Page 4 of High Hopes

Chase lets out a laugh. “Good luck? You’re a Donovan. You’ve got this in the bag.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, is that how it works?”

“Absolutely. Just flash that winning smile, and the whole room will eat it up.” He smirks, leaning back like he owns the place. “Though, if I was there, no one would bother looking at you. I’m the main event, baby.”

I snort. He’s not wrong. Ever since he took over the captaincy, our team’s been solid. The guy knows how to find the back of the net like nobody’s business. But I’ll never give him that satisfaction aloud. Not to his face, anyway.

“How did you manage to get your head that far up your own ass?” I ask.

Chase tosses a pillow at me, and I duck out of the way. “Pure skill. Years of practice.”

“You sure you don’t want to tag along, then?” I ask, only half-joking.

It would be nice to have a buffer, sure, but it would also mean watching him the whole time—monitoring both his behavior and my own. Two inevitable screwups in the making, though honestly, Chase could probably play the game better than I ever could. He’s a natural at charming people, even when he doesn’t mean to be.

“Hard pass,” Chase replies. “Rich people and tiny appetizers? Not my scene. Besides, I’ve got much better plans tonight.” He winks, pulling out his phone to check his messages.

I don’t even need to ask what—or who—those plans involve. Chase’s roster speaks for itself.

With a sigh, I grab my keys and head outside. My car is parked in the driveway, and I make my way over, shrugging off my suit jacket and tossing it onto the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.

As I settle in, my phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen and see a text from my mom.

Mom

Don’t forget to smile and try not say anything too awkward! Remember, less is more. Can’t wait to see you tonight. XOXO MOM.

I let out a small groan, resting my forehead against the roof of the car for a second. My mom means well—she always does—but the last thing I need right now is a reminder of how much she’s banking on me to charm an entire room of donors.

With a deep breath, I slip into the driver’s seat and start the engine, the low rumble filling the quiet night. Time to face the music—or, in this case, a room full of strangers deciding how well I play the part.

The donor eventis exactly what it always is: polished, pretentious, and filled with people who look like they were born with a stick up their ass. A showcase at the Ellsworth Gallery, the campus space dedicated to student work.

Normally, it’s a quiet place, but tonight, it’s transformed for the annual event held for rising seniors in the arts department. The lighting’s dim, soft classical music plays in the background, and the whole place feels like it’s trying just a little too hard to impress.

The walls are lined with paintings, all framed in sleek black metal, with a few larger installations in the middle of the room—sculptures, ceramics, glasswork—all part of the 3D4M program. Pieces with texture and weight. Stuff you could actually touch, not just stare at.

I trail behind my parents like the dutiful son they want me to be, nodding at the right times, offering the occasional politesmile to anyone who glances my way. My mom’s fluttering around, introducing herself to everyone with that perfect smile of hers, already deep in conversation with Dayton’s president, Ted Graham.

My father, of course, is standing beside her, exuding calm confidence, the kind that makes people gravitate toward him without him having to say much.

I’m bored and restless, but I know better than to show it. This is one of those nights where appearances matter more than anything else, and the last thing I need is a lecture about my “attitude.”

When my gaze settles on a vase in the far right corner of the room, my mind jumps right back to that night in the studio. It’s not even the same style—this one’s taller, with sleek lines and glossy finishes—but it doesn’t matter.

All I can think about is kicking that damn soccer ball through the window and meeting Birdie. Her light brown bob, a little messy around the edges, and the fact that she’s on the taller side for a woman were the first things I noticed. But it was her kind hazel eyes—steady and serious—that really stuck with me.

There was something about the way she looked at me, like she was rattled by my presence in her carefully curated life. A disruption she hadn’t planned for but was determined to handle anyway, with that steady, no-nonsense energy of hers.

I went to the arts director the next day, offering to pay for the window. Mrs. Ellis just waved me off, saying they had a budget for incidentals. I wasn’t about to beg the woman to take my money. Still, I kind of wonder what Birdie would have had to say about it—if she knew I got away with the escapade scot-free.

Another perk of being a Donovan, I’m sure.

My mom tugs on my sleeve, breaking me from my thoughts. “Liam, honey, come over here and join us. President Graham has a question for you.”

I blink and follow her to a small circle of suited guests, all mid-conversation.

“I hear your season is off to an impeccable start, Liam,” Graham says. “How’s Coach Harris been treating you all?”

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