Page 99 of Next Level Up
Twenty minutes later I’m halfway under my desk, arm stretched awkwardly behind my PC tower trying to swap out a cable that decided now was the perfect time to fray, when Tate crouches beside me with a new USB. “Wrong port,” he mutters, nudging my elbow to the left. “That one’s power only.”
I grunt. “You’re just making this up.”
“I’m literally not. Your cable management is offensive.”
“Your face is offensive.”
He huffs a low breath, which might be a laugh, and hands me the right cord. “You know you’re not just here because of luck, right?”
I pause. Still half upside-down, one leg awkwardly splayed under the chair. “What?”
“You earned it.” His tone is weirdly even. “All of it. The bracket spot. The stream numbers. Every kill you landed. That wasn’t some random dice roll.”
I blink at him, stunned into silence.
He shrugs. “Even if it was, luck’s part of the game. And you play it better than anyone, even me pretty girl.”
I stare at him for a moment too long. He looks away immediately, like he’s allergic to eye contact. Or feelings. Or both.
“Okay,” he says, standing. “That’s enough character development for one day. You smell like HDMI dust.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, climbing out after him. “Such a soft boy.”
“Say that again and I’ll rewire your headset backwards.”
I roll my eyes, but under the rush of adrenaline, the chaos of finals looming, and the weight of everything riding on this next match I feel it. Grounded, because Tate Hart might be a walking red flag with a god complex and an insult quota—but he believes in me.
An hour later, my whole setup’s transformed.
New mic arm, the new headset Carter bought me, two stacked curved monitors with built-in light filters, and a mechanical keyboard so clicky it sounds like pure joy. There’s even a footrest.
Tate adjusts the mic stand one more time while Carter plugs in the final cable and flashes me a smile that could burn through every one of my doubts. “It’s yours, baby,” he says softly. “All you have to do now is use it.”
I look between them, Tate leaning on the desk in his ridiculous ripped jeans and combat boots, and Carter still barefoot in flannel pajama pants, yawning.
I feel okay, I might even be ready.
I’m curled up on the couch, sipping one of the obnoxiouslybright energy drinks Tate swears by, when Carter sits down across from me with that specific kind of expression on his face.
The one that meansI’m about to do something stupid, and I need you to love me through it.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He bites back a grin and holds up his phone. “So… I may have made a Twitter account.”
“You didn’t already have one?”
“I mean, I had one. Technically. I just didn’t use it. But now…” He pulls up the screen. “It’s time.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
He types something in furiously, and I lean forward, squinting to read over his shoulder. The bio alone is a disaster. @Carter_Hart: golden retriever. professional simp. only streams when she makes me.
“You can’t be serious,” I say, laughing.
Carter beams. “Oh, I’m very serious.”
