Page 15 of High Hopes

I don’t play sports because I want to be part of some bro-ey culture. I play them because I like running around and being good at something physical, something straightforward.

“You see that?” Chase shouts, slapping me on the shoulder. “Fucking disgraceful, man!”

I grunt, barely glancing up. “Yeah. Brutal.”

“You’re the worst fake fan I’ve ever seen,” Chase laughs, tossing a barbecue chip directly at my face.

I catch it in my mouth with a half-hearted wink. My phone buzzes as Chase snorts and shakes his head, muttering something about my priorities. I glance at the screen. It’s my brother, James, calling, and the sight of his name sends a pang of something sharp and familiar through me.

Without thinking, I’m off the couch, pushing past empty pizza boxes and Solo cups, heading for the back door. Once I’m outside, I shake out my hands and let the tension bleed out of my shoulders.

“Hey,” I say, leaning against the railing. “What’s up?”

“Hey, bud,” James replies, his tone easy but carrying that subtle edge I’ve learned to pick up on. “Just wondering how things are going. What are you up to?”

My stomach dips. It’s been months since we’ve talked—like, really talked. He’s been busy with the season, grinding through his first year in the minors as a third baseman. Between practices, travel, and trying to keep his spot on the team, I haven’t wanted to add to his plate.

Meanwhile, I’ve just been . . . here. Doing the college thing. Soccer. Dealing with our parents. Same old.

“Not much. Watching the Bobcats game with some of the guys,” I say. “How was the end of the season?”

James lets out a low chuckle. “Tough as hell. Got my ass handed to me more times than I care to admit. But I’m still here, so that’s something.”

I laugh. My older brother has always been the kind of guy who’ll throw himself into anything full throttle, even when the odds are stacked against him. Whether it’s baseball or life, he plays like a wild card.

“What’s wrong? Are you still swinging your curveballs directly into the dirt?”

James snorts, but my mind flickers back to us as kids. Him teaching me how to hit in the backyard, the two of us swinging at imaginary pitches until the sun went down. He was always so sure of himself, even back then—confident in a way that felt unshakable.

“Yeah, yeah.” There’s something off in his voice. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know I don’t like it. “How’s the season treating you? Harris still being a hard-ass?”

“It’s good so far,” I say, pacing the deck. “Living with Chase is helping keep me focused. He’s serious about going pro, getting scouted, all that.”

Chase’s lifelong dream is to secure a Generation Adidas contract and leave school early. It’s one of the most coveted opportunities in college soccer—a deal that guarantees a fast track to the MLS, skipping the draft entirely. He talks about it like it’s already locked in, just waiting for the paperwork to clear.

In reality, only a handful of players get offered one each year—maybe a dozen out of thousands across the country. The chances are slim, but Chase carries himself like he’s one of the chosen few, like failure isn’t even on the table.

“That’s awesome, man. You thinking about soccer after school, or are you still on the civil engineering track?”

There’s a long pause, like he’s waiting for me to say the right thing. His silences are weighted, always full of something unsaid, and it’s hard to decipher whether he’s holding back judgment or trying to give me space.

My brother isn’t the steady, play-it-safe type. He believes in having ambitions, sure, but he’s always encouraged me to pursue whatever I want, even if it’s a risk. That’s why he pushed me to chase collegiate-level soccer in the first place, no matter what our parents thought.

“I’m really not sure yet,” I admit. “Mom and Dad are still pushing for the latter. You know how they are.”

“Yeah, I know.” His voice tightens, and it’s clear what he’s thinking—our parents, with their endless expectations, pivoting us toward their idea of success. James took a different route, refusing to fall in line with their version of a “stable” future.

It’s funny, considering they didn’t follow any kind of traditional path themselves. Dad’s this big-shot artist, while our mom’s a public speaker. She lectures on “The Psychology of Charisma and Influence,” which, in my mind, is just a fancy way of saying she’s a master manipulator. Well-versed in the art of wrapping people around her perfect finger.

And yet, professional sports? Not a “real career” to them. Makes no sense.

I shake off the thought, not wanting to get sucked into the usual rabbit hole of resentment and frustration over their hypocrisy. “I met a girl, by the way,” I tell him, changing the subject. “An arts major.”

I don’t know why I bother bringing it up. Birdie isn’t a girl I’m seeing. She’s not a hookup or even close to being that.

“Oh yeah?” He clears his throat. “Didn’t think you’d wanna get mixed up with the artsy type.”

“Eh, it’s not really like that. She’s applying for Dad’s fellowship, and I’m helping her out with the application.”

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