Page 5 of Next Level Up
I press my hand to my chest, trying to slow my breathing. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even think I’d get in. It was random team selection and… and I was just trying to focus on something else. Something that didn’t feel like the rest of my life is caving in.”
Carter doesn’t respond right away. I hate the silence more than I expected.
“I’m sorry,” I add, hating the way the words feel in my throat. “I know I should’ve told you sooner.”
“No,” he says finally, voice almost rough. “Don’t apologize. I’m not mad at you.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m madforyou.” He exhales, and the sound is heartbreakingly ragged. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that asshole ever again, let alone play on his team.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can handle him.”
“That’s not the point baby.” Another pause.“Does Tate know?”
“No.” Yeah… that’s going to be a whole thing. A big, loud, chaotic thing.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“I will,” I say. “I just… needed to tell you first.”
His breath stutters. “Why?” he asks.
Because I know you’d understand. Because you were the one I cried to when it all fell apart. Because you’re the one who stayed on the call after I muted myself. Because you’re the one who said I deserved better when I didn’t believe it. That’s what I wanted to say, but all I can whisper out is “because you were there.”
I hear Carter shift and clear his throat before he speaks.
“Yeah. I was, and still am Haven. That’s not going to change for anything.”
Neither of us say anything for a long moment. The silence stretches but doesn’t break. It just builds with all the things we’re both too tired to say out loud. “You still want to play?” Carter asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll figure it out.”
My throat tightens. “We?” We. Okay… yeah. That helps, at least one of us is thinking clearly.
He exhales like he’s smiling. “You didn’t think me and Tate are gonna let you face him alone, did you?”
2
Carter
The second Hunter’s car pulls out of the driveway, I lock the door behind him.
I swear I love the guy. I do, but there’s only so many passive-aggressive thinly veiled comments about Tate a person can sit through before it starts to feel like I’m hosting a very weird, very tense reality show no one signed up for. Especially when he’s been camped on our couch all morning, treating the living room like his personal lounge. Tate on the the hand didn’t veil anything. Subtlety and Tate have never even been in the same zip code, let alone the same room.
He’s still muttering to himself in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors a little louder than necessary, wiping down the counters with the kind of aggressive precision you only develop after years of hating someone on principle.
“You know he’s not the anti-Christ, right?” I offer, leaning in the doorway.
Tate glares. “Debatable.”
I snort. “He brought you redbull.”
“Poisoned redbull.”
I lift a brow. “You drank two.”
