Page 24 of High Hopes

We’re up 2-1,and it’s the seventy-fifth minute. My lungs are burning, legs heavy with that familiar ache that means we’re in the thick of it. The ball’s at my feet, and I’m sprinting down the sideline, eyes locked on the Louisville defender shadowing me.

I fake left, cut right, and then I’m free—just for a second. Long enough to whip in a cross toward Chase, who’s already charging the box like a freight train.

It’s a good ball. The kind I’ve practiced a thousand times, and Chase knows it. He meets it perfectly, sending a header rocketing toward the top corner of the net.

The crowd’s breath catches. The keeper dives, fingers brushing the ball as it deflects—straight off the post.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, already turning to hustle back on defense. No time to celebrate, no time to dwell. That’s soccer—one second, you’re on top of the world; the next, you’re chasing someone down, hoping you don’t get caught flat-footed.

Coach Harris is yelling something at us, but I block him out, too focused on the game. There’s still fifteen minutes left. Plenty of time for things to change.

Plenty of time to screw it all up.

By the time the final whistle blows, we’ve held on for the win, 2-1. Chase’s earlier goal was enough to secure the points, and the bench explodes in cheers, clapping each other on the back and pulling into quick embraces.

But I’m already thinking about the bus ride. And Birdie Collins.

The field starts to empty as we shake hands with Louisville’s players. Coach is giving his post-game speech in the background, talking about our grit, our persistence. But I’m not really listening. My head’s somewhere else.

Somewhere back in the studio, two days ago.

I should be feeling amped right now, but I’m more focused on how Birdie’s day went. She’d signed up for some off-campus studio critique at a neighboring university—one of those big deals with a reputation for being brutally honest.

She’d been wound tighter than a spring when I left her on Friday, anxious about what her peers and the professor would say. I tried to reassure her, tell her her work was killer, that she had something different, something people would notice. But I could still see that doubt in her eyes.

I shake my head, focusing on getting back to the bus. The last thing I need is to be distracted in the middle of a win. Chase catches up to me, clapping a hand on my back.

“Hell of a game, man. That cross was perfect. Just a damn shame about the post, huh?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “real shame.”

Chase doesn’t notice the sarcasm. He’s too busy talking about the match, reliving every play like we didn’t all just live through it together. I zone out, only half listening as I find a seat on the bus, pulling out my phone.

It’s late, almost nine, and I’m sure Birdie’s critique is long over. I want to text her, ask her how it went, but I hesitate. She’ll probably text me when she’s ready, right? I shove my phone backin my pocket, trying to shake off the restlessness creeping up my spine.

The ride back is mercifully short, though it feels longer with Chase still chatting beside me. I respond here and there, but my mind keeps drifting. I wonder if Birdie’s stressing out. I can picture her now, probably holed up in her apartment, dissecting every bit of feedback she got today.

I want to tell her she’s overthinking it, that her work speaks for itself, but I know she’s too hard on herself to see it that way. She always gets in her own head. We’re similar that way, though I manage to distract myself better—or maybe I’m just better at faking it.

When we finally pull up to the hotel, I grab my bag and head straight for the room. Chase follows me, still talking, though I’m barely paying attention. The team dinner’s in an hour, and all I want to do is lie down and shut my brain off for a minute.

As soon as we step into the room, I toss my bag on the floor and flop onto the bed. Chase heads for the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I pull out my phone, staring at the screen for a second before opening my messages.

Liam

how’d the critique go? still in one piece?

I send the text and toss the phone aside, rubbing my hands over my face. There’s this weird, restless energy in me tonight, like I can’t settle down. Maybe it’s the game, the adrenaline still pumping through me. Or maybe it’s something else.

My phone buzzes almost immediately, and I grab it, my pulse kicking up.

Birdie

barely. it was brutal. but constructive. I think?

Liam

an award-winning combo

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