Page 105 of Next Level Up
“Hold on,” I say, reaching up to adjust the strap of her bag where it’s digging into her shoulder.
She stills immediately.
The strap’s twisted slightly, sitting wrong against her collarbone. I fix it, then smooth the edge of her hoodie where it’s bunched underneath, my fingers brushing her shoulder for a second before I pull back.
“You’ll feel that after an hour,” I say.
She watches me the whole time. “Thanks,” she says softly.
I nod once, stepping back because details like that are the difference between focus and distraction later.
And I’m not letting anything stupid get in her way today.
“Now let’s go win a fucking championship.”
Carter’s got the keys in his hand, Haven’s standing just ahead of him, and I’m a step behind, watching the way her posture shifts again now that we’re actually here.
She exhales slowly, like she’s trying to steady herself without making it obvious, and I can see the moment it almost gets to her again—the hesitation, the split second where her brain tries to drag her back into everything that could go wrong.
My hand brushes hers again when I step past her to grab one of the bags, not lingering this time, just contact and gone.
“Move,” I add, glancing back at Carter.
He smirks. “Bossy.”
“Efficient.”
Haven huffs out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh, “Let’s go raise some hell.”
30
Haven
Carter’s been humming along to the playlist I queued for the last ten minutes, and Tate’s muttered“bullshit”at least twice under his breath while scrolling through the tournament forums on his phone.
We’re doing this.
We’re driving seventy-five miles away from the comfort of my apartment, and every minute that passes brings me closer to that stage.
I glance to the passenger seat, where Carter’s sipping from the iced coffee I shoved into his hands before we left. His other hand is wrapped around mine, rubbing tiny strokes of his thumb across my skin.
Tate’s in the back seat, with his leg bouncing and a toothpick between his lips like he’stryingnot to light a cigarette in my car. His laptop is closed in the case beside him, but I know his mind’sracing. Calculating match-ups, thinking strategy and probably silently plotting kills.
He twirls his mask in his hand, eventually he lifts it and stares at it. “This thing used to be armor,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Now it feels like a warning label.”
I twist in my seat to look at him. “You mean like, ‘Danger: May cause emotional combustion?’”
His lips twitch. “Something like that angel.”
Before long we pull off the highway because Carter says we should, something about not wanting to risk traffic later, but I barely hear him over the sound of my own thoughts. “Bathroom,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“I’ll come with—” Carter starts.
“I’m good,” I cut him off, softer this time. “Just… two minutes.”
He studies me for a second like he’s deciding whether to push it, then nods. “Grab me something with caffeine if you see it.”
“I already regret giving you the coffee,” I say, but I’m smiling when I shut the door.
