Page 56 of High Hopes

“Fuck yeah, we did.”

“We shouldn’t have let that soft goal in.”

I huff, pulling away from him. “Can you just celebrate in peace for once?”

“No, no I cannot,” he says, grinning wide.

We make our way back to the locker room, and it’s pure chaos—guys spraying water bottles like they’re champagne, shouting victory chants, and slapping each other on the back. And I’m caught somewhere between exhilaration and exhaustion.

It would be nice to have a moment to just come down from it all, to breathe, to let the high ebb away on my own terms. Instead, it’s an overwhelming sort of frenzy, the noise and movement bouncing off the walls and hammering against my already worn-out senses.

The coaches finally corral us for a quick debrief, where Harris tries to look stern, but the gleam in his eyes gives him away. “We came here to get the job done, and you did just that. We’ve secured our spot in the tournament, boys.”

The locker room erupts again, guys pounding their lockers and shouting at the top of their lungs. I hang back, my body starting to feel the strain—aching legs, burning lungs. Part of me just wants to slip away to a quiet corner, close my eyes, and let the exhaustion hit me full force.

But there’s no escape yet. Once the debrief wraps, we pile back onto the bus to head to the hotel. The second we board, I make a beeline for the one and only lone seat at the back. I sink into it, hoping I’ll finally get a bit of peace.

But Chase has other plans.

“Hey, buddy!” His head pops over the back of my seat like an overexcited puppy. He rests his chin on my shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “You coming out with us tonight, or do I have to drag you along kicking and screaming?”

I lean my head back against the seat, groaning. “You realize I’m running on fumes, right? We’ve got a bus ride back to Dayton at the crack of dawn.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you can be a grumpy old man tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate. You owe us at least one round for that beauty of a goal.”

I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. In truth, what I really want is to go back to the room, crawl into bed, maybe call Birdie. Hear her voice, tell her about the game, ask how she’s been. But the guys . . . they deserve this. They’ve worked just as hard as I have. And if celebrating with them means a few hours of pretending, then so be it.

“Fine,” I say, giving in. “I’ll go. But if I decide to rot in a corner, that’s on you.”

He slaps me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. We’ll get you some shots to wake you up.”

Once we’re back at the hotel, we drop our stuff and start to deflate. Coach gives us the usual speech about curfew. “Midnight, gentlemen. I don’t care where you are or what state you’re in—your asses better be on this bus tomorrow at 7:00 a.m. sharp.”

We’re dismissed, and the guys are already plotting which bar to hit up. I take a quick shower, change into a clean shirt, and before I know it, we’re piling into Ubers to hit up some local dive.

The bar is packed with a mix of locals and college kids. It’s not our territory, so the vibe is cautious at first. But there’s no confrontation, no territorial chest-thumping. This is soccer, not a Southern favorite like football, so we’re mostly ignored by the regulars.

It’s awkward at first, just the team clustered at the bar, but then, “To the conference champs!” someone yells, and the tension breaks.

Soon, we’re clinking glasses and laughing like we’re on top of the world.

It all becomes a blur pretty quickly. Every time I turn around, there’s another drink waiting for me—vodka, rum, something blue that Chase assures me is “the good stuff.” I’m trying to pace myself, but every time I manage to put my glass down, another one appears in my hand like magic.

“Donovan, you lightweight, catch up!” Santi yells, thrusting a beer toward me. I’m pretty sure he’s already slurring his words, but I grab it anyway, taking a long swig. The world’s starting to spin a little, but in a good way.

Everything’s warm and fuzzy, like I’m floating just above reality.

At some point, Chase pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor. I’ve got no rhythm left, my limbs flailing more than anything resembling dancing, but I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. Someone starts a chant—“Don-o-van! Don-o-van!”—and it just makes me double over, nearly spilling my drink.

The lights are flashing, the music’s pounding, and everything’s moving in slow motion. By this point, I’ve lost track of time. I don’t even know if it’s before or after midnight, and I don’t care. Coach’s rules be damned.

“Chase!” I shout over the noise. “I think I’m about to lose all motor function if—” The rest of my sentence gets lost in a loudhiccup, and Chase doubles over, cackling like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Eventually, I find myself slumped in a corner booth, my head resting against the back of the seat. The team’s still going strong, their laughter and shouts blending into a chaotic background hum, but I’m teetering on the edge of sleep. My body feels heavy, my thoughts slow and syrupy.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fumble for it, squinting at the screen through bleary eyes.

Birdie

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