Chapter 30 #3
The round ends and the screen flashes across the arena: “Round complete! Fifteen-minute break before the next match.” A cheer rises around me, a low roar of relief and excitement.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me, shaking off the tension that’s been winding through every nerve for the last hour.
Tate steps away from his area, stretching his shoulders and shaking his hands out. His mask is still in place.
“You survived that one,” he says, walking up next to me,
I snort, brushing a strand of damp hair out of my eyes. “Barely. And you made it look way too easy, as usual.”
From the observation room above the arena, I spot Carter leaning against the railing, his elbows braced, watching everything like a hawk.
The weight of his gaze is both grounding and nerve-wracking.
I wave lightly, and he gives me a small thumbs-up.
“How’s my favorite player holding up?” he calls, voice just loud enough to carry.
I laugh, voice shaky but real. “Still alive. Don’t worry, I’m pacing myself.”
Carter grins as he makes his way towards us.
We step toward the vendor carts along the side of the lobby, Tate keeping his pace close, but not crowding me. I grab a bottle of water, twist the cap, and take a long drink, feeling the cool liquid hit my throat and calm the tremor in my hands.
I glance at the highlighted name of my next opponent. But for these fifteen minutes, the lobby feels like a safe space, suspended between rounds.
I take a deep breath, rolling my shoulders back. “Fifteen minutes,” I say, smiling at both of them. “Let’s make them count.”
Tate tilts his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “Count all you want. Just don’t blink when the next round starts. I won’t go easy.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Carter’s walking on one side of me, his hand wrapped gently around my wrist with Tate on the other side.
“Is that Haven?” a girl near the snack bar whisper-squeals, and suddenly there’s a ripple of attention, like someone just triggered a flashbang in the middle of the room.
A group of guys pass by, one of them slowing just enough to grin at me.
“Hey, you’re insane out there,” he says, all teeth and fake charm.
“If you need a sub for the next round, I got fast hands.”
Before I can respond, Tate cuts the space between us in half, stepping in with a lazy sort of menace that makes the guy blink and backpedal on instinct. “She’s got all the hands she needs.”
The guy stammers something and disappears into the crowd. Carter just mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”
I laugh. “Relax. I’m pretty sure he would’ve fainted if I actually spoke to him.”
But then I feel it—his presence.
I turn and there he is, standing just a few feet away, bracket pass around his neck, his eyes locked on me. His jaw is tight like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.
He starts walking toward me and I barely have time to shift before Tate’s in front of me.
“Keep walking.”
Dylan’s eyes bounce to Carter first then to me. And finally to Tate. His mouth twitches, like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t, he simply turns and walks away muttering something under his breath.
Carter’s hand curls tighter around mine. “You okay?”
I nod and manage to give a small smile. “Better now.”
It’s poetic, really. All the names I’ve gunned down to get here—players I admired, streamers I used to think were untouchable—and now? Now it’s him.
The same piece of shit who used to call me emotional when I missed a shot. The one who thought “constructive feedback” meant telling me to smile more. Who humiliated me over comms mid-match when I outscored him. The one who made me question whether I belonged in this world at all.
He’s standing at spawn on the other side of the map.
My fingers flex on the mouse. My team’s waiting for my cue. The match kicks off and I fly.
Dylan tries to push right. I shut it down before he can blink. He flanks? I bait. He hesitates? I capitalize. Every time he thinks he has me in his sights, I’m behind him, unloading hell and walking away before he can blink.
The crowd is screaming. My chat is scrolling so fast I can’t even read the comments. Dylan takes a cheap shot toward my teammate, and I see red. I sprint across the map, slide into position, and unload a full clip right into his back before he can gloat. Final kill. MY kill.
My headphones are pulled off before I’ve even caught my breath. The stage lights hit like fire, but I don’t care. My screen lights up with a massive Victory.
Carter’s on his feet in the VIP section clapping as hard as he can and Tate’s still in his match but I know he saw.
I beat him, and this time there’s not a single fucking thing he can say about it.
For a second, I don’t move. The screen is still lit up in front of me, the victory banner pulsing with the numbers locked in place.
My hands are still on the mouse and keyboard, fingers curled.
“You’re clear,” someone says behind me, and that’s what finally breaks it.
I pull my headset off slowly, the noise of the arena crashing back in all at once, louder than before, heavier now that I can actually hear it.
I step back from the station, one hand brushing the edge of the desk to ground myself. I glance up toward the spectator screens without thinking.
Carter’s voice cuts through everything a second later. “Haven.”
He’s pushing through the edge of the section. “You—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like there aren’t words for it.
I laugh, breathless, still trying to catch up to myself. “I know.”
He steps closer, and I close the distance, throw my arms around him, and he holds on tight.
“You did it,” he says into my hair.
“I did.”
“You’ve got 20 minutes before next round.” A rep call out. Shit.