Chapter 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.”
“I was proving a point.”
I don’t even know what point he thinks he proved, but I’m pretty sure the only conclusion anyone could draw is that he’s stubborn enough to poison himself out of spite.
I shake my head, walking into the kitchen to grab a trash bag. “Seriously, what did he even do this time?”
“Breathed, he’s a walking chew can with a superiority complex the size of Antarctica”
“You’re literally almost describing yourself.”
Tate spins, pointing the cleaning spray at me like a loaded gun. “I have depth, Carter.”
He does, unfortunately. That’s the problem.
If he were just an asshole, life would be simpler.
But no—he’s layered. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling as I gather the scattered takeout containers and crumpled soda cans, stuffing them into the trash bag.
But as I bend to tie off the bag, the lightness in my chest cracks again because underneath the jokes and the cleaning and the sniping about Hunter, I’m still thinking about last night.
About Haven’s voice, the way it cracked when she said his name. I’ve heard her laugh through a bad game, talk shit through a loss, brush things off like they don’t stick. That wasn’t that, that wasn’t her being fine.
I should wait. I told her I would, that I’d give her time to tell Tate herself. But she won’t, and I know exactly how that conversation would go if she did. But there’s a difference between giving someone space and letting them walk into something alone.
So I stand up, throw the bag to the side, and brace my hands against the counter. “Tate.”
He doesn’t look at me, still wiping the inside of the microwave with grim focus. “What.”
“There’s something you need to know.”
“Is it about how you let your best friend wear my hoodie and then gaslight me about it?”
“No,” I mutter, breath catching. “It’s about Haven.” Everything always shifts when her name comes up. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing, what we’re arguing about—she’s the center of it whether we admit it or not.
He stops moving and turns to look at me. “What about her?”
I swallow, forcing my voice to stay even. “She signed up for the Aim High tournament.”
“The Aim High? You’re serious, since when?”
“Couple weeks ago. She didn’t tell me until last night.”
His arms cross. “Why?”
“Because she needed something that wasn’t… us.”
That visibly stings, but he doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, sharp and tense.
“She got placed on a team. Random bracket.”
“And?”
I hesitate. “Dylan’s on it.”
Tate doesn’t blink. I think maybe he didn’t hear me. “Who’s Dylan..?”
Shit, of course Haven hasn’t opened up to Tate about him yet.
“Her ex.” I say
“She told me once that he used to log into her account just to mess with her overlay settings,” I say, my voice tight. “That he’d mute her mic mid-stream and then blame it on her, he made her feel like she was lucky anyone even watched her.”
Tate’s posture shifts, slightly. Enough for me to notice the guilt to clearly start growing behind his eyes.
“She said he hated when she won. Said it made him feel emasculated, so she started losing on purpose.” I hate saying it out loud. Hate putting those words back into the air like they belong anywhere near her again.
His whole face changes. “She what?” he says finally.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “And you remember what you used to do when you were streaming in her lobbies?”
His jaw clenches. “That… that was different.”
“Was it?”
“I didn’t know,” he bites out, turning away. “I didn’t know he did that to her. I didn’t know she—fuck, Carter.”
His voice breaks a little. For Tate, that’s practically a confession.
“I thought it was just gamer rivalries,” he says. “I thought I was pushing her. Like, playfully. Giving her someone to beat.”
“But she didn’t know that. Not back then. She just knew someone else was fucking with her head while she was trying to survive.”
He runs both hands through his hair, pacing now. “Well, fuck.”
“She forgave you,” I say quietly. “She’s still with you. With both of us. You don’t have to spiral.”
He stops pacing. His eyes cut toward me. “No,” he says. “I have to do something.”
I lift a brow. “Like what?”
He doesn’t answer. But something in his expression says the guilt’s still there, but now it’s wrapped in resolve. In Tate’s world that means shit’s about to get serious.
Once the silence settles and Tate disappears upstairs after a few moments, probably to do something mildly illegal with his keyboard—I sink onto the couch.
No, I need to do something else. I immediately get back up and grab the back door handle and step outside barefoot, letting the chill of the air hit me like a slap to the face.
It’s quiet back here, and a little overgrown. Tate always says the backyard looks like it belongs to a retired old man who gave up on society and started planting tomatoes. I kinda like that about it.
I pace along the edge of the fence, my phone still in my hand, thumb hovering over Haven’s name, heart stuck somewhere between please don’t be mad and please tell me I did the right thing. I don’t like guessing when it comes to her. I don’t like not knowing if I’m helping or making things worse.
The weight of all of this, her, the tournament, Dylan, settles between my shoulder blades like a bruise that hasn’t fully surfaced. I don’t smoke, but damn if I don’t understand why Tate keeps lighters in every drawer.
The wind rattles the loose slat on the side of the fence. I breathe in, I breathe out, then I head back inside and finally send the text.
Me: Just told him haven, don’t be mad, please
I stare at the screen. One minute turns into two, no reply. My stomach knots.
Me: I’m sorry. I know you wanted to, but I couldn’t wait.
Haven: Seriously, Carter? I said I’d take care of it.
I bite my lip.
Me: I know… But I also know Tate. He needed to hear it calm. From someone who wouldn’t trigger a full thermonuclear event
More dots. Then nothing, then more.
Haven: Did he freak out?
Me: Define freak out….?
Haven: Carter…
Me: He didn’t explode. But I did see his soul leave his body for a second. So that’s fun.
Tate: you two done talking shit about me?
Haven: How long have you been lurking?
Tate : long enough to see Carter’s little soul comment, which is rude
Me: I’m being gentle
Tate : gentle would’ve been telling me before I started dry scrubbing the microwave like a psychopath
Me: look on the bright side, the kitchen’s spotless
Tate : fuck both of you
Haven: I’ve gotta run some errands, ttyl
I stare at the screen scrolling back through our texts, looking for a breadcrumb, something sweet or stupid or funny enough to distract me, I land on a photo from a several weeks ago, my first official stream.
God, I was nervous. Sweating through my shirt, fumbling over my overlays, triple-checking every damn wire.
Right there in the corner of my screen? Haven.
In the chat, blowing it up with hype and stupid inside jokes, calling me “streamtriever” just to mess with me.
She donated ten bucks to get me to say “woof” out loud, and then immediately clipped it.
I never told her how much that meant to me, how her being there gave me a reason not to shut the whole thing down midstream.
I just smiled like it was no big deal. Played it cool.
It was a big deal, still is. I close the image.
Lock my phone. Then I push off the couch and head toward the stairs.
If anyone’s gonna make sure she’s not walking into this tournament alone, it’s us.
The hallway’s quiet as I head upstairs, my heart banging a little too hard in my chest. Tate’s door is cracked open, and the red glow of his monitors washes out into the hall like it’s waiting for me. I step inside without bothering to knock.
He’s sitting at his desk, half-turned toward the screen, face blank. One leg bouncing, phone in hand. He doesn’t look at it. Just says, “You here to give me a lecture?”
“No,” I say. “I’m here to give you a job.”
His eyes find mine, one brow raised. “Oh?”
I close the door behind me and lean against it. “You should sign up for the tournament.”
He laughs, short and dry. “That’s your solution? Toss me into the ring, feed me to vultures?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“Because this is serious,” I say. “Haven’s going in alone. Yeah, she’s strong as hell, and yeah, she’ll probably carry the bracket but she shouldn’t have to watch her own six when she’s got two of us.”
Tate stares at me as I push further. “You’re obviously the better player. You’ve got the stats, the hours, the following. The Ghost tag turns heads. You apply, you get in. No question.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Look,” I add, softer now. “I’m not asking you to sweep in and save her. That’s not what she needs.”
Tate’s leg finally stops bouncing and he lets out a deep sigh which tells me he’s actually listening.
“She needs someone close,” I say. “In the bracket. Watching her back even when she pretends she doesn’t need it.” I step forward, rest a hand on the back of his chair.
“She deserves to feel like she’s not walking into another trap. And you?” I squeeze his shoulder. “You owe her that.”
Tate exhales through his nose. The tension drains just enough for me to know I’ve gotten through. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll enter.” He looks back at his screen and the Tournament tab already open. That fucker, of course it is, he’s always one step ahead.
I smile.
He glares. “And if I do get in?”
“You’re her shadow,” I say. “No one gets past you.”
He leans back. “Guess it’s game on, then.”
I leave his room without another word, letting the door click shut behind me. He’ll do it. I know that look in his eyes—half guilt, half warpath. That mix of protectiveness and pride that only Haven can drag out of him.
I pause at the top of the stairs, one hand braced against the railing, and let the silence settle in around me.
It’s strange how still the house feels without her here. We’ve lived in it for over 3 years together, Tate and I, but it hasn’t really felt like a home until recently.
And now our home is walking into a tournament bracket with a guy who broke her down, with a name that still makes her voice go quiet. I told her I’d give her space. I meant it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave her to face it alone.
I head back down into the kitchen, through the back door and onto the porch.
I lean against the railing and breathe. There’s still time.
For training, for plans. For whatever this thing becomes when the bracket starts.
But tonight it’s just the calm before, and I’ll be damned sure Tate and I are ready for Haven.