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.