Page 57 of High Hopes

congrats on the win, soccer star. miss ya over here

A dopey smile spreads across my face, and I try to type back a response, but the letters keep dancing around the screen, refusing to cooperate. Giving up, I snap a selfie—eyes half-closed, a lazy grin on my face—and hit Send.

“Don-o-van!” Chase’s voice booms as he materializes out of nowhere, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “You’re not done yet, are you?”

I blink up at him, the effort it takes to form words feeling monumental. “I think ... I might actually be ... done.”

He laughs, slapping my back. “Alright, Grandpa. Let’s get you back before youreallyembarrass yourself.”

The next thing I know, I’m being half dragged, half carried out of the bar, Chase’s laughter ringing in my ears. The cool night air hits me like a wall, sharp and sobering, and I stumble, almost face-planting on the sidewalk.

“Easy, tiger,” Amir says, appearing on my other side to grab my arm and steady me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, leaning heavily on both of them as they haul me back toward the hotel. The world spins around me in a dizzying blur, but I don’t mind it so much.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m going to regret this in the morning—the pounding headache, the dry mouth, the vague embarrassment of a night half remembered. But right now? Right now, everything feels good.

The win, the team, the drinks, and Birdie’s text still buzzing in my pocket.

For tonight, I’ve got everything I need.

20

BIRDIE

It’s past midnight,and sleep is nowhere in sight. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours because my mind refuses to settle. I know I need rest, more time to recover. That migraine from nearly two weeks ago still lingers in the back of my mind, a warning I can’t ignore.

It proves I’ve been pushing myself too hard—that I’m not invincible, no matter how much I pretend otherwise. Yet I can’t force myself to slow down, can’t quiet the thoughts swirling through my head.

Right now, it’s not even the fellowship presentation that’s keeping me up. It’s him. Liam Donovan.

I stare at the ceiling, replaying that kiss over and over. Liam taking that small, unsure step into my apartment. The way his lips felt against mine, soft but urgent, like he’d been holding on to those feelings for far too long. The warmth of his hands on my waist ...

And the way his touch still lingers—a quiet hum of desire that flares up every time I think about it.

It’s driving me up the wall, how one kiss has unraveled me so completely, leaving me restless, yearning for more. So, when myphone lights up on the nightstand again, dragging me out of the loop inside my head, I lunge for it.

For the past hour, Liam’s been sending me a flurry of messages. Texts that range from sweet to completely nonsensical. Half of them I can’t even decipher, like they’re written in some code only for the drunk to understand.

Liam

birdie birdie birdie. guess what

ur lips r a gift

i think i lost my shoe

birdie i think i left my head in the bathroom??? or maybe it was the bar???

I bite back a smile, turning onto my stomach and propping myself up on my elbows. It’s entertaining, sure, but it’s hard to know if it’s drunk honesty or just noise. Sometimes intoxicated ramblings are just that—nonsensical and fleeting, gone by morning.

My phone buzzes again.

Liam

miss u. ur so pretty

gonna kiss u forever

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