Page 115 of Next Level Up
Haven exhales hard. “Okay, I officially hate this place.”
I squeeze her hand. “You’re good, babe. He’s not touching you. Not even close.”
Tate sits back down slowly, arms crossed. “Would’ve been fun if he tried.”
She leans her head on my shoulder, her fingers reaching to curl around Tate’s sleeve, too.
We sit there, sipping our overpriced coffee, watching the crowd move like some bizarre circus—and for a second, everything’s quiet.
We’re back in the competitor zone now, that stretch of rows lined with PCs, dividers barely keeping out the buzz of the crowd beyond. Tate’s back at his own spot a few feet away stretching his neck like a boxer about to step into the ring. Haven’s sliding her headphones over her ears, adjusting her mic, fingers twitching like she’s charging herself up.
This match, It’s him again. Dylan. The rematch she didn’t ask for—but sure as hell isn’t going to back down from.
The chat explodes before the countdown even starts.
“Oh shit, the ex!”
“Is this gonna be toxic or sexy?”
“He doesn’t stand a chance lmao.”
I watch from the VIP room, heart in my throat. I want to be closer, I want to hold her shoulders. I want to scream for her and tell her she’s going to be fine. But I can’t So I stand there.
The match starts. And Havendevourshim.
She doesn’t play like she’s trying to win she plays like she’s settling a score. Every shot is another thing he said, another thing he did, another wound she’s spent the last year stitching up herself.
The first kill is surgical. A clean headshot from across the map that makes the whole Twitch chathowl.
The second one? Up close. Personal. When the game cuts to the kill cam, it’s her eyes we see.
I look over at Dylan. He’s two stations down, and even he looks rattled now.
The third round? She baits him, draws him in and then lights him up.
I lose track of how many kills she racks up after that. The scoreboard is a blur.
By the time the final score pops up flashing with Haven’s victory and Dylan’s complete humiliation—there’s a slow, stunned silence across the competitor floor.
Haven rips off her headset and stands, chest heaving, flushed from head to toe, and I swear she glows. Not from the win but from thefreedom.
I push down the small set of stairs to meet her, and she doesn’t hesitate to throw herself into my arms.
She hits me hard enough that I have to take a half step back to keep us both upright, but I don’t let go.
My hands come up automatically, one at her back, the other bracing her at the side. Her breathing is uneven against my chest.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, even though the answer’s obvious in the way she’s holding onto me.
She nods, but she doesn’t pull away. “I felt that one,” she says after a second, her voice a little rough around the edges. “Every second of it.”
“I know,” I tell her, my hand moving slightly against her back. “You didn’t leave anything on the table.”
She lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, her grip on my hoodie tightening for a second before easing.
When she finally leans back, it’s slow, like she’s not quite ready to let the moment go just yet. Her face is flushed. “You watched it all?” she asks, searching my face like she needs the confirmation even though she already knows.
“Every second,” I say without hesitation.
