Page 78 of Next Level Up
My hands are shaking. Every inch of me buzzes with energy, my heart slamming so fast against my ribs it feels like I’m sprinting in place.
Five minutes before the match starts, I’m sitting cross-legged in my chair, trying not to start shaking again.
Tate’s behind me, his hands ghosting over my shoulders but not touching. Times like this makes me wish he’d stop being so reserved still.
Carter’s crouched beside me, rubbing slow circles into my calf. “Breathe,” he murmurs.
I do, in, out and again.
Tate doesn’t say anything, but when he slides my headset over my ears, his fingers linger—pressing just hard enough to ground me. His thumb drags once along my neck. “They’re not ready, but you are.”
I almost didn’t sign up for the tournament. I told myself it was because I didn’t have the time, or the the focus. Or the team. But the truth is I was scared. Scared that I wasn’t good enough anymore. That I’d step back into the spotlight and fall flat on my ass in front of a hundred thousand spectators and every ex who ever said I was wasting my time. I never wanted to play perfect. I just wanted to be taken seriously.
But this whole tournament has exposed every nerve. Every insecurity and every reason I stopped streaming seriously in the first place. This game isn’t just a game anymore. It’s my name, my pride and my voice. I don’t want to lose it again.
The match ends with a single shot. Final kill with the victory screen. My name flashes across the leader board—ranked high enough to secure a place in finals. Finals, fucking finals.
[HavokHearts qualifies!!!]
[FINALS BAYBEEE]
[I KNEW SHE COULD DO IT]
[NOONEGHOST + HAVOK 4EVA]
[wait is that Carter in the background??]
I barely hear the pounding in my ears over the avalanche of messages, subs, and raids hitting my screen like a confetti bomb. The notifications won’t stop, my overlay is practically stuttering trying to keep up. I cover my mouth with both hands, blinking hard. I did it.
I actually fucking did it. “Holy shit,” I whisper, half laughing, half crying, staring at the screen like if I blink it might all disappear.
Carter’s hands cup my face, grounding me instantly. “You did it, sweetheart.”
I nod, eyes wide. “I… yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Tate leans in from behind my chair, his arm draped casual over the backrest, his breath warm against my ear. “You just broke the goddamn internet, pretty girl.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs my lips—quick, fragile, real. For one second it feels golden, untouchable.
Then the lobby resets. The familiar white noise of notifications fills the screen as I click through menus, queuing up for the post-match breakdown. My cursor hovers, stuttering just for a heartbeat when a name drops into the list. Dylan.
The letters burn against the glow of the monitor. My stomach flips, tightens, like the air got pulled out of the room.
My mouse hand shakes. The stream overlay feels bright and too exposing, so I kill it with a click. The camera light blinks out
Carter is on me instantly, pulling me into his chest like he’d been waiting for the moment I’d drop the mask. I fold into him, inhaling the steady, grounding warmth of him. My pulse is a wild animal, but his heartbeat thuds calmly.
When I glance sideways, Tate’s upright, shoulders tense, eyes still locked on the dead lobby screen.
His jaw flexes, hands curling into fists against the back of my chair.
“He’s still watching you, even when you think you’re winning, he’s there. Circling. Waiting to slip back in.”
My throat works around a swallow, but it doesn’t ease the ache in my chest. He’s right. I can still feel it, that stupid, traitorous flinch that tore through me the moment I saw Dylan’s name.
He’s got his mask hooked around his fingers, swinging it absently like he’s trying not to throw it across the room. He’s not saying anything, he doesn’t have to.
Carter brushes his lips against my temple. “You okay?”
