denim and khaki greens, always topped off with a worn cowboy hat, just to tie it altogether.

Your first thoughts were that he didn't look like a chess player, he looked more like a rodeo clown. He was sixteen at that time, the beginnings of his, now full, moustache on his upper lip and smugness all over his face—

He'd just beaten Theodore Heckley, the US Open Champion from the previous year, 1955. Heckley was twenty-seven years old.

Benny's win meant that he was up against your father next.

Since you were three, you'd been dragged to your father's chess games. Your mother was so proud, even if she didn't fully understand the game; all she understood was the money in her pockets. Your family name was one that was known, respected, hated—maybe even worshipped—in the chess world—

He was a Grandmaster, one of the best, the brightest, most admired chess players the world had seen since Morphy and Alekhine—

But no one knew who the hell you were, other than your father's daughter.

Your father's daughter, who sits silently next to her mother at all his games—

Your father's daughter, who puts up with having her questions answered for her—

Your father's daughter, who "Doesn't know much about chess, other than that's what her Daddy plays," your mother said to an interviewer, once. You were fourteen then, you were stood next to her—

She was wrong.

But obviously, they didn't know.

Your brain had a funny way of remembering things, especially when it came to chess games. The grid acted like a canvas of sorts, etching moves into different parts of your mind, parts that you'd never forget.

In your head, the pieces had stories. The Knights were noble warriors, sworn to protect King and Queen. The Bishops were prophets, speaking the word of some god out there; whether it was true or not, you didn't know. The pawns were the bait—

There were there to be killed, or, if you were good, they would change the course of the entire kingdom.

You knew almost everything that your father knew about chess—

You'd just never played a game before.

Your father's and Benny's game lasted for six hours before an adjournment was called. You watched as Benny wrote down his next move and handed it to one of the game organisers, who folded it quickly and neatly into an envelope, and stuffed it in his inside pocket.

"Play will resume tomorrow, 0900 hours."

That night, while your mother smoked cigarettes in the parlour with the other wives, you snuck into your father's room. He didn't hear you come in, too lost in thought as he slouched over a chess board, moving pieces around and writing down words on a notepad to his right.

You got closer, until you were behind his chair. You weren't exactly trying to stay hidden, but you hadn't announced yourself either.

You watched as your father moved his King Bishop to E6.

"Queen Knight to E6," You said suddenly. You father practically jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," He said, peering down at you with a mixture of anger and surprise. "You should be in bed,"

"Mum went downstairs," You said, your eyes still plastered on the board. "Queen Knight to E6," You repeated, looking up at your father. "If you lose your second bishop, diagonals aren't allowed."

If your father was stunned in any way, he didn't show it. He simply put down his pencil and stuck his hand out. You placed your hand in his own, following him as he lead you back to yours and your mother's room.

The next day, your father won the game—

But it was close. Very close.

You watched as Benny shook his hand, acting so mature for a sixteen-year-old boy.

Then, you and your family left for home, back in England—

And you didn't see Benny Watts for another eleven years.

You stopped attending your father's games after you turned seventeen. You refused to travel abroad with your parents now, too exhausted from the prodding and poking of the chess community. You wanted to be more than just his daughter—

His daughter who has no interest in chess, whatsoever.

Even if you'd wanted to play chess professionally, you knew that no one would look at you like you were your own person. Your father was too ingrained in their brains—

But now, age twenty-three, you were about to walk through the doors to Caesar's Palace, Las Vegas—

To watch your father's final tournament of chess—

Ever.

You pulled your sunglasses off as you stood by your mother's side. "They've renovated since 1958," You said, taking in your surroundings. It was all gold and marble, all bright lights and extravagant statues.

"It's a lot nicer than that hotel in Oregon," Your mother said.

"Glad I didn't come to that one," You added, but you knew it was going to start a fight. Your mother's neck almost snapped as she turned to face you.

"Drop the attitude. We're here for your father,"

"We're always here for dad," You added fuel to the fire. Your mother was close to exploding.

"Maybe if you ever tried to be part of his world, you would understand how upsetting it is that he's playing his final tournament, Y/N."

"Oh no, I tried," You spoke with a venom that had been set deep within you since you'd turned fifteen. "But there's no space for a girl here."

You said that knowing what your mother was going to hit back with—

"Beth Harmon proved that wrong." She said, straightening herself out. "If you're here, you're going to be present. You're going to mingle, and smile, and be happy. I won't have you ruining this for him." With that, she walked towards the main foyer, where a group of players were congregating around your father already.

Beth Harmon—you knew of her, obviously.

World Champion, 1967, beating greats like Borgov, Luchenko—

Watts.

She was unstoppable. People called her a modern Alekhine, with guts like Morphy, and style like, well, Beth Harmon.

You made your way into the main foyer, avoiding the huddle around your father. The atrium was huge, full to the brim with drinks, food, reporters and players. Chess tables lined the perimeter, with one in the centre, being the main events table.

You approached the table, running your fingers over the board. It was soft and smooth, the squares perfectly aligned, the pieces exquisitely sanded. You sat on the white side, staring down the black pieces, as if you were about to attack.

You'd never played a game of chess, in real life, that is—

But the constant game plays, the tournaments, the wins and losses by your father, you knew how to play. You had a vendetta against the game itself—it was inherently sexist, despite Harmon's triumph last year.

You'd seen how the game had torn your father to pieces, only for him to read another book, study another legend, and put himself back together again, before he lost his next game and the cycle continued.

The Sicilian Defence, The Reti Opening, The Queen's Gambit—

You knew it all like the back of your hand.

"Fancy a game?" You shot your gaze upwards. "You a player?" Benny Watts had a smug smile on his face, the same one he'd worn eleven years ago.

He'd grown, taller and skinnier than he was to begin with. His moustache was fully grown. The same greens, blacks and greys made up his clothes, with the addition of chains and necklaces dangling from his frame. He donned silver rings and string bracelets, and of course—that fucking cowboy hat.

"Do I look like a player?" You asked. He let out a small chuckle.

"I try not to assume."

"You trained Beth Harmon," You stated. Benny sat opposite you, elbows on the table, knuckles under his chin.

"Who are you?" He asked, eyebrows furrowed, amused expression on his face. "I feel like I've seen you before,"

You let out a long breath, tapping a rook with your fingernails. "Jacksonville, 1956. You beat Heckley," Benny sent you a quizzical look. "You almost beat my father."

Benny's eyes widened.

"You're L/N's daughter." You tipped the rook over on the board.

"Bingo."

"Do you play?" He asked, and you shot him a stare.

"Bingo?" You replied, sarcastically. He smiled at the board, before tipping his hat and head upwards.

"Chess."

You didn't know what to reply. You didn't simply want to say no, or yes. You didn't want to give him an answer.

"I thought Beth Harmon would be here," You changed the subject. Benny inhaled through his nose before he replied.

"She's taking a year out."

"She probably deserves it," You added, and Benny's eyes glazed over.

"Yes, she does."

With that, you got up from the table.

"Nice to meet you—properly, I mean," Benny spoke up, turning in his chair to face you.

"Likewise."

The next two days were the same. Games, wins, losses. Your father was on a winning streak; what a perfect way to end his career.

You mostly stuck around his table, what with your mother being about as vigilant as one of the chess players there. Sometimes, you'd drift around the room, grab a drink, watch a different game, see another sad sap get defeated by one of Benny's offhand moves.

You arrived at Benny's table just as he defeated a young boy from Italy. The boy stuck his hand out maturely, but you could see the grief behind his eyes. He left immediately, leaving Benny sat at the table, looking smug as ever.

"How does it feel crushing a thirteen-year-olds' soul?" You piped up. Benny hit you with a smile.

"Fantastic."

You leant on the table, overseeing the pieces and their positions. Your eyes flicked from piece to piece, imagining how the game had panned out in your head.

"Damn," You let out. "He almost had you."

Benny leant forward, that same furrowed expression on his face from the other day.

"So, you do play?"

Before you could answer, applause broke out at your father's table. Both of you turned to watch as his opponent stuck out his hand in defeat. Your father took it graciously, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket.

"I guess it's me and him, then," Benny stood, grabbing his hat from beneath the table and depositing it on his head.

You hardly heard him, as the cameras started flashing and the applause turned to cheers. Your father squinted a few times, covering his face with his hands—

You watched as his expression changed, getting more and more pained—

And that's when your legs started running.

You yelled his name as he dropped to one knee, hand clutching his chest, right over his heart. You bombarded through reporters and players, falling to the floor as his head hit the ground. Your mother appeared by your side suddenly, gripping his hand until her knuckles turned white.

Noises around you turned into a ringing in your ears; your body felt fuzzy, like you wouldn't be able to ever stand up again, seeing your father's eyes almost pop out of his head as his body throbbed on the floor.

The last thing you remembered were the siren whirs of an ambulance, and glancing at the chess board—

Where the king lay dead.