Page 55 of High Hopes

“You asked,” I say with a shrug. I’m not embarrassed that I’m thinking about her, missing her. So, why would I bother coming up with some bullshit response instead of just telling him the truth?

Coach’s whistle cuts through the air. “Bring it in, boys!”

We jog over, forming a loose huddle around him. Coach Harris has that no-nonsense look in his eye today—the one that says he expects nothing short of a dominant performance. One of our assistants, Coach Reilly, steps in with a clipboard, gesturing emphatically as Harris speaks.

“We’re up against UNC,” Coach says, his voice cutting through the chilly morning air. “They’re going to come at you hard, especially on the wings. Their midfield’s solid, so we’ve got to keep it tight and make them work for every inch.”

“They’ll be looking to isolate our defenders,” Reilly chimes in. “Don’t let them pick you apart. Stay compact, stay sharp.”

They’re right—UNC’s no joke. They’ve got some of the best talent in the conference, and they’re hungry for a win. But so are we. And right now, all that matters is what happens on this field today, not what they’ve done before or what anyone expects.

The coaches keep talking, laying out our strategy in precise, clipped tones, but my mind drifts. Not to Birdie this time but to everything riding on this game. There’s a scout from Orlando City up in the stands, and if I can show him what I’m made of, maybe this could be my shot at the MLS, too.

Chase elbows me, snapping me out of it. “You hear that? They’re going to try and cut through your side.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “no shit.”

The whistle blows again, signaling the start of our pre-game drills. I fall into line, weaving through the cones, my feet moving on autopilot. Focus. Zone in. Tune out. It’s a mantra I repeat in my head, over and over, willing everything else—the noise, the pressure, the sticky jersey—into silence. Just the ball. Just the game.

As we transition into a scrimmage, I finally let myself get lost in it. The solid thud of the ball as it connects with my foot, the slap of cleats against the turf, the grunt of effort as I shoulderpast a defender. It’s like music—the only kind I’ve ever really understood.

The rhythm of play takes over, washing out the static in my head and replacing it with something clear, something simple. But scrimmages don’t last forever.

When the game kicks off thirty minutes later, it’s at a breakneck pace. UNC isn’t messing around. They press hard, their midfielders controlling the tempo, trying to box us in. I’m sprinting up the wing, lungs burning, heart pounding.

Santi and Amir are holding the line in the back, and they’re a damn wall. Amir’s as solid as ever, shutting down any attackers who try to break through, while Santi is chirping nonstop, getting into the heads of their strikers.

I spot an opening and call for the ball. Chase nods, threading it through two defenders with a slick pass. I take off down the sideline, cutting in just as a defender lunges at me. I sidestep him, glance up, and Chase makes a run toward the far post.

“Hadden!” I yell, swinging my leg back. The cross flies off my foot, arcing over the heads of two UNC defenders, curving just enough to drop right in front of Chase. He traps it like it’s glued to his boot, takes one touch to steady himself, and then slams it past the keeper.

“One-nil, baby!” Chase yells, pumping his fist in the air. I sprint over, adrenaline coursing through me as I slap him on the back. The team swarms us, and for a second, I let myself get lost in it. But I know better than to relax now.

UNC comes back at us hard, like a wounded animal. Their midfielders are relentless, pinning us deep in our half, trying to claw their way back into the game. For a solid fifteen minutes, it’s all defense.

Finally, UNC breaks through. Their forward manages to squeeze past, latching onto a through ball, and slams it into thebottom corner. 1-1. The stadium roars to life, and it’s a whole new game.

The equalizer shakes us, but it’s like a jolt of electricity running through my veins. I steal the ball from one of their wingers, cutting him off before he can send it into the box, and sprint down the sideline. My legs are burning, but I push harder, faster.

I cut inside, dodging a defender, and suddenly, there’s open space ahead of me. Coach is barking orders at me, but I don’t need them. I know what to do. I drive forward, the goal coming into focus.

I cut past another defender, and the box opens up. I’ve got one chance. I take a deep breath, focus on the ball, and swing my leg back. The shot is clean, the kind you dream about. It rockets past the keeper’s outstretched hands and slams into the back of the net.

The stadium explodes. I barely have time to register what’s happening before Chase tackles me, nearly knocking me over. “Top bins, baby!” he shouts in my ear, laughing like a wild man.

But it’s not over yet. There’s still time on the clock, and UNC isn’t going down without a fight. They push back with everything they’ve got. Their forwards are throwing themselves at our defense, desperate to equalize again.

Amir blocks a shot with his chest, grunting as he absorbs the impact, while Marco, our left-back, clears the rebound with a powerful kick.

The pressure is relentless. I’m gasping for breath, every muscle in my body screaming for a break, but I can’t stop now. I won’t. Not when we’re this close.

There’s a corner kick for UNC in the final minute. The ball flies into the box, and it’s chaos—legs and elbows everywhere. But Amir rises above everyone, clearing it with a monster header. The ref’s whistle blows, and that’s it.

We’ve done it. 2-1. We’ve secured our bid for the NCAA tournament.

The guys are hugging, shouting, piling on top of each other. Coach is actually smiling—hell, I didn’t even know he could do that. I just stand there for a second, hands on my knees, letting it all sink in.

“Donovan!” Chase yells, dragging me into a bear hug. “We did it.”

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