Page 39 of High Hopes

I pause, not quite sure how to explain it in a way that doesn’t sound cliché. I’m not usually the type to dig deep into feelings, but there’s something about Birdie that makes it easier. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me, like she’s genuinely interested, not just waiting for a punchline.

“It’s ... just always been there,” I say slowly, picking at the label on my beer glass. “When everything else gets complicated or changes, soccer’s the one thing that stays steady. I get out there, and all the noise inside my head, all the pressure, it just ... fades.”

She watches me for a beat, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I’m glad. It’s good,” she says, “to have something that grounds you like that.”

I clear my throat, shifting under her gaze. “Yeah, keeps me from spinning off into a thousand different directions like usual.”

She watches me, something softening in her eyes, her mouth curving into a gentle smile. “I hope you know you don’t have to do that with me.”

I look up. “Do what?”

“Self-deprecate,” she says softly. “It’s a bad habit of mine, too. Feels a bit like hiding.”

“You don’t want me to hide from you, Birdie?”

“I’d prefer it if you showed up, actually. Flaws and all.”

“Okay.” I give her a small grin, leaning back. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

14

BIRDIE

On Friday evening,I grit my teeth and tug at the kiln door, which creaks open with a slow, metallic groan. Professor Hall wanted me to do the honors after my last mishap. So, I steady my breath, already bracing myself as I pull out the first shelf, scanning for any sign of shards or cracks lurking beneath the surface.

My gaze lands on the three pieces I rushed through, remaking them after the disaster earlier this week. They sit there, pale and matte from the bisque firing, perfectly intact. Relief washes over me—they made it through.

Around me, other students are unloading a separate kiln, carefully setting their pieces on cooling racks. There’s Aria, with her brightly colored home-mixed glazes; Jonah, muttering to himself as he examines a warped bowl; and Nicholas Riordan. He’s also a finalist for the fellowship. I’d like to tell myself his work is overrated, but that would be a flat-out lie.

They’re geometric and precise, like they’ve been engineered rather than sculpted.

I don’t know him well—he’s one of those quietly meticulous types whose reputation precedes him. But I know he hasimmaculate control, every detail measured and intentional, the kind of perfection that leaves no room for chance.

Even now, he’s setting his tools back in their exact spots, wiping down his work area with a cloth. When he catches my stare out of his peripherals, he glances up, his expression neutral. “Need a hand?”

“No, I got it, thanks,” I reply, shifting a heavier piece into place.

“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know. I know some of those can be a pain to handle solo.”

“Thanks,” I say, brushing off some stray bits of clay from my hands. “They’re a bit awkward, but nothing I can’t manage.”

He chuckles lightly, an easy, practiced sound. “I used to wrestle with pieces like that all the time in my first year. Learned the hard way that balance is half the battle.”

I give a tight smile, unsure if that comment was meant to help or subtly remind me of his expertise. Either way, I decide to let it slide. “So true.”

Nick’s eyes drift back to his own pieces, his gaze careful, almost reverent, as he inspects each line like he’s performing a sacred ritual. “It’s funny,” he says after a moment of silence. “I think ceramics keeps you humble, you know? Just when you think you’ve nailed it, the kiln decides otherwise.”

“Yeah, a few of my pieces were in the kiln that exploded last week.”

“Happens to all of us,” he says with an easy shrug. “Some of my best work started out like that. Adapt and overcome, right?”

I force a smile, nodding like I’m in on the same joke, but inside, there’s a stubborn knot tightening in my chest.Adapt and overcome, my ass. He’s just being friendly, trying to share a moment, and yet . . . why does every tidbit of advice feel like a reminder of the gap between us? Of how far ahead he is, how composed he seems, how effortless he makes this look.

“Right,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “Something to aspire to.”

He chuckles, oblivious to the spiral tightening in my chest, and moves off to his own workstation. I watch him for a moment before turning back to my table, my focus flicking between the bisqued pieces and the jars of glaze lined neatly along the edge.

My hands hover indecisively. Glazing feels like the final step, the commitment—no going back once the color sets. And right now, my confidence feels about as stable as wet clay.

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