Francis leaned back, listening to the shuffle of tourists and the clack of chess pieces echo through Washington Square Park. The summer heat hung over lower Manhattan like a weight. It roasted skin, soaked shirts, and slowed everything to a crawl.

He sat on one side of a stone chess table, with sunglasses shielding his eyes and a Mets cap keeping the sun off his face. He looked at his opponent, then down at the board.

Francis nudged his queen forward. “Checkmate.”

His opponent groaned and slapped a twenty on the table before stalking off in disbelief. Just another sucker who thought he had a chance.

Francis scooped up the bill just like he’d done a dozen times that morning and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He scanned the gathering crowd and waited for his next victim to step forward.

“Who’s next?” he said, rapping his knuckles on the wood. “Got something to prove? Name your stakes. Now’s your chance.”

A few onlookers laughed, but none moved, not until a slender hand reached across the table and reset the pieces.

She didn’t look like she belonged here, not in a park full of hustlers and hangers-on. But she didn’t seem to care. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her Columbia T-shirt was knotted at the waist, just above her frayed jean shorts. She pulled out the chair and sat down with a smile.

She caught Francis’s attention. “What’s your name?”

“Sarita, and you?”

“Francis,” he replied. “You play, Sarita?”

“Enough to win back what I paid for that iced coffee,” she said, pointing to a plastic Starbucks cup.

He let out a chuckle. “Name your stakes.”

She thought about it. “Twenty bucks? Same as the last guy?”

Francis leaned in with the grin of a man setting a trap. “I’ll make it fifty. But if I win, I get your number.”

She answered quickly. “Deal. You can have white.”

As they arranged the pieces, the sounds of the park seemed to fade behind the quiet tap of pawns and the scrape of wood on stone.

Francis moved first. “D4.”

“Knight to F6,” she answered, already reaching.

He glanced up. “The King’s Indian?”

“Works well against the London,” she said. “That’s what you’re going to play, right?”

She clocked him, but he took it as a challenge. “Alright. Bishop to F4.”

They played in silence after that, trading pieces like they were settling an argument. Sarita was fast, but not rushed. Her fingers never hesitated over the board. When she gave up a knight, she took his rook and cornered his king in the same breath.

Ten minutes later, Francis leaned back. His king was pinned, his queenside was a mess, and his remaining rook had nowhere to move. He let out a breath. This was almost over.

“You a Grandmaster or something?”

She smiled back. “I’ll tell you after the game.”

He reached for his knight, paused, then hovered over a pawn before pulling his hand back entirely.

“You’re out of winning lines,” she said, eyes still on the board.

He wiped sweat from his brow. “You need to beat me to take the fifty.”

She looked up with a spark in her eyes. “And you need to beat me for my number. I guess you don’t want it that bad.”

Francis winced. “I do. I just think the hustler’s getting hustled.”

“Smart boy.”

She pushed her dark-square bishop forward with the confidence of someone already thinking three moves ahead.

He could feel it closing in, her position tightening with every move. Her pieces crept forward with precision, cutting off every out he thought he had. He tried stalling, redirecting, even feigning counterplay, but it didn’t make a difference.

Those gathered around could see it too. Francis’s ego had taken hits before, but not like this, not in front of an audience, and not from someone with such a pretty smile.

“You’re caught,” she said. “It’s mate in two. No matter what you do.”

He studied the board, then her. There was no escaping it. The only move left was to tip the king.

“Good game,” he said, extending his hand.

She took his hand without hesitation. The warmth of his skin stayed on hers as she let go, then reached under the board and slid out the fifty.

“I’ll be taking this,” she said, glancing up. “And your number.”

Francis stared. “Sorry... what?”

“This fifty’s covering dinner tonight. You lost the game, but won me over." She paused, then added, “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He shook his head, perplexed. “Who are you?”

“Just a regular ole college student,” she said, smirking like she knew he wouldn’t believe it.

“Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“Ever heard of Vishy Anand?”

“Of course. He’s a legend.”

“He’s my uncle.”

That night, they sat beneath an umbrella at a patio table on MacDougal Street. The summer air still clung to their skin, warm even as the breeze tried to bring relief.

A giant plate of nachos sat between them, already half gone. They talked about where they grew up — Sarita, originally from India, then Queens, Francis out on Long Island — about old summer jobs, and, of course, about chess.

“I usually hate people who beat me,” Francis said, pulling a chip through a smear of cheese. “But this is new. I’ve never lost to anyone as cute as you.”

Sarita looked away, smiling.

“You had me from the start,” he said, the line landing with just enough weight to mean more than chess.

After dinner, they stood on the sidewalk, a little too close, both pretending the nervous energy between them wasn’t awkward. The restaurant behind them buzzed with voices and clinking glasses. Sarita shifted her weight and looked at him like she was waiting for something. Francis swallowed, trying not to look at her lips.

“I want to kiss you,” he said. “But my breath smells like nachos.”

Sarita smiled. “So does mine.”