Page 80 of Next Level Up
I shake my head, still stunned. “That was the first time that’s ever happened.”
“You handled it like a pro.”
“She wanted to pet my face,” Tate mutters behind us.
“She did not.”
“She looked like she wanted to.”
Carter squeezes my hand again. “Proud of you, sweetheart.”
Maybe it’s ridiculous, maybe it was only thirty seconds of fame; but for the first time since the tournament started… I don’t feel small.
Back at the apartment, it takes less than five minutes for the air mattress to cause drama. “I told you to grab the pump,” I mutter, digging through the bag like it’s going to magically produce one now. “You said it had one built in.”
Carter shrugs, unfolding the crinkly plastic mess of beige regret in my living room. “The boxsaidself-inflating.”
Tate holds up the plug. “It’s self-inflating if you’re a wizard, maybe.”
“I am a wizard,” Carter says with faux dignity.
I grab a throw pillow and launch it at his head. He grins, tossing it right back.
Eventually, after enough bickering to count as foreplay, Tate gives in and google solutions while Carter manually blows into the mattress.
It works. Sort of. Enough for the mattress to resemble something halfway between a raft and a sad bean bag. “It’s perfect,” Carter declares, arms spread. “Five stars. Would crash again.”
Tate scoffs and flops down onto it, testing the give with a hand. “You bought a glorified pool float.”
“Yeah, but now we don’t have to rotate bed nights like divorced co-parents,” I chime in, tossing a folded blanket his way.
He catches it midair, stares at me, then at the mattress. He sighs like the weight of the world now rests in this twenty-dollar mistake.
When we’re finally curled up on the couch with leftovers and reruns playing low in the background, something in my chestfinally starts to uncoil. Carter’s head is on my shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around my waist. Tate is on the other side of me, arm slung across the back of the couch, fingers lightly grazing my shoulder every time he shifts.
No one’s talking. Exactly where I want to be. My head tips sideways against Carter’s shoulder. His hand moves automatically to cradle the back of my neck, thumb brushing skin. Tate shifts just enough to tuck the blanket tighter around my legs.
It’s past midnight when I wake up again, the TV long since gone dark. The only light in the room comes from the soft glow of the microwave clock and the moon outside, silver-washing the furniture in quiet.
I don’t move. Carter’s breathing is deep and even, one arm still snug around my waist, his thumb resting against the hem of my hoodie like he forgot to let go even in sleep. Tate’s still on my other side, head tilted back on the cushion, one leg half-draped over mine like he’d gone down fighting the air mattress and gave up here instead.
I stare up at the ceiling, my heart doing that annoying soft thump it only does when I think too long about how good this feels.
And then I feel Tate’s fingers.
They brush against the ends of my hair, slow and absent. The softest graze of his knuckles as they trail down the edge of a curl, then lift again. Again, like a pattern he can’t stop tracing.
I don’t open my eyes fully. “You ever gonna admit how soft you are?” I whisper, barely audible.
He grunts under his breath. “You were twitching.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were,” he insists. “Couldn’t tell if it was a bad dream or a processing loop. So I…” He trails off.
I smile. Let my fingers find his thigh and give it a lazy squeeze. “So you played with my hair until I settled.”
“Shut up.”
