Chapter 4
Tate
The tournament site is ugly. Whoever designed it should be punched. Twice.
I scroll past the glitchy-ass banner at the top and ignore the auto-play trailer that nearly blows out my speakers. None of that matters, all I care about is the bracket list and the sign up button that’s been mocking me since Carter dropped this plan on me yesterday.
He didn’t have to sell it that hard-the second I saw Dylan’s name next to hers, my blood lit up like someone poured gasoline into my veins and handed me a lighter.
I click into the roster again. Her handle sits right there, clean and sharp and exactly where it belongs. Then right under it, D7LAN. Like a fucking parasite that doesn’t know when to die.
Fucking hell, it wasn’t always like this. There was a time—months back—when I thought fucking with her was harmless. Just game-night antics, fucking chaos for chaos’ sake.
I remember the match. Solo queue, random fill. She called a flank and cleared a whole squad with nothing but a pistol and attitude. The comms lit up with laughter. Someone called her cracked. I just listened, sat in my corner of the map, and waited for the right moment.
Then I killed her.
Clean shot, right to the dome and when her mic cut in with a soft, breathy “seriously?”—I clipped it.
Laughed, posted it with a “GG, pretty girl” caption, and watched the views climb.
Her voice called to me, the way it went sharp when she was frustrated and sweet when she thought nobody was listening. I didn’t know she was barely holding it together off-cam. That the guy she shared a clan tag with was fucking her head sideways while I made her my personal highlight reel.
I didn’t know, but I do now. I can’t unknow it, can’t unsee the way she second-guesses herself mid-call. The way her voice dips when she thinks she messed up.
And the thought of Dylan thinking he can look at her without paying for every second he made her feel small?
Like she’s just some “girl player” with decent stats and a hot voice. I crack my knuckles and lean in. Let him underestimate her, I fucking dare him. I want him to walk in thinking she’s still that version of herself. Makes it easier when I rip that illusion out from under him.
The sign up screen flashes. I don’t even think before entering the info.
Gamer tag, history, stream ID, rank certification.
Masked competitor clause, checked. They’ll approve it.
They always do. I’m still Ghost, even if I’ve been silent for awhile.
Even if I spent the last few months pretending I didn’t miss the rush.
The chaos, kill streaks, the fucking control.
Footsteps on the stairs and I minimize the page out of instinct because Carter’s annoying when he’s smug. A soft knock hits the door followed by the creak of it opening without me answering.
“Dude,” I spin my chair to face him. “You ever going to learn about privacy?”
He leans against the doorframe with a granola bar in his hand. “Just checking in. Thought you might’ve burned down your desk by now.”
“Not yet,” I say, spinning my chair back around to my pc. “But give me time.”
He steps inside, eyeing my screen. “Tournament application?”
“Submitted.”
He whistles. “That was fast.”
“What can I say, rage is usually an effective motivator.”
He walks closer, squinting at the monitor. “You list your tag as Ghost?”
I nod.
“And they’ll know it’s you?”
“Oh, they’ll fucking know.”
He gives a low laugh and taps the desk. “I still think this is a good call.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
“I know.”
I meet his eyes, trying to keep the loudest thought inside. It doesn’t work. “She’s mine to ruin,” I say, mouth twitching. “Not his.”
Carter rolls his eyes. “That’s healthy.”
I smirk. “Fuck off.” He should realize I’ve already gone too far to pretend this is anything close to normal.
He turns to leave, but stops halfway out the door. “She’s gonna lose her shit when she sees your name in the tournament.”
“Good.” I want her to react, doesn’t matter how. Anger, shock, that sharp little desperate bite in her voice when she’s pissed. I just want to be the reason for it.
Then he’s gone, and I’m left with a glowing confirmation screen. By the time I go live, my inbox already has three messages from mods asking if the rumors are true. I ignore all of them, let them sweat. The second my stream boots up, the chat pops off like I flipped a detonator.
[Chat Log:]
mod_goblin: HE’S BACK HE’S BACK
Ec_hoe3: someone go check on haven
fps4life: is the mask making a return or do we get your face this time?
ghostsimp696: daddy?
I snort, dragging my headset into place and rolling my shoulders. “Relax,” I chuckle. “You’re not special enough to get a face reveal.”
They eat it up.
I boot into a solo queue, just for warm-up and lean back while the map loads.
My kill count’s still solid. My hand-eye is a little slower, but nothing I can’t work off by the end of the week.
I let my voice drop, more casual. “Gonna be a big season,” I pause.
“Thinking about applying for the Aim High tourney.”
[Chat Log:]
Neoncherry: brO STOP
queensquish: HES COMING BACK???
Rubydaberry: ghost comp era again?
milkdrinker69: I am feral rn
“Not official,” I add with a smirk. “Yet.” I mute the mic for a second so they don’t hear me laugh.
They think this is about rankings, about legacy.
But it’s not, it’s about her. It’s always about her.
Has been longer than I’d ever admit out loud.
Even when I tried to ignore it, when I told myself it would pass.
About watching the way she moved in that last game.
The sound she made when we cleared that final team.
The fact that her name is next to his. I’ll be damned if I let him share the same pixels as her unchecked.
I finish the round, top of the board, no surprise—then lean back in my chair and glance at my empty drink stash. I pull off my headset and push the mic away before yelling, “Hey, Carter!” No answer. “CAR-TER.”
His voice carrying from downstairs. “What?!”
“You wanna go grab some drinks?”
“Can’t. My soul left my body after the third match last night.”
“Your soul’s lazy.”
“No argument, but I still don’t want to.”
I sigh. “Fine,” I mutter, grabbing my keys. “But if I die on the road, I’m haunting you.”
Carter yells back, “I’ll put your ghost tag on my stream and pretend it’s a collab!”
Smartass. I tug on a hoodie and head out the door.
Gas station. Energy drinks. Maybe a plan or two.
Let’s see what kind of trouble I can stir up on the drive.
Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d never put the mask on.
If she’d met me first, no ghost tag, no twisted stream history.
If I’d been exactly like Carter. Would she still have looked at me the same way?
Would I still be in her bed? Would I even be on her fucking radar?
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, it doesn’t matter, I’ve got her now and I’ll burn every version of myself to keep it that way.
The gas station is bleak, fluorescent lights, sticky floors. I grab three cans of red bull and a pack of gum I won’t chew. The cashier barely looks up. I’m in and out in less than five minutes, and by the time I pull back into our driveway, the sun’s starting to set low behind the trees.
When I walk inside, something smells good. Suspicious. I kick off my shoes and glance toward the kitchen.
Carter’s at the stove, stirring something that looks like real-ass food.
He looks up when I enter, flashing that dumb grin. “Figured I’d cook. Since you risked your life for the sacred elixirs.”
I hold up the drinks. “The cashier didn’t even look at me.”
“Tragic,” he says, ladling sauce onto two plates like he’s hosting a dinner party and not just feeding his semi-feral twin. “Sit down. Eat.”
I do. For a few minutes, it’s easy. We eat, bullshit about old game clips, make fun of the streamers who peak too hard and burn out in six months.
He shows me a video of someone trying to do a back flip off their gaming chair.
It ends exactly how you’d expect. We laugh. We exist. It’s weird. Nice, but weird.
Carter eventually glances at the time, stands, and starts cleaning up his plate. “Gonna go video chat with Haven,” he says casually. “We’re watching something together tonight.”
I nod, not looking up. “Cool.”
He hesitates at the edge of the kitchen like he’s waiting for me to protest. I don’t, that’s their thing. The soft shit, shared playlists and parallel movies over video chat. They’ve been doing that since before I was even in the picture.
“Tell her I said hi,” I add, licking pasta sauce off my thumb.
Carter chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Once he disappears upstairs, I do the same.
Heading straight for my desk, I open a private browser tab and load her VOD archive.
I’ve seen most of them already, some I’ve watched more than a dozen times.
I don’t watch for her game play. I watch for the way she looks when she’s focused, when she’s frustrated.
When she forgets anyone’s watching and her voice goes soft as a whisper and she chews her lip and fidgets with her mic cord.
It’s sick. I know. I could stop. Close the tab.
Go do literally anything fucking else. But fuck, she’s beautiful when she’s in the zone.
I grab my phone, lean back in my chair, and stare at the last message in our group chat.
My thumb hovers over her contact for a second. Then I switch to private.
Me: try not to moan too loud during your movie night unless it’s for me
I pause. Add one more.
Me: sweet dreams, pretty girl, next time you fall asleep I’ll be the one in your head
I shouldn’t poke at her like this, or blur the lines when I already know how bad I am at staying on the right side of them.
…but I want to see how far she’ll let me go.
I set the phone down, but I don’t go to bed right away. I pull out the soft cloth from my drawer and start wiping down the red mask, out of habit, ritual even. I keep my gear pristine.
If my hands are busy, my brain doesn’t spiral. If I’m cleaning my mask, I’m not picturing Dylan breathing down Haven’s neck in voice comms or sliding snide remarks into her match chat. If I keep the surface perfect, I don’t have to think about the parts of me that aren’t.
I set the mask back down gently and crack open redbull while opening up docs on my laptop.
I don’t write much anymore, but the other night I opened a blank doc and typed only three words.
She undoes me. That’s it; that’s the whole entry.
I don’t know how to say I’ve loved her voice since before I knew her name.
I’ve hated every guy who made her doubt herself. I don’t know who I am when I’m not losing my mind over her. If this tournament is what it takes to prove I can still hold the line, then I’m about to burn the whole fucking bracket down to do it.