Chapter 30
Haven
Carter’s been humming along to the playlist I queued for the last ten minutes, and Tate’s muttered “bullshit” at least twice under his breath while scrolling through the tournament forums on his phone.
We’re doing this.
We’re driving seventy-five miles away from the comfort of my apartment, and every minute that passes brings me closer to that stage.
I glance to the passenger seat, where Carter’s sipping from the iced coffee I shoved into his hands before we left. His other hand is wrapped around mine, rubbing tiny strokes of his thumb across my skin.
Tate’s in the back seat, with his leg bouncing and a toothpick between his lips like he’s trying not to light a cigarette in my car. His laptop is closed in the case beside him, but I know his mind’s racing. Calculating match-ups, thinking strategy and probably silently plotting kills.
He twirls his mask in his hand, eventually he lifts it and stares at it. “This thing used to be armor,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Now it feels like a warning label.”
I twist in my seat to look at him. “You mean like, ‘Danger: May cause emotional combustion?’”
His lips twitch. “Something like that angel.”
Before long we pull off the highway because Carter says we should, something about not wanting to risk traffic later, but I barely hear him over the sound of my own thoughts. “Bathroom,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“I’ll come with—” Carter starts.
“I’m good,” I cut him off, softer this time. “Just… two minutes.”
He studies me for a second like he’s deciding whether to push it, then nods. “Grab me something with caffeine if you see it.”
“I already regret giving you the coffee,” I say, but I’m smiling when I shut the door.
Inside the station, everything feels too normal for a day that feels anything but. People moving around like this is just another stop, another errand, another whatever.
By the time I come back out, Carter’s at the pump with one hand braced against the car.
Tate’s leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly like he’s been watching the road this whole time.
His eyes bounce to me the second I step into view. “You take forever.”
“You’re impatient,” I shoot back, handing Carter a drink as I pass him.
He takes it without looking, murmuring, “Thank you.”
I move to the passenger side, but before I open the door, I pause.
“You good?” Tate asks.
I nod, but it takes a second. “Yeah. Just needed a second where it didn’t feel real yet.”
His gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, steady. “Better get used to it.”
I huff out a breath. “Encouraging.”
“It is,” he says, pushing off the car and moving toward the back door. “Because once we get there, it’s not going to stop.”
I slide into my seat, heart kicking a little harder at that. Carter finishes up, gets back in, and the second the engine turns over again, it’s like the pause is over.
We’re moving again, closer.
The city comes into view ahead of us. Towers of metal and glass gleaming in the afternoon haze. Billboards flashing animated ads for the tournament, bright neon letters screaming “REGIONAL FINALS: WHO WILL RISE?”
Carter glances at me. “Nervous?”
I squeeze his hand once. “Yes. But it’s not the bad kind.”
Tate snorts from the back. “Good, stay cocky pretty girl.”
I grin. “Don’t worry. I plan to.”
Traffic thickens fast, cars packed tight in every lane with unbroken lines like no one’s moving unless they’re forced to. There are signs everywhere now—digital boards flashing directions for event parking, attendants in neon vests waving people forward and redirecting.
“Tell me we pre-paid for parking,” I say knowing we didn’t.
Carter shifts in his seat, glancing between his phone and the road. “We talked about it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Tate leans forward from the back with one arm braced against the seat like he’s trying to see past Carter. “Take the next right. That garage is already full.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t,” Tate says flatly. “But look at the line.”
I lean forward, craning my neck, and he’s right. It’s not even a line anymore, it’s a standstill. Cars barely inching forward, people leaning out their windows asking questions that no one has answers to.
My stomach tightens. We don’t have time for this. “Keep going,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to. “There has to be something closer.”
“There is nothing closer,” Carter mutters, but he still follows the flow of traffic, turning where he can, checking signs and scanning every open lot like one of them might magically clear out just for us.
Every garage we pass is either full or backed up so far it might as well be.
“Fuck,” I whisper, pressing my palm to my thigh, trying to keep the energy from tipping into panic. “We’re going to be late.”
“You’re not going to be late,” Carter says immediately. “We left early for a reason.”
Tate’s quieter now, but I can feel him thinking. “Left,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“There’s a side street. Take it.”
Carter doesn’t question it this time as he makes the turn.
The difference is immediate. Less traffic and way fewer people. The noise drops just enough that I can hear my own breathing again.
“There,” Tate says.
A small lot. Half hidden between two buildings just a faded “EVENT PARKING” board and a handful of open spaces.
Carter pulls in fast and we sit there for half a second after the engine cuts, no one moves. Then I laugh, breathless. “Oh my god.”
“Told you,” Tate mutters, reaching for the door.
Carter exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “I’m never risking that again.”
I grab my bag, still riding the leftover adrenaline. Carter steps out first, glancing up at the street sign, then over at the building on the corner. He pauses.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” I ask, pushing the door open.
He points across the street barely a block down, the hotel sign glows back at us, clear as day, right where we needed it the whole time.
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “I’m counting this as a win.”
“It is a win,” Tate says, stepping up beside me, his hand brushing briefly against my lower back as we start walking. “Closest parking you’re getting in this city.”
Just a short walk down the block, the noise from the main street fading a little with every step.
Carter moves ahead to the door, holding it open for us, still shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe it worked out.
“Next time,” he says, glancing back at us, “we check the block before panicking.”
“Or,” Tate counters, stepping inside, “we panic faster and get luckier.”
I laugh under my breath as we follow them in.
The hotel lobby is packed, but not in the same chaotic way as outside. Everyone here has somewhere to be, something to do, a reason they’re standing in line with gear bags at their feet and phones pressed to their ears.
Players.
Carter walks up to the front desk to check us in while I stand just off to the side, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder, taking it all in. Different team hoodies, different energy. Some people are loud, hyping themselves up. Others are quiet, locked in. I wonder which one I look like.
“Reservation for Carter Hart,” he says at the desk.
The woman behind the counter types something, glances up, then back down. “You’re here for the tournament?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her expression shifts. “Good luck today.”
“Thank you,” he says, and I can hear it in his voice that he means it for me.
Tate’s standing a few feet behind us, leaning against one of the columns with arms crossed, watching everything without looking like he is.
People glance at him, then glance away just as fast. The mask helps.
So does the way he holds himself like he doesn’t belong to anything but still owns the space anyway.
“Two beds?” Carter asks, turning slightly toward me.
I shrug. “I don’t care. I’m not sleeping.”
The key cards slide across the counter. Carter grabs them, turns back to me, and presses one into my hand. Tate pushes off the column and walks over, grabbing the second key without asking.
The elevator is half full when we step inside.
Gear bags, lanyards, clipped badges. No one says it out loud, but it’s obvious why we’re all here. You can feel it in the way everyone avoids eye contact just a little too hard, like acknowledging each other might turn this into something real before we’re ready.
Carter presses the button for our floor, then shifts closer to me. The doors close and we start moving. For a few seconds, it’s fine. Then it isn’t, the elevator jerks. Not hard and not enough to panic anyone else.
My stomach drops, breath catching before I can stop it, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag like I need something solid to hold onto. No one reacts, except Tate.
“Relax,” he says, low enough that only I hear it, not even looking at me. “It’s not dropping.”
“I know,” I whisper, even though my body hasn’t caught up to that yet.
The elevator slows, then stops again between floors, the soft mechanical hum filling the silence in a way that makes it worse.
“Of course,” Carter mutters under his breath, like he’s trying to keep it light. “Out of everything today, this is what takes us out.”
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.
Tate shifts slightly behind me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel him there, steady, unbothered. “You’re fine Haven.”
The elevator lurches once more, then starts moving again like nothing happened.
Conversation starts back up around us. I don’t move again until the doors open on our floor.
Carter glances at me as we step out. “Still with us?”
“Barely,” I admit, adjusting my grip on my bag.
Tate exhales through his nose behind me. “If that rattled you, wait until bracket finals.”
I glance over my shoulder at him. “You’re in a different bracket. Worry about your own collapse.”
His mouth twitches. “Not happening.”