Page 10 of High Hopes

Coach grunts. “Well, next time you’re chatting with the man who signs my checks and a room full of donors, keep your looselips in check.” He claps me on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “You made me look bad, Donovan.”

There’s that disappointment again. Somehow, I manage to make grown men look bad without even trying. A real feat for a college kid barely scraping by.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck again.

He laughs gruffly. “Just keep it on the field, alright? You’ve got too much talent to be talking yourself into trouble.”

“Got it.” Lips sealed, for now.

It’s not like I even enjoy talking that much. I don’t particularly love the sound of my own voice or the attention it can draw. But sometimes, it’s like my thoughts spill out before I have a chance to lock them down.

I just say what’s on my mind, no filter, no second-guessing, and it’s hard for me to understand how other people can hold it all in. Must be exhausting keeping every stray thought caged up inside.

It’s a constant battle, I think. A pointless fight I’m designed to lose.

It’s a week later,and I’m sprawled out on the grass of the practice field, the first crisp night of October finally cooling things down. My shirt clings to me, drenched in sweat, but I don’t care.

I like being alone out here. When I’m practicing by myself, pushing harder than I need to, everything feels predictable. Outcomes are controlled. Effort and results are balanced. It makes group practice easier—shutting off my brain, not thinking about the thousands of overlapping sensations or the act of playing itself, but just doing it.

I stare up at the sky, dotted with stars, and let the light breeze wrap around me. The faint glitter of light against the black makes me feel like maybe things aren’t as overwhelming as they sometimes seem.

Then there’s a clatter, sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence.

I sit up, my muscles groaning in protest, and glance toward the arts building. Someone’s standing outside, their figure just barely visible under a single flickering light.

I push myself up, curiosity tugging at me, and jog over.

“Shit, shit, shit,” the girl mutters under her breath.

She’s crouched down, picking up the shattered remains of what looks like a clay pot. Soft brown hair, two beaded pearl clips. A frazzled but determined demeanor.

It’s Birdie Collins, of course. She’s kneeling in the dirt, her hands trembling slightly as she tries to gather the broken pieces.

Without thinking much of it, I drop to my knees beside her. “Need a hand?”

Her focus stays locked on the scattered shards as she mutters, “It’s fine, really. This piece was crap anyway.” Her hands move quickly, sweeping up the fragments like she’s trying to erase the evidence before anyone notices—like she can make it disappear if she moves fast enough.

But then her eyes flicker up, and they lock on mine. Her expression shifts, the smallest flicker of recognition crossing her face. For a split second, I can see the wheels turning in her head before she deadpans, “Liam Donovan. What are you doing here?”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re full naming now?”

She snorts, brushing her hands off on her jeans before sitting back on her heels. “You”—she wags a finger in my face—“you let me say all those things. Ran off and didn’t even bother telling me who your dad was.”

I shrug, leaning back slightly. “Neither did you.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a glint of something—maybe amusement, maybe something else—before she shakes her head, dropping her gaze back to the mess at our feet. “Touché.”

I wince. “You could probably ... glue it back together? What’s that thing where you put the gold shit in the cracks?”

I know about this technique—Dad used to go on about it during one of his metaphor-heavy talks. ‘It’s about embracing the flaws, making something even more valuable than it was before.’

“Kintsugi, and it’s urushi lacquer.” She keeps her focus on the broken pot for a second before letting out a long breath. “It’s fine. I didn’t like this one that much.”

I watch her for a moment. “Yeah? Looked pretty solid to me. You sure you didn’t just lose your temper and take it out on this poor, unsuspecting pot?”

She laughs under her breath and gives me a sidelong glance. “I never lose my temper.”

“No?”

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