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.”