Page 104 of High Hopes

Birdie nods. “Well, you look wonderful tonight.”

My mom raises a perfectly arched brow. “Thank you, Bridget. You look ... nice as well.” Her gaze sweeps briefly over Birdie’s dress, lingering just long enough to make the compliment feel pointed, like an afterthought carefully disguised as civility.

My dad, meanwhile, seems focused on Amir’s mom, leaning slightly toward her as he murmurs something I can’t hear. It’s a classic David move: making polite small talk with the peoplewho matter to him professionally while the rest of us might as well be furniture.

Birdie tries again, her gaze shifting to my dad. “Mr. Donovan, I wanted to say thank you for introducing me to Claire Mahler. She’s been so kind and supportive.”

My dad glances at her briefly. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

“Yes, I’m really excited,” Birdie continues. “Did Liam mention I’ll be interning with her starting in May?”

My dad gives a tight nod, his gaze flickering briefly to the bread basket before shifting back to Amir’s mom. He offers no follow-up, no acknowledgment of her excitement. Doesn’t inquire about her work or even feign polite interest. Just moves on like she didn’t say anything at all.

I bristle, my jaw tightening as I glance between them. “Did you hear my girlfriend?”

My dad’s brows draw together. “Of course I heard her,” he says dismissively. “And I responded.”

“No, you brushed her off,” I counter. “She’s trying to make conversation with you guys, and you can’t even pretend to care for five seconds?”

“Liam,” my mom interjects lightly. “Quit being a bug.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Birdie says calmly. She places a hand on my arm and taps it twice. “Really, Liam. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not to me. I want her to feel comfortable around them, even if I’m not. You’d think they’d be excited—proud, even—that I’ve finally found someone I love. Someone incredible, who has more in common with my dad than most people.

If it were just me they were dismissing, I’d let it go, like I always do. I’ve learned to let their passive disapproval slide off my back, a habit born out of years of necessity. But when it comes to Birdie? I can’t stand the thought of them brushing heraside, of their indifference or subtle digs chipping away at her confidence.

She deserves better—better than this, better than them.

It’s probably a good thing, I guess, that Coach Harris steps up to the microphone before I can say something I might regret. “Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here tonight to celebrate another successful season,” he says, his voice steady and commanding.

The room quiets, all eyes shifting toward the podium, and I force myself to inhale deeply. The simmering anger in my chest doesn’t vanish, but it dulls just enough for me to keep it in check. Birdie’s hand stays on my arm, her fingers moving in slow, soothing patterns against the fabric of my sleeve.

I glance at her, and she offers me a soft, understanding smile. It’s enough to remind me why I’m here—and why making a scene, as satisfying as it might feel, wouldn’t be worth it. For now, I let it go.

Coach launches into a speech about the team’s achievements this year, highlighting key moments and players. My name comes up a couple of times, but I barely hear it, too distracted by the simmering tension I’m trying to tamp down. The noise of clapping and laughter blends into a dull hum, my focus scattered like leaves in the wind.

When the awards are announced, I zone out completely, nodding absently at the names and clapping along with everyone else. It’s not until Birdie squeezes my leg under the table—her nails digging just enough to snap me out of my head—that I realize something’s happening.

“Liam,” she whispers, her voice urgent but still low enough not to draw attention. “They just called your name.”

“What?” I blink, looking toward the stage. Sure enough, Coach is standing there, holding up a plaque with my name etched into it. The room erupts in applause, and the weightof every pair of eyes in the room presses down on me like a spotlight I didn’t ask for.

Birdie grins at me, her face glowing with a mix of pride and amusement. “Go,” she says, giving me a nudge. “It’s the Scholar-Athlete Award.”

I stand, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, and make my way to the front of the room. Coach claps me on the shoulder as he hands me the plaque.

“This young man exemplifies what it means to be a student-athlete. Not only has he been a force to reckon with on the field, leading the team in assists this season and being a relentless presence on the wing, but he’s also demonstrated remarkable commitment to his studies, balancing the rigorous demands of civil engineering with his dedication to the sport.”

There’s a smattering of applause, and I glance back toward our table. Birdie is beaming, her hands clasped together, pride radiating from across the room. It feels good—grounding, even—to have her here for this moment, her confidence in me making it feel a little less daunting.

“But it’s not just stats and academics,” Coach continues. “Liam is the kind of guy you want in your corner. He’s dependable, hardworking, and always willing to put in the extra effort for the good of the team.”

The applause grows louder, and I shift awkwardly, my grip tightening on the plaque. Compliments are great and all, but standing here in front of everyone is overwhelming.

“And,” Coach adds with a grin, “he’s also the only player I’ve ever seen trip over the ball, recover, and still manage to make an assist.”

Laughter ripples through the room, and I duck my head, a smile tugging at my lips. Okay, that one was fair.

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