Page 31 of High Hopes

Sure, it’s experience, but it’s not the kind of experience I want. It’s more theory, more meetings and planning sessions, and I’m all about execution. I like to actually see things come together in real time.

My parents both exchange a look, their expressions a mix of surprise and mild disapproval. Maybe they thought I’d just go along with it, smile and nod like I usually do.

I should probably dial it back, try to sound more grateful or something, but I can’t help it. My brain’s already buzzing with everything I’ll be missing if I take this internship: the training camps, the tournaments, the chance to really focus on soccer this summer.

Mom frowns, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear in that precise, deliberate way she does when she’s trying not to get upset. “What do you mean? This is a perfect fit for you. We’ve already pulled strings to make it happen.”

“I’m more into construction management,” I explain. “Overseeing projects, being on-site, making sure things actually happen. Urban planning is more ...planning. I’m more hands-on.”

Dad leans back in his chair, fork gripped tightly in one hand. The man is armed and ready to lecture me on responsibility or some shit. “Liam, you need to start thinking about your future. This is a real career path, something stable.”

Bingo. They’re starting to realize I may actually be leaning toward soccer instead. The tension between what they want forme and what I want for myself has been building for months, but I guess the idea of me steering away from their perfectly paved road is finally hitting home.

“I know it’s stable, but I’ve been looking at other opportunities, too. There’s this construction firm that specializes in large-scale projects, and—”

“Liam,” Dad interrupts, voice hardening like he’s already decided what’s best for me. “You can’t just chase after whatever catches your attention at the moment. You need an actual plan.”

“I have a plan,” I shoot back. “But it’s noturbanplanning. And taking a summer internship would mean missing out on soccer training. Pre-draft stuff. Camps. That’s what I actually care about.”

My parents sigh in unison, that same exasperated sound they always make when I bring up soccer. My stomach sinks. They don’t get it. They never have.

“Liam,” Mom says calmly. “Soccer is great, and you’ve done so well with it. But it’s not a guarantee. Civil engineering is a guarantee. This internship will set you up for a long-term career.”

“I get that,” I say, forcing down the irritation. “But if I take this internship, I’ll be stuck behind a desk all summer. I’m not built for that.”

Dad’s jaw tightens. “And what happens if you don’t get drafted? What’s your fallback?”

“I’m not saying I’m ditching my degree,” I argue sharply. “But I want to give soccer everything I’ve got while I still can.”

They’re silent, staring at me with that blank parental mix of concern and quiet judgment, so I push further.

“I’ve got one more year. One more year to prove myself on the field. If I can enter the draft after that, I need to be ready. I don’t want to look back and wonder what would’ve been.”

“The professional sports world is cutthroat,” Dad says flatly. “It’s not realistic for most athletes.”

“Sorry?” I choke down the lump rising in my throat. “Isn’t your precious arts degree the same thing? A long shot? Something you were passionate about that didn’t come with your realistic guarantees?”

His face tightens, but I don’t back down. I’ve kept this in for too long—the feeling of being cornered into one path because it’s safe. Because it’s what they expect.

“Don’t compare the two,” Dad snaps. “The arts are just as valid, but they’re different. You have a practical fallback. Soccer isn’t—”

“I’m not giving up before I even try,” I cut him off, my voice firm. “I’ll have plenty of time to be an engineer, but if I don’t take this shot, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

The table falls silent again. My heart pounds erratically, frustration and anger bubbling up because they just don’t see it the way I do.

“Liam,” Mom says gently, her tone soft like she’s trying to reason with a child. “We want what’s best for you. We know soccer is important to you, but what if—”

“What if I actually make it?” I interrupt her, leaning forward. “What if all this work pays off and I do get drafted? And I’m successful? And you two will have to sit there, eating your words, wishing you’d supported me from the start?”

Dad sighs, rubbing his temples like this conversation is physically draining him. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

I wave a hand in the air. “It did for James. Look what he’s accomplished since graduation. His first rookie season, and he’s already making a name for himself.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. My mention of James hangs in the air like a challenge they’re unwilling to take on.

Mom finally breaks the silence, her voice careful, measured. “Just think about it, Liam. You don’t have to decide right now. The internship will be waiting if you change your mind. We can tell Welch to put a pin in it.”

I nod, but the decision has already been made. Their doubt, their avoidance—it sealed it. Soccer is what I care about. Soccer is what I want.

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