Page 2 of High Hopes

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing at the door he just came through. “I think I ... kicked a soccer ball through a window. We were coming back from practice, and my roommate bet me I couldn’t get it over the roof.”

“And you missed, I presume?” I ask, tilting my head.

His green eyes are soft and apologetic, and he gives me a sheepish look. “Yeah, badly. The lights were off, so I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

I stare at him for a moment before standing to dust my hands on my clay-splattered jeans. “Well, it wasn’t here. It was probably next door in storage.”

He stares at the form now slumping on my wheel. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to mess with your ... clay thing.”

I blink. “It’s a vase.”

“Oh.” He stares at it for a beat longer. “It’s nice. I mean, you’re really good at throwing.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. I’d wager he couldn’t tell the difference between a wheel-thrown mug and a pinch pot if his life depended on it. Still, a compliment’s a compliment—even if it’s coming from the guy who just shattered a window.

He raises an eyebrow, flashing that grin again. “You’re not gonna come with me? What if it’s all dark and scary in there?”

I give him an odd look, unsure if he’s serious or not. “You’re an athlete, right? Tall and strong. I’m pretty sure you can tackle a broom and a few bags of clay alone.”

He dramatically glances over his shoulder, then back at me. “You don’t know that. I could be one of those ‘tough on the outside, scared of the dark’ types.”

I snort. “Well, even if that’s the case, I’ve still got a vase to fix.” I half-heartedly gesture to the slumped form beside me. “I’m afraid you’re on your own, pal.”

He laughs, and it’s a light sound, like he doesn’t take himself too seriously. “Okay, fair. But just so you know, I’m gonna fix whatever damage the ball did. Well . . . I’ll get someone who knows how to fix it. I’m Liam, by the way.”

I pause, studying him for a second. “Birdie.”

“Birdie? Like tweet tweet?” he asks, his grin widening. “That’s cute.”

I narrow my eyes, bemused. “It’s a nickname for Bridget. And before you ask, no, I don’t fly.”

He chuckles again, backing toward the door. “Got it, Bridget-Not-A-Bird. I’ll, uh . . . go check on that window now. Prayers I’ll survive the scary storage closet.” He gives a mock salute before slipping out of the room.

I shake my head as the door clicks shut behind him, the faint echo of his footsteps fading. Typical athlete—overconfident, cocky, and somehow . . . a sense of humor means that makes him not the worst company.

My hands return to the wheel, but my rhythm is gone. The studio feels too quiet now, the stillness heavy and strange. I stare at the misshapen vase, sigh, and then scrape the clay off the wheel before packing up my things.

There’s no point in staying here. The vase is beyond saving, and I’m too distracted to focus.

So, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head into the night, locking the door behind me. The walk to my apartment is long, but it’s not too bad at this hour—quiet, empty, and peaceful. It feels safe because the campus is well-lit and familiar, though the occasional rustling in the bushes always makes me glance over my shoulder just in case.

Unfortunately, I don’t like driving. I avoid it whenever I can, which isn’t too hard to do in a big city with a bustling student population. Besides, campus parking is a nightmare I’d rather not deal with.

By the time I reach our place—an off-campus apartment that smells vaguely like coffee and burnt popcorn most days—I’m tired enough to fall face-first into bed, clay-covered jeans and all.

But when I push open the front door, the familiar sound of a blender greets me. Of course. I drop my bag on the floor by the entrance, expecting to see some kind of soupy, alien-like concoction brewing on the kitchen counter, and I’m not disappointed.

“You’re back late,” calls out a voice from the kitchen. My roommate, Sena, appears from around the corner, clutching her latest smoothie creation—a bright green, questionable-looking mixture of things no one should ever drink after midnight.

Sena is my opposite. She’s bright, chatty, and always surrounded by people. She runs track, does theater, and somehow still manages to keep a full social calendar while acing her classes. Being roommates with her is like living with a whirlwind of color and noise.

She’s the one who drags me out of my head and into the world. I’m the one who reminds her to study for finals instead of planning another weekend party.

“I had to stay late,” I say, wiping my hands on the towel hanging by the door. “I was in a groove until some guy kicked a ball through a window.”

Sena’s eyebrows shoot up. “A guy, huh? Was he cute?”

I roll my eyes and make a beeline for the fridge, ignoring her question. “That’s not the point. He was . . . fine.”

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