Page 110 of High Hopes

LIAM

It’s cold in Chicago,the kind of chill that creeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. The snow hasn’t started falling yet, but the weather app says it’ll hit by midnight.

Birdie walks beside me, her gloved hand tucked into the crook of my elbow as we make our way through the streets. The city’s all decked out for the holidays—twinkling lights in every window, wreaths on lampposts, and the faint sound of a street musician playing “Jingle Bells” on a saxophone somewhere in the distance.

She nudges me with her shoulder. “Stop looking like you’re about to storm the field. We’re going to a gallery, not a game.”

“I’m not,” I protest. “I’m just . . . taking it all in. Did you know that Chicago dyed the river green for St. Patrick’s Day so many times they had to check if it was killing fish?”

Her smile grows, and she squeezes my arm. “Yes, I did know that. And no, it didn’t, Mr. Fun Facts.”

I lightly slap her ass, and she gasps, her eyes narrowing in mock outrage before breaking into a soft laugh. By the time we arrive at the gallery, she’s giving me side-eyes that are equal parts amused and exasperated.

The one she picked is tucked into a quiet street, all minimalist lines and big windows. Inside, the warm glow of recessed lighting highlights an array of ceramics—everything from impossibly delicate teacups to bold, abstract sculptures that look like they belong in a history museum.

Birdie’s face lights up the second we step inside, and I swear, watching her take in the space is better than the art itself.

“You picked a good one,” I say, trailing behind her as she moves from piece to piece.

“Of course I did,” she replies, her fingers hovering just shy of a vase with swirling blue and white glazes. “I always do my research.”

I watch her for a moment, the way her eyes linger on every curve and texture, and for a second, the weight of tomorrow presses just a little less heavy on my chest. The MLS draft is less than twenty-four hours away—everything I’ve worked for, dreamed about, is almost within reach.

And Birdie has been by my side every step of the way, grounding me when my thoughts spiral, celebrating every win, no matter how small.

“Do you think your stuff will look good here?” I ask, leaning against a display case.

She pauses, her lips pressing together like she’s trying not to smile. “Maybe. It’s no Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it’ll do.”

“Just wait,” I say, my tone certain. “People are going to be lining up just to get a glimpse of your work.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a faint blush creeping up her neck. “You always know how to make me sound way cooler than I am.”

“Not possible,” I reply, straightening up and stepping closer. “You’re the coolest person I know.”

She turns back to the display, a soft laugh escaping her. “You’re biased.”

“Damn right I am,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist. “And I can’t wait to be even more obnoxiously biased when your name is displayed in galleries across Chicago—or New York—or wherever else people are smart enough to show your work.”

It’s not just a dream, either. She’s been working with Claire nonstop this semester, experimenting with larger pieces, more sculptural forms, and finally gaining the confidence to show them off.

Her ceramics were part of the Ellsworth showcase in the fall, and one of her pieces even made it to the Montrose Gallery student exhibition—a huge step for someone who spent last year doubting her place in the program.

She tilts her head. “And when your name is up on stadium lights tomorrow?”

I smile, my fingers tightening slightly around her hip. “We’ll celebrate. No matter what happens, we’ll celebrate.”

She leans into me. “Deal.”

The weight of tomorrow presses a little less heavy, and as we leave the gallery, the first snowflakes start to fall. Birdie lifts her face to the sky, her eyes bright with wonder, and I know without a doubt that whatever happens tomorrow, I’ve already won.

The next morning,nerves hit me hard.

The Chicago Convention Center is massive, all glass and steel, with banners for every MLS team hanging from the ceiling. Snow flurries dance outside the windows, but the cold doesn’t follow us in. Inside, it’s all heat and energy, a steady buzz of excitement and anticipation.

Birdie walks beside me, her green coat a pop of color against the sea of dark suits and jerseys. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, even though my stomach is doing flips. “Just feels ... big.”

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