Page 38 of High Hopes

“I want to,” she says, nudging my shoulder again. “Besides, you need consolation fries.”

I let out a long breath, finally relenting. “Yeah, alright.”

“Deal,” she says, already turning toward the parking lot.

We walk away from the stadium, her shoulder brushing mine every few steps. The frustration of the game doesn’t disappear, but with Birdie beside me, it fades to something quieter, something manageable. Something that feels like maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss.

The noisefrom Lucky’s hums around us, a low, comfortable murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional cheer from a nearby table. We’re wedged into one of those small, sticky booths that makes it impossible not to bump knees, and Birdie’s ordered us a basket of waffle fries and two dark lagers I can’t pronounce.

I pick up the glass and take a sip, only to stop mid-swallow, fighting the urge to make a face. “Oh God,” I mutter, setting it down a little too quickly. “Did you pick the most bitter beer they had on purpose?”

Birdie raises her eyebrows, clearly amused. “You said ‘surprise me.’ So, here you go. Welcome to the acquired taste club.”

“Acquired, huh?” I say, giving the drink a wary look. “How long do I have to drink this before it doesn’t taste like liquid regret?”

She laughs, nudging the glass closer. “You get used to it, I promise. Just think of it as building character.”

I raise the glass again, eyes narrowing. “Building character through suffering. Got it.”

She shakes her head, laughing, before lifting her glass for a sip, and we fall into easy conversation. Not a single mention of the fellowship, the game, or anything else with a shadow looming over it. It’s nice. A rare moment where we’re not trying to fix or unpack something, just existing in this small, happy place.

She grabs a fry, and her eyes light up like she’s struck gold. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. “I saw a sign advertising chocolate lava cake that’s literally the size of my head. Do you want to try it?”

My face twists in mock disgust. “A Lucky’s lava cake will probably take a decade off my life. Besides, the entire concept is disturbing. Why would you want chocolate soup inside a cake?”

She gasps, her mouth dropping open in exaggerated offense. “Excuse me? Lava cake is a work of art. It’s gooey, chocolatey perfection.”

I chuckle, pulling out my phone and typing quickly. “What if I told you I had a better option?”

She arches a brow. “Better than lava cake?”

I hold up a finger, pretending to be serious, then finish my search with a grin. “Pie. They give out birthday pie over at Sweet Seasons, and it just so happens...” I trail off, letting thesuspense hang in the air as I flash my phone screen at her. “I have a birthday coupon.”

Birdie stares at the screen, her eyes widening. “Wait—are you telling me today’s your birthday?”

I scoff, shaking my head. “No. I just ... know a little hack.”

“Is that so?” she asks, leaning forward, intrigued.

“Birthday perks,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Most places give you something free on your birthday. All you have to do is sign up with a different birthday for each account, and voilà—you get rewards all year.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I lean back, grinning. “I used to have a whole spreadsheet. The goal was to fill as many days as possible. I’m talking a free donut on January third, free tacos on March twelfth, then there’s smoothie day, ice cream on August twenty-first.” I shrug. “I’d gotten up to one hundred forty-three days of birthday rewards last year, but then it just got time-consuming. Decided it was too much work.”

She’s staring at me, torn between amusement and amazement. “Liam Donovan, I swear, you are a full-time job all by yourself.”

I laugh, taking a sip of my disgusting beer. “A job with excellent benefits.”

She laughs. “Let me guess—you’re the kind of person who dives headfirst into something new and then, I don’t know, drops it the second you get bored.”

“Pretty much,” I admit, grabbing another fry. “But only with my side quests. The real stuff—the things that matter—stick around.”

“Like soccer,” she says, her eyes studying me with that piercing look she gets sometimes, the one that makes me wonder if she can see right through all my deflections.

“Yeah, exactly,” I reply, feeling the easy humor melt into something quieter. “Soccer’s different.”

She tilts her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she leans closer. “What makes it different?”

---