Chương 67: Book 3 - Chapter 7 A

Monday morning, I woke still mostly dressed and tightly tucked into bed. The sun was high and streaming through a window. Matt was sitting in a chair in the room quietly reading one of his romance novels.

"Good morning," I told him. He looked up from his book.

"Good afternoon," he corrected.

"How are you doing today?"

"I feel rested and more centered. How long until the next match?"

"If tomorrow wasn't a rest day, I'd be calling your Mom so you'd take a day off."

"It looks like we're just sitting there, but it's a very intense competition. It's very different from how Fort Worth went," I told him.

"I'm aware," he said.

"You've got an hour to shower, change clothes and eat before you need to be at the table."

"Alright. Thanks Matt. You're taking good care of me," I told him as I started getting ready.

"I'm not so sure," he said softly to himself. Monday the 28th found me playing International Master Vincent McCambridge, who was a solid player but one I could easily outclass. This was a mandatory point game, one that in the original timeline was won by the player I replaced. The sheer routine of securing this point bored me completely. The game was over in less than an hour, the shortest of the tournament so far.

I employed a sharp tactical line that was calculated to exploit McCambridge's known defensive weaknesses. The position became technically hopeless for him before the twentieth move and he resigned shortly after. The win was a cold, quick execution, demonstrating a level of preparation and speed that was completely demoralizing to the opponent. My internal focus had entirely shifted away from the board.

The only thing I genuinely looked forward to was the evening piano concert where the six Soviet defectors taught me more of their scurrilous drinking songs between sets of classical music. The complex psychological and cultural exchange was far more interesting than the board, and I needed the mental reprieve. I was 6. 5 points out of 8 games, exactly where I needed to be and the second rest day was now in sight. Tuesday was the second rest day.

Matt and I had returned to the room after a leisurely lunch to prepare for a nice hike recommended by the hotel staff. I was just putting on my hiking boots when there was a knock on the door. I opened the door to find security standing behind the man who had knocked. Jack was still in his room across the hall but was ready for my unknown visitor.

"Hello, can I help you?" I asked.

"Dr Cook?" the middle-aged man asked, unsure.

"Yes, how can I help you?" I asked again.

"Dr Cook, I'm Isaiah Smith, from the United States Olympic Committee."

"It's nice to meet you Mr Smith."

"Dr Cook, I wanted to personally inform you that the coach who assaulted you has been fired. We're very sorry that happened and wish to invite you to return to discuss your placement on the US Olympic team."

"Thank you for coming all the way here to let me know."

"Dr Cook, no one is going to demand that you come and train at the USOTC, but we would like you to return, meet some of the potential team and organize an occasional coach visit to where you normally practice."

"That sounds very reasonable, when do you want to do this?"

"Dr Cook, could you come tomorrow?"

"No. I cannot. I'm playing in the US Chess Championship here. The soonest I can come would be next Wednesday," I told him and watched the visible relief on his face. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"Dr Cook, we are eagerly waiting for your return. There is a local competition scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. I hope you can join."

"Of course," I said and closed the door. I looked at Matt, who had been standing behind me.

"So that happened," I said with a smile. Matt smiled.

"Dr Cook, why the change of heart?" he said, imitating Mr Smith.

"Don't start. The man's doing his best. As for going back, that was always the plan. The Olympic team roster won't be finalized for another two years, but there will be regular competitive training sessions and occasional events between now and then," I explained.

"So, how often will we be coming back here?"

"No more than once a month for a quick competition. It's close enough that we'll just get a private jet from Tulsa next time and fly straight there."

"Good, I'm tired of that drive. Even between Stapleton and the USOTC is too much."

"In that case, arrange a plane to take us home direct from Colorado Springs."

"Yes, boss."

"Much better," I said, smiling.

"Now let's go for that lake hike. I need to be away from other people for a day." I slid into the back of the large black SUV. Security was up front, and Matt was in the back with me. The whole procession was ridiculous for a kid needing a walk, but after the USOTC no one was taking any chances. We pulled away from the looming historical Stanley Hotel and quickly descended the winding road toward the valley floor. It was early afternoon with only two days left in the month.

The sun was impossibly bright and sharp, catching the high granite ridges above town. The air temperature felt cool but it would climb over fifty today. The sky was that impossible cobalt blue only found at altitude. Within minutes, we pulled up to the shore of Lake Estes. The lake itself was a tidy, contained body of water, but it served as a magnificent mirror for the chaos of the mountains that surrounded it. Security opened my door.

The air that rushed in was intoxicating—sharp with the scent of frozen earth and pine needles. The deciduous trees that lined the bank were stripped bare, their fine gray branches laced against the sky, but the Ponderosa pines stood sentinel, deep green and robust.

"Jack'll meet you on the other side of the lake. I'll be behind, and Matt will be with you," Nick informed me. No asking, just laying out the rules.

"Thank you," I said, pulling my jacket open to feel the breeze. I didn't need the security talk. I needed the quiet. Matt trailed behind as I started walking the paved trail along the southern bank heading west. The water was dark and choppy with a slight breeze, reflecting the deep shadows already starting to pool at the base of the mountains. The true magnificence wasn't the lake but the sheer, unforgiving rock wall that rose behind it.

The Rocky Mountains stood magnificent and silent, completely indifferent to my human problems. The peaks would stand for unnamed millennia whether I changed the future or not. They were dusted white with the season's first proper snow, and Longs Peak, the monarch of the park, rose jagged and immense against the blue. It was a perfect paradox: I was surrounded by security guards and a giant mountain range, yet I had never felt more glad to be alone. The sound of my own footsteps was muted on the cold asphalt path.

I let the vastness of the natural world wash away the tiny, contained world of the chessboard. In this moment, I was just John Cook, nine years old, a small, fragile thing standing still while the timeless, immense earth moved around me. It was the deepest solitude I could find and it was exactly what I needed. I reached my pickup point at the small marina on the north side of the lake much too soon. The rounds continued after the Tuesday break. The emotional and physical turmoil of the weekend was gone.

The hike had purged the anger and the solitude had restored my internal balance. I was centered, sharp and patient. This was a necessity, as my opponent was Grandmaster Nick de Firmian, a formidable and deeply prepared professional. This was the game to showcase my depth. I steered the game into a complex line of the King's Indian Defense, a setup that de Firmian handled with theoretical ease but which allowed me to create subtle structural weaknesses deep in the position.

The game was a true positional grind, the longest I had played since Kavalek. However, the expected breach on move thirty-eight arrived, sacrificing a single pawn for a crushing passed major piece. De Firmian fought on for another twenty moves, but the advantage was unassailable. This was a clean, masterful win, proving my superiority through sheer, unforgiving technical depth. I had fully recovered. The piano playing was more cheerful that evening.

"No sad Russian songs!" I demanded of my audience. They complied, and I found them enjoying the upbeat music as they sang along. Thursday, my spirits had improved even more. I had slept well. The nightmares were banished again. Grandmaster Sergey Kudrin was my final opponent when I swept the Fort Worth Open and I knew he would be expecting the explosive, swarming attack that earned the nickname 'Cook Swarm.' Kudrin had prepared meticulously for that. He was not prepared for my positional mastery.

I opened with a quiet, classical setup but instead of the brutal technical grind of the previous day, I moved with an overwhelming, focused speed that crushed him. I quickly established a space advantage, and by the mid-game, his position was so restricted that his pieces were tripping over themselves. Kudrin realized his preparation was obsolete and struggled to adjust. I exploited his vulnerability, outplaying him in a sharp, demanding mid-game that required nothing more than flawless, machine-like execution.

He resigned on move twenty-five. The game was finished in under forty minutes. My score, 8. 5 points out of 10, secured my place at the top of the standings. Three games left.