Page 76 of High Hopes

I stick to the kitchen, where it’s quieter. Slightly.

Santi wanders in next, his hair somehow looking perfect despite the humidity of the packed apartment. He grabs a drink from the counter and leans back, surveying the scene for his own strange reasons.

“This is a fire hazard,” he says dryly.

“It’s Chase’s fire hazard,” I point out, taking a sip of my beer.

“You hiding in here?”

“Strategically positioning myself near the drinks,” I tell him.

“Fair.” He nods, his gaze drifting back toward the living room, where someone just cranked the music even louder. “So,” he says after a beat, turning his attention fully to me. “You talk to Birdie yet?”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Why is everyone so obsessed with my love life?”

“Because it’s like watching someone try to parallel park in front of an audience,” Santi says, smirking. “Painful, but you kind of root for them anyway.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I shake my head, but the teasing works. I’m more relaxed now than I have been all week. The conversation shifts to something else—who’s going to puke first tonight, probably—and for a while, it’s easy to pretend everything’s fine.

Once Santi leaves, Chase barrels into the kitchen to drag me back out into the living room. “You’re not gonna spend this whole party sulking,” he says, practically shoving me into the crowd like I’m some antisocial recluse.

I end up near the couch, drink in hand, watching people dance and shout over the music. Someone hands me another drink I didn’t ask for, and I take it because what the hell. It’s easy to get lost in the chaos, to let the noise and the lights and the people blur together until nothing else matters.

But then Chase climbs onto the coffee table, and I’m both curious and bracing myself. He waves his arms, commanding everyone’s attention.

“Hey! Listen up!” he shouts, grinning like a madman. “I’ve got something to say!” The crowd hushes, all eyes turning to him. “Here’s to the Chicago Fire for drafting me, Adidas for the free cleats, and me for being the greatest thing to ever happen to soccer. Drink up!”

The room explodes into cheers. People are clapping, whistling, raising their drinks in a toast to Chase’s boundless ego. He soaks it all in, throwing in a mock bow that makes the coffee table creak under his weight.

I laugh and clap for him, too, even as a pang of something sharp settles in my chest. It’s pride, mostly. Envy, a little bit. But there’s something else there, too—a quiet sense of loss. Chase is leaving, and everything’s about to change.

As the night winds down and the crowd starts to thin out, Chase finds me sitting on the couch. He flops down next to me, still riding the high.

“You okay?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow.

“Sorta,” I say quietly.

He studies me for a moment, then smirks. “Thinking about me?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ll miss having you around. You’re the only person I know who can burn a hole in a pan making scrambled eggs and somehow blame me for it.”

His eyes go wide. “That was one time. And you did distract me by asking where the cinnamon was!”

“Cinnamon’s not even supposed to go in eggs.”

“Live a little.”

We sit there for a minute together, quiet and thoughtful. I let my head fall back against the couch, my eyes drifting to the ceiling.

Chase was my constant after James and Hayes left. My buffer. My teammate in more ways than just soccer. If he hadn’t been here, I probably would’ve retreated into myself, slipping back into the quiet space I tend to occupy when things shift too much.

And now, with him gone, it’s going to be weird again.

I texted Warren earlier about the space being available, and all I got back was,I’ll let you know when I’m moving in. No questions. No explanation. Just a statement of fact.

“You’re gonna figure your shit out,” Chase says finally. “Whatever’s next—soccer, school, Birdie—you’ve got this.”

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