Page 70 of High Hopes

“Consider it my contribution to your sniffing lemons fund,” he says, smirking as we head for the door.

Despite everything, I laugh. It’s a bad joke, but it feels good. Wholesome, even. And maybe James is right—maybe all I need to do is figure out what makes Birdie happy and lean into it.

When we get back from break, and she stops icing me out, I’ll be ready with something better than just space. Something that shows her I’m here for the long haul.

I was wrong.Break’s over, and Birdie’s still keeping her distance. I showed up to her apartment a couple of times, knocked, waited, even texted to let her know I was outside. But nothing. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to see me.

She said we’d talk before I left for the tournament, and we didn’t. Now I’m here, at the College Cup, trying to focus on the biggest week of my soccer career. A futile effort when I know she’s back in Dayton, wallowing and shutting me out.

The team arrived in Ashworth three days ago, and it’s been nonstop since. Practices, strategy sessions, media briefings—it’s a whirlwind of activity that leaves little room for anything else. Which, I guess, is a blessing in disguise. If I wasn’t this busy, I’d be losing my mind thinking about her.

The first game is relentless. We’re playing Stanford, and it’s brutal—physical from the first whistle, the kind of match that leaves you bruised and gasping for air. Chase scores early in the first half, a perfectly placed header off Amir’s corner kick that electrifies the crowd.

By the time the second half rolls around, we’re up 1–0, but Stanford’s pressing hard. Their forwards are quick, incessant, and I’m stuck tracking one of them who feels like he’s running on rocket fuel. My lungs are burning, my legs are screaming, but there’s no time to slow down. Every tackle feels like a battle, every pass like a lifeline.

The final whistle blows, and we barely hold on for the win. Relief floods the field, but it’s muted—we know we’ve still got more to fight for.

In the lockers afterward, the atmosphere is electric. Guys are cheering, clapping each other on the back, already buzzing with anticipation for the next game. But we know it’s only going to get tougher.

And it does. The next game is a war. We’re up against NCSU, the defending champs, and they’re as sharp as everyone said they’d be. The match is a chess game from the start, every move calculated, every pass contested like it’s the last. By halftime, it’s tied at zero, and we’re all running on fumes.

Coach gives us one of his fiery speeches during the break, the kind that’s supposed to light a fire under you. But even that can’t change the fact that they’re just better. They score early in the second half—a quick counterattack that cuts through our defense like a knife—and no matter how hard we push, we can’t find an answer.

We throw everything we have at them in the final minutes—long balls, desperate shots, every ounce of energy left in our bodies—but it’s not enough.

The game ends 1–0, and just like that, our season is over.

The locker room is silent. No sharp speeches this time, no celebratory shouting. Just the sound of cleats being pulled off, of guys packing up their gear, of dreams ending in the span of ninety minutes.

And then Chase breaks the silence.

“I know this fucking sucks. We blew it, obviously. But I—I signed my contract,” he blurts out, standing in the middle of the room with a grin so wide it practically splits his face. “Isn’t that wild?”

We’re still reeling from the loss, but a win like this, a moment this big—it cuts through the disappointment like a burst ofsunlight after a storm. It’s perfect timing, really. We needed something to remind us that the game doesn’t end here, that there’s more waiting for us beyond the final whistle.

Chase is beaming, soaking up the cheers and backslaps from the team. When he gets the chance, he tells me, “I report in January. Sorry I have to leave you, buddy.”

I grab him by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Don’t be sorry. This is huge, man. They’re lucky to have you.”

And it’s true. A Generation Adidas contract—it’s one of the biggest deals a college player can get, a fast track to the MLS. It’s everything Chase has been working toward, and he earned it.

“Hell yeah, they are.”

By the time we get back to the hotel, everyone’s wiped out. The mood is a strange blend of relief and finality, a quiet realization that this chapter is closing for some of us faster than others. Chase and I quickly retreat to our room, and once we’re alone, he corners me.

“Hey,” he says, his tone a little quieter now. “You’re gonna be okay, you know? When I’m gone.”

I shake my head. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “You’re one of the best players on this team, Liam. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you. Don’t let anything—not my leaving, notanyone—make you think otherwise.”

The lump in my throat comes out of nowhere, and I nod, swallowing hard. “Thanks, buddy. That means a lot coming from you.”

And it does. He’s not the sentimental type. More of a jokes-first, feelings-later guy. If he’s saying this now, it’s because he means it.

He claps me on the shoulder, grinning again. “Now, get some sleep. You’ve got to hold down the fort for the rest of the year.”

Chase has always had this larger-than-life energy, like he’s built for more than just the everyday grind. Seeing him so certain, so ready for what’s next, should feel bittersweet. But right now, it’s just bitter.

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