Page 13 of High Hopes

When practice ends and Liam finally spots me, he smirks. That kind of smirk that suggests he’s not entirely surprised to see me, but he’s still amused by it. He gives a quick nod to his friends and says something to them under his breath, waving them away as they file off the field.

He jogs over to meet me, sweat glistening on his skin, his shirt sticking to every line of muscle. “Waiting for me, Birdie?”

I snort. “Obviously.”

“It’s because I called you pretty, isn’t it? Careful now—you can’t fall in love with me over a single compliment.”

I elbow him lightly. “Are you that full of yourself?”

“Someone has to be.” He grins wider, leaning back on his heels. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering .. .” I glance at the ground, already regretting how awkward this is about to sound. “If maybe you needed help with anything?”

He stares at me, wide-eyed and mystified, like I’ve just offered to clean his cleats with my bare hands. “Help? With ... anything?”

“You kn-know,” I stammer. “Some light cleaning, laundry ... um, homework help? I could make you a set of mugs or something.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Mugs? Really?”

I groan. I put myself in this ridiculous position, and now I can’t even dig myself out gracefully. Subtlety is not my forte. But more than that, asking someone for help feels like admitting defeat.

“Yeah, I’ve been practicing with the thumbprint technique,” I say. “They’re supposed to be much more ergonomic, and I figured—hey, useful, right?”

He taps his foot, waiting. “Just come right out with it, okay? Tell me what you want.”

I suck in a breath. “I’m officially a finalist for the arts fellowship. And your dad’s on the committee, so ... I was wondering if you could, you know ... help me impress him.”

He stares at me, slowly scratches the back of his neck, and for a moment, I swear he’s about to laugh. I know I’m out of my league here. It’s humiliating, plain and simple.

These highbrow people—art world elites with their galleries and trust fund kiddos—are so far out of my wheelhouse it’s almost laughable. I grew up in a world where impressing someone meant melting a slice of cheese over a pan-fried burger and cracking open a cold beer.

My dad’s blue-collar through and through, the kind of guy who measures success in hard work and calloused hands, not fancy titles or expensive art shows.

But Liam? I never would’ve assumed he belonged to that world, either. Not when we first met, not even now. There’s something about him that feels like he’s caught between two places—like he’s equally out of step at those gallery events as he would be in my dad’s garage.

A wry grin pulls at his lips. “Believe me, if I knew how to influence my dad and win his favor, I’d do it myself.”

“Please,” I say, giving him the biggest puppy-dog eyes I can manage. “There’s got to be something you can do. Maybe just some insider knowledge? What he likes, what he hates, how he thinks ... anything, really.”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, Birdie, I wish—”

Before he can finish, frustration boils over, and I turn on my heel to leave. I don’t need this—don’t need to stand here and begfor scraps of information. But before I can take more than a step, his hand gently wraps around my arm, stopping me.

“Okay, okay, just wait a second,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I make no promises, but I can try my best to help you.”

I turn, and his hand falls away. “Thank you so much. Really. I’m still working on my proposal, but maybe you could take a look at it when I’m finished? From there, we could brainstorm or something. I don’t know, I just—”

“How about I read over what you have now, and we’ll go from there?”

Of course, he’s making it sound easy, like I haven’t already started to pour my heart and soul into this. Like I haven’t spent sleepless nights agonizing over my art in the first place.

But maybe to him, it is easy. Maybe the strained relationship with his dad has taught him how to navigate this world without flinching. I guess that’s what comes with the confidence of never needing, or wanting, anyone’s approval.

I sigh. “And you’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you in return?”

His gaze shifts, sweeping over me from head to toe in one long, deliberate look. Green eyes sharp with mischief, perfect mouth curling like he’s already got some clever thought brewing. It’s unnerving, it’s electric, all sorts of distracting.

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, even though I tell myself not to react. His lips quirk into a faint, knowing smile, and when he finally speaks, his voice drops, low and smooth. “I’ll let you know if I think of something.”

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