Page 114 of Next Level Up
And Tate as unhinged, infuriating, and smug as he is—he’s part of this too. Part ofher.Part of me, whether I like it or not.
We’ve always been at odds, but in the middle of all this madness, we’ve found a way to stop tearing each other apart long enough to hold onto something worth keeping.
One of the monitors shifts feeds again, and this time I don’t immediately look back to hers. I know where she is. I know what she’s doing. Instead Tate’s match fills the screen.
He’s deeper into his bracket now, the kind of match where people stop messing around and start playing like they actually have something to lose. You can feel it in the pace, in the way the players move more carefully, think a little longer before committing. He doesn’t, or at least, it doesn’t look like he does.
He’s still fast. Still aggressive and pushing in ways that should be reckless but somehow aren’t. Every move has a purpose behind it, even when it looks chaotic on the surface.
I watch him take a position, hold it just long enough to force the other player into a bad angle, then move before they can recover. I shift my weight, arms crossing tighter across my chest without me really thinking about it.
He finishes the round without much effort, barely reacting when it ends, like it was always going to go that way.
I let out a slow breath, eyes lingering on the screen for a second longer than I mean to.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, more to myself than anyone else. “You’re not losing either.”
Of course they’re both going to keep climbing until there’s nowhere left to go but straight into each other.
The arena lobby isstill beyond crazy.
Haven’s between us, her hoodie back on and her hair tucked back.
A girl in aHavenHexedhoodie actually gasps when we pass. “No fucking way.”
Haven gives her a little wave, cheeks pink. “Hey!”
The girl’s eyes widen even more when she sees me, then Tate and her mouth drops.“You’re withboth?”
Tate smirks behind his mask. “Got a problem with that?”
She shakes her head too fast. “No! God, no. That’s hot as fuck.” Then she sprints back toward her friends, yelling that she just sawall threeof us.
Haven groans under her breath and yanks her hood farther down. “We need caffeine, now.”
I spot a vendor with a neon sign that saysRespawn Roastand steer us that way. “Stay behind me,” I mutter, tossing Tate a look. “Try not to snarl at anyone.”
“No promises.”
Haven snorts, pressing her hand to my lower back while we wait.
We finally reach the counter, and Tate orders something black. Haven gets a caramel thing that smells like a sugar coma. I ask for a vanilla latte and brace for the judgment.
Tate leans over. “What’s it like being a basic bitchanda simp?”
I take a sip and raise my brows. “You’re literally wearing a mask indoors. You don’t get to judge.”
We drift toward a half-empty bench near the wall, sinking into the cushions just as a few more people drift by with recognition flashing in their eyes. One of them—a tall, bleach-blond guy with a too-tight hoodie and a smug smirk—starts veering our way.
Haven goes still.
My chest tightens. And that’s when Iseehim. Dylan. Of fucking course. He’s walking like he owns the place, like he didn’t just get obliterated by Haven less than an hour ago. And for a second, I think he’s going to pass us without a word.
Then he sees her and changes direction. But before he gets within six feet, Tate’s standing up.
He juststaresand somehow, it’s worse than his saying anything at all.
Dylan freezes like he’s hit an invisible wall, his jaw ticking and eyes bouncing between all three of us. Then he scoffs under his breath and veers off toward the far side of the lobby, disappearing behind a crowd of photographers.
