Page 95 of High Hopes

“Not even a little,” I say honestly. “You make it fun to watch.”

His expression softens, and he takes a step closer, resting a hand on my arm. Even through my coat, I can feel the warmth of his touch. “You ready to head back? Or do you want to hang out here and freeze a little longer?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Let’s go. My toes stopped working like ten minutes ago.”

“Come on, then. Don’t want you to lose ’em.”

He drapes an arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the parking lot. It’s a firm, steady touch that radiates warmth, and I lean into him, letting the moment settle. Watching him play, seeing him so at ease out there—it felt like catching a glimpse of a world that’s entirely his. A world full of confidence, quiet determination, and joy.

And somehow, he’s letting me be part of it.

I feel lucky that he’s opened his circle to me, that he’s invited me into this part of his life. Into every part of his life. That he trusts me enough to let me exist in all the spaces where he feels most like himself—and that, somehow, I’ve become one of those spaces, too.

33

LIAM

We pullup to the house just as the porch light flickers on. Birdie cradles a half-empty travel mug Sena made her take, her cheeks pink from the cold.

She’s more at ease in my car now, though her fingers still grip the edge of the seat like we might launch into orbit at any second. She avoids watching the road, her eyes following the sky, the buildings sliding by, anything but the glare of oncoming headlights. It’s a quiet shift, but it’s there.

I’m ridiculously proud of her and honored that she trusts me.

She catches me looking and smiles—a small, tired curve of her lips that warms me all the way through. “That was really fun,” she says softly, her voice carrying over the low hum of the engine. “I want to come to more of your practices.”

I grin, shifting the car into park. “Yeah?”

Her nod is subtle but sure. “Yeah. I like seeing you like that—doing what you’re good at. What you love.”

I shut off the engine, the soft click of the key cutting through the quiet. “You’re welcome anytime.”

Inside, the smell of coffee and toasted bread greets us first, warm and familiar. Then we spot Warren, sprawled across the couch like it’s his personal throne. His physics textbook is openon one knee, a half-eaten sandwich balanced precariously on the armrest, and he’s wearing the same vaguely annoyed expression that seems permanently etched onto his face.

“Donovan,” he says without looking up, his tone flat. “Your door squeaks.”

“Nice to see you, too, Warren,” I reply, kicking off my shoes. “Glad you’re making yourself at home.”

“Well, I do live here,” he mutters.

Birdie muffles a laugh beside me, her eyes dancing as she watches our exchange. “Is he always like this?”

“Always,” I say with mock resignation, gesturing for her to follow me to the kitchen. “And yet, somehow, he grows on you.”

Warren shuts his book with an obnoxious amount of force and stretches, his movements unhurried and deliberate. He looks at me, then at Birdie, his green eyes narrowing like he’s trying to solve a math problem. Then, he stands, grabbing his plate.

“Don’t worry,” Warren says, voice deadpan. “I’ll clear out. Looks like you two need some privacy.”

Birdie turns crimson so fast it’s almost impressive.

“Warren,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Please spare my girlfriend.”

It’s funny because that’s exactly the kind of thing I’d say to Hayes or Chase. But the fact that he’s embarrassing Birdie makes me feel weirdly defensive—like he’s stepping on some invisible boundary I didn’t know I had.

Warren shrugs, completely unfazed. “Should I stay and watch the show?”

Before I can respond, he grabs his coat and leaves the house, the front door closing behind him with a quiet click. Birdie lets out a laugh, the sound somewhere between amused and mortified.

“Your roommate,” she says, still laughing. “Wow.”

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