Tate:you two done talking shit about me?
Haven:How long have you been lurking?
Tate :long enough to see Carter’s little soul comment, which is rude
Me:I’m being gentle
Tate :gentle would’ve been telling me before I started dry scrubbing the microwave like a psychopath
Me:look on the bright side, the kitchen’s spotless
Tate :fuck both of you
Haven:I’ve gotta run some errands, ttyl
I stare at the screen scrolling back through our texts, looking for a breadcrumb, something sweet or stupid or funny enough to distract me, I land on a photo from a several weeks ago, my first official stream.
God, I was nervous. Sweating through my shirt, fumbling over my overlays, triple-checking every damn wire. Right there in the corner of my screen? Haven. In the chat, blowing it up with hype and stupid inside jokes, calling me “streamtriever” just to mess with me. She donated ten bucks to get me to say “woof” out loud, and then immediately clipped it.
I never told her how much that meant to me, how her being there gave me a reason not to shut the whole thing down midstream. I just smiled like it was no big deal. Played it cool. It was a big deal, still is. I close the image. Lock my phone. Then I push off the couch and head toward the stairs. If anyone’s gonna make sure she’s not walking into this tournament alone,it’s us.
The hallway’s quiet as I head upstairs, my heart banging a little too hard in my chest. Tate’s door is cracked open, and the red glow of his monitors washes out into the hall like it’s waiting for me. I step inside without bothering to knock.
He’s sitting at his desk, half-turned toward the screen, face blank. One leg bouncing, phone in hand. He doesn’t look at it. Just says, “You here to give me a lecture?”
“No,” I say. “I’m here to give you a job.”
His eyes find mine, one brow raised. “Oh?”
I close the door behind me and lean against it. “You should sign up for the tournament.”
He laughs, short and dry. “That’s your solution? Toss me into the ring, feed me to vultures?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“Because thisisserious,” I say. “Haven’s going in alone. Yeah, she’s strong as hell, and yeah, she’ll probably carry the bracket but she shouldn’t have to watch her own six when she’s got two of us.”
Tate stares at me as I push further. “You’re obviously the better player. You’ve got the stats, the hours, the following. The Ghost tag turns heads. You apply, you get in. No question.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Look,” I add, softer now. “I’m not asking you to sweep in and save her. That’s not what she needs.”
Tate’s leg finally stops bouncing and he lets out a deep sigh which tells me he’s actually listening.
“She needs someone close,” I say. “In the bracket. Watching her back even when she pretends she doesn’t need it.” I step forward, rest a hand on the back of his chair.
“She deserves to feel like she’s not walking into another trap. And you?” I squeeze his shoulder. “You owe her that.”
Tate exhales through his nose. The tension drains just enough for me to know I’ve gotten through. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll enter.” He looks back at his screen and the Tournament tab already open. That fucker, of course it is, he’s always one step ahead.
I smile.
He glares. “And if Idoget in?”
“You’re her shadow,” I say. “No one gets past you.”
