Chapter 30 #2
We step into the room, letting the door swing shut behind us. Carter drops his bag on the floor with a soft thump, while I fling mine onto the bed, still laughing from the elevator scare. Tate immediately heads for the mini fridge, yanking it open and inspecting the contents.
“Energy drinks, water, soda… okay, this’ll do,” he mutters, tossing a can to each of us. I pop mine open, the hiss of carbonation loud in the quiet room. Carter grabs a bottle of water, twisting the cap back on after a sip.
I lean against the bed, letting the adrenaline slide out of my shoulders. “We should probably start heading there,” I say reluctantly, glancing at the clock. “Arena doesn’t wait for us to finish raiding hotel snacks.”
Tate shrugs, cracking open his drink. “Fine. But I’m taking leftovers for later.” He winks at me, and I roll my eyes.
We fall into step, moving quickly making it down to the lobby.
The closer we get, the louder it becomes. Footsteps echo, banners sway in the breeze from open doors, and the distant bass of soundchecks vibrates through the pavement. Carter falls into the lead, turning once to check on us.
“Ready?” he asks, almost teasing.
“Yeah,” I say, gripping my bag tighter, excitement and nerves threading together. Tate smirks behind me, silent, but I can feel the energy rolling off him.
The closer we get to the arena, the louder it becomes.
It spills out into the streets, wraps around the building, fills every open space with people who showed up early just to be part of it.
Fans pressed against barricades and staff directing lines.
Someone’s live streaming from the sidewalk, shouting into their phone about predictions and upsets like the whole world is watching.
Carter stays close on my left with one hand steady at my back, guiding without pushing. Tate’s on my right, a step behind, eyes scanning everything like he’s decided who’s worth paying attention to and who isn’t.
“Stay with me,” Carter says under his breath.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I answer, but I still shift closer.
“Yo—Haven!” someone shouts.
My head snaps up. A group of fans just beyond the barricade, phones out, faces lit up like they can’t believe I’m actually here. “Holy shit, it’s her—”
“Can we get a picture?”
“Say hi to stream!”
I hesitate for half a second before I step closer, a smile breaking through before I can stop it. “Hey,” I say, lifting a hand.
“You’re going to win,” one of them says, like it’s not even a question.
I swallow. “I’m going to try.”
“That’s all we need!” another one calls.
Tate shifts beside me, not interrupting but I feel the way his presence tightens the space, keeps it controlled.
“Alright,” Carter says gently after a moment. “We’ve got to get you guys inside.”
“Good luck!” they shout as we move past.
The doors to the arena open. Controlled chaos inside a space built to hold it. Lights cut across the massive interior, screens running highlights, names flashing and the brackets updating in real time.
People everywhere, players checking in and dozens of teams huddled together. Staff moving fast with clipboards and headsets.
I stop for half a second, just inside the entrance before I adjust the strap of my purse, and step forward.
Jokes on me, backstage isn’t quieter.
The chaos from the main floor is still there, but it’s contained.
Players move with purpose, some pacing in small circles, others sitting with their heads down, hands moving like they’re already mid-match.
Staff weave through the space with clipboards and headsets, calling names, checking badges, keeping everything on track like one wrong move could throw the entire schedule off.
“You’re up in five,” someone says as we pass, not even looking at me, just reading off a list.
Five minutes.
Carter leans in slightly. “You want me here or out front?”
“Here,” I answer immediately, then soften it. “For now.”
“Done.”
Tate’s a few steps ahead, talking briefly with one of the coordinators, his tone clipped, focused in a way that tells me he’s already switched over completely to game mode.
They gesture toward the opposite side of the staging area. Different bracket, of course.
He glances back once, just enough to find me in the crowd, and holds my gaze for half a second. Then he turns and walks the other way.
“Hey.”
I look up. A girl with neon hair—CherryPlz, if I remember right—gives me a quick nod from across the room. “You’re Haven, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Been watching your runs,” she says, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off nerves. “You’re fast.”
I smile, just a little. “So are you.”
She grins, then looks away, back in her own head.
“Stations are ready!” someone calls.
Carter squeezes my shoulder once. “You’ve got this.”
I take a breath, then step forward. The moment I slip on my headset and settle into my station, the rest of the world ceases to exist.
The lights, gone. The sound of the arena crowd, muted.
Even the internal screaming that’s been living rent-free in the back of my brain since I signed up for this damn tournament? Vanished.
All that’s left is the glow of the monitor and the cool press of my fingers on the keys.
The gaming arena is a monster. Bigger than I pictured.
Built like a concert stage swallowed a spaceship.
Tiered LED panels climb behind us in dizzying lines of light, each one pulsing in sync with the bass of the announcer’s voice.
Overhead, a sea of rigged camera arms hang like mechanical spiders, swinging to follow every flick of the wrist, every play, every expression.
The crowd is a living thing. Hundreds of bodies packed into a space that was clearly designed for maximum chaos. Rows of glowing foam sticks, and creams that rise and fall in waves. Flashing signs—some digital, some hand-painted—declaring favorite teams, usernames, ships.
My station is dead center on the right bracket wing, the word HavenHexed emblazoned on the plexiglass divider behind me in high-gloss lettering that flickers with rainbow static whenever my profile pops up on the main screen.
The setup is immaculate, a full RGB tower glowing beneath the desk, gold-accented headset hooked into the armrest, custom keyboard synced to my stream theme.
There’s even a discreet little bottle of branded iced water beside the mousepad. Twitch Premium doesn’t play.
Tate’s across the stage from me in the opposing bracket wing, shadowed in crimson lighting like he was summoned straight from hell.
His name, NOONEGHOST smolders across the divider behind him in deep red, the ‘O’ glitching every few seconds like the feed’s about to drop.
He hasn’t moved since the moment we logged in.
Just hands on keys, his jaw set and yes hidden behind the lower edge of his mask, but I feel them. I feel him.
And of course center row, leftmost station is Dylan.
His sleeves rolled up, custom mouse perched between his fingers, his signature black-and-white logo stitched onto the collar of his hoodie.
His bracket placement was controversial as hell—skipped rounds, shady alliances—but he’s here.
Right where he wanted to be. Sitting three stations down from me like we aren’t in the same history book, like he doesn’t know exactly how I play.
He keeps glancing over, like waiting for me to crack.
He’s going to be disappointed. Around us, the rest of the finalists are settling in.
To my left, the neon-haired streamer is flexing her wrists, bouncing in her seat to whatever beat is blasting through her earbuds.
She’s got stickers all over her monitor frame, unicorns, flames, pastel knives.
To my right, BoilerX is cracking his knuckles, big and burly with a headset that looks like it was made for military ops, not gaming.
He’s the type to main heavy loadout and rush choke points.
The arena lights shift again. A massive projection screen unfurls overhead. One half shows the bracket tree in slick animated gold. The other half shows our cams. The countdown appears center screen.
5.
4.
3.
I grip the mouse tighter.
2.
1.
This is the part I know how to do. Click, breathe, move, react.
Each round flies by faster than the last. My team’s tight, coordinated. We’ve got strategy and timing on lock. They trust me to lead, and I don’t hesitate —shot-calling when it counts, backing off when necessary.
I know Tate is doing the same. Even without looking, I can feel the heat of his gameplay.
I don’t have time to check my phone, but I catch a glimpse of Tate’s stream on the spectator monitors overhead.
He’s just scored a kill so clean the crowd literally gasps.
His masked face is lit by the screen. The clip replays.
Someone in the arena blurts, “Ghost looks like he’s hunting for someone. ”
I smile. Yeah, me too.
My breath comes in short bursts, fingers flying across the keys. I glance once at the screen showing the global bracket results and see it NoOneGhost sitting just one spot beneath mine.
The two of us have always chased each other—through lobbies, through trash talk, through tension and teasing and whatever the hell we’ve become now.
And we’re not done yet.
My kill-death ratio is climbing fast. My chat is chaos, full of CAPS LOCK praise and people asking if I’m going to stream from the stage finals. One person literally types “BITE ME, HAVEN. YOU’RE TOO GOOD.”
I snort. I don’t have time to reply before the next round loads. I settle back in and keep climbing.
The air in the arena lobby is thick with the kind of atmosphere that vibrates against your skin.
The giant glowing bracket on the wall tracks wins and eliminations, and every time someone updates the screen, a ripple of cheers or groans rolls through the space.