Page 23 of High Hopes

“Maybe a little.”

He watches me, his gaze steady and intent, like he’s studying me the way he studies my work—eyes lingering as though searching for hidden details. It’s unnerving how intense his focus is when it’s on me, how it makes my pulse quicken, my stomach flutter.

“You’re not wrong,” he says softly. “I like taking risks. But I guess with this .. . choosing soccer ... it feels different. Like,if I screw it up, I’m stuck. And I don’t want to make the wrong choice.”

I pause, contemplating his words, the weight they carry. I’ve seen that same uncertainty in myself, the fear of choosing wrong, of messing up something that feels so big it could change everything.

“Do you think you’d regret not going for it?”

His eyes flick back to the ceiling, and for a second, I wonder if I pushed too far. But then he sighs and says, “Yeah. I think I would.”

There’s a weight to his words, something deeper that I don’t know how to unpack. I’m compelled to say something, to offer advice or tell him it’ll all work out—but I hold in my consolation. He doesn’t need empty reassurances. He just needs someone to listen.

“Then it seems you’ve got your answer.”

“And what about you?” he asks. “You ever think about what happens if you don’t get the fellowship?”

Have I thought about it? Only incessantly. I’ve been trying not to spiral into worst-case scenarios because dwelling can be dangerous. That kind of thinking is a rabbit hole I’m not ready to fall down. But I can feel the panic creeping in at the edges, the what-ifs I’ve been trying to keep at bay.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “All the time.”

“And?”

“And . . . I don’t know. I guess I’d figure something out. But I really don’t want to think about it.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll get it, Birdie. I know you will.”

Maybe he didn’t need platitudes, but he was right to offer me some. Praise and encouragement aren’t things I’ve heard much of lately.

Plus, the way he says it, like he truly means it, makes my chest tighten. It’s not just empty words with him, not some throwaway reassurance. It settles under my skin, deep in my bones, in a way that nothing else has lately.

And I believe him.

“Thank you.”

He stands, stretching again, and I try not to notice the way his shirt rides up, showing that strip of skin I’ve been pretending not to look at since we met. He’s built—lean muscle, taut stomach, the kind of body that looks like it belongs in a sports magazine, not casually leaning against my worktable.

The worst part is, it seems like he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that half the people around him are probably thinking the same thing I am: he’s hot as hell. If I were bolder—or significantly less focused on the fellowship—I might joke about offering him sexual favors in return for his help. But that would be crossing a line I don’t even want to toe.

“So, what’s next on the agenda?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “More clay, or do you want me to take some photos?”

“Photos?”

He nods, already reaching for his phone. “Yeah, you said the committee will want to see the process, not just the finished product. Plus, I like photography. It’s a hobby I’ve been messing around with, and it might help showcase your work better than just tossing it all in a folder.”

I hesitate for a second before nodding, grateful for the suggestion. “Okay. Yeah, that actually sounds perfect.”

As he snaps pictures, I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and there’s something about the way he’s so serious in moments like this that throws me off.

Usually, he’s all jokes and easy smiles, but when he’s focused, he’s ... different. The way he moves, the way his green eyes flick between the piece and the screen, it’s like watching someone step into a role they were born to play. It’s effortless, deliberate, and oddly captivating.

And maybe that’s why being around him feels so unsettling—because the more time we spend together, the more I find myself looking forward to it. Not just for his input or his ideas, but for him. For the way he makes everything feel lighter, even when it shouldn’t. For the way he fills the quiet without taking over.

It’s not just that he’s helpful or insightful. It’s that he’s present. And there’s a part of me—one I’d rather not examine too closely—that’s starting to enjoy his presence a little too much. Too easily, too often, and I can’t afford to think like that. Not now.

9

LIAM

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