Page 107 of Next Level Up
“Fuck,” I whisper, pressing my palm to my thigh, trying to keep the energy from tipping into panic. “We’re going to be late.”
“You’re not going to be late,” Carter says immediately. “We left early for a reason.”
Tate’s quieter now, but I can feel him thinking. “Left,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“There’s a side street. Take it.”
Carter doesn’t question it this time as he makes the turn.
The difference is immediate. Less traffic and way fewer people. The noise drops just enough that I can hear my own breathing again.
“There,” Tate says.
A small lot. Half hidden between two buildings just a faded “EVENT PARKING” board and a handful of open spaces.
Carter pulls in fast and we sit there for half a second after the engine cuts, no one moves. Then I laugh, breathless. “Oh my god.”
“Told you,” Tate mutters, reaching for the door.
Carter exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “I’m never risking that again.”
I grab my bag, still riding the leftover adrenaline. Carter steps out first, glancing up at the street sign, then over at the building on the corner. He pauses.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” I ask, pushing the door open.
He points across the street barely a block down, the hotel sign glows back at us, clear as day, right where we needed it the whole time.
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “I’m counting this as a win.”
“It is a win,” Tate says, stepping up beside me, his hand brushing briefly against my lower back as we start walking. “Closest parking you’re getting in this city.”
Just a short walk down the block, the noise from the main street fading a little with every step. Carter moves ahead to the door, holding it open for us, still shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe it worked out. “Next time,” he says, glancing back at us, “we check the block before panicking.”
“Or,” Tate counters, stepping inside, “we panic faster and get luckier.”
I laugh under my breath as we follow them in.
The hotel lobby is packed, but not in the same chaotic way as outside. Everyone here has somewhere to be, something to do, a reason they’re standing in line with gear bags at their feet and phones pressed to their ears.
Players.
Carter walks up to the front desk to check us in while I stand just off to the side, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder, taking it all in. Different team hoodies, different energy. Some people are loud, hyping themselves up. Others are quiet, locked in. I wonder which one I look like.
“Reservation for Carter Hart,” he says at the desk.
The woman behind the counter types something, glances up, then back down. “You’re here for the tournament?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her expression shifts. “Good luck today.”
“Thank you,” he says, and I can hear it in his voice that he means it for me.
Tate’s standing a few feet behind us, leaning against one of the columns with arms crossed, watching everything without looking like he is. People glance at him, then glance away just as fast. The mask helps. So does the way he holds himself like he doesn’t belong to anything but still owns the space anyway.
