Page 96 of High Hopes

“Yeah,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “He’s a special kind of angry.”

She grins up at me, and just like that, the awkward tension evaporates. “Angry, but not hateful. He just seems . . . I don’t know, like a grumpy old man trapped in a swimmer’s body.”

She’s not wrong. I’ve started to figure Warren out better now. He doesn’t hate me—he’s just rough around the edges, carrying this worn-in energy like he’s lived ten lives already. Like he’s seen it all and doesn’t have the patience for much more.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I say, eyeing her with a smirk. “But enough about him and hisswimmer’s body. Come on.” I tilt my head toward the hallway. “Let me show you the rest of the place.”

When we reach my room, my pulse does this weird, jittery thing. It’s not like she hasn’t been over before, but this feels different. She’s stepping into my space. My room. The one place that’s really mine, where I don’t have to worry about keeping up appearances or filtering out the messy parts of me.

“Here we are,” I say, pushing the door open.

She steps inside, her eyes sweeping over the space like she’s trying to piece me together from the things I keep around. The walls are bare except for a few soccer posters and a framed photo of my team from last season. My desk is cluttered—laptop, a few notebooks, a half-empty water bottle—and my bed’s not exactly pristine, but it’s made. Sort of.

“It’s . . . cozy,” she says, her lips curving into a teasing smile.

“Cozy?” I close the door behind us, leaning back against it. “That’s a compliment?”

“Yes, it’s . . . very you.”

She steps closer to the desk, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping it open. Her eyes scan the page, and I realize too late that it’s filled with notes on plays and formations. Nothing too embarrassing, but still—this ismy stuff.

“Do you ever stop thinking about soccer?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, shrugging. “But it’s kinda my thing.”

She sets the notebook down and turns toward me, her smile softening. “I like it. Your thing.”

“That’s good,” I say, clearing my throat and pushing off the door. “Now you’ve seen my not-so-cozy room. What do you think? Could use a lava lamp, right? Or maybe a beanbag chair?”

She laughs, and it’s the same light, musical sound I’ve grown to love. “I think you’re good without it.” She sinks onto the edge of my bed. “I like being here,” she says after a moment. “With you.”

Her words hit like a soft punch to the chest—not painful, but unexpected and full of weight. Not because I didn’t think she felt that way, but because hearing her say it out loud makes it feel real. Tangible.

“Me too,” I say, and I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything.

She tilts her head back, catching sight of the shelf above my bed. It’s lined with knickknacks I’ve collected over the years: a miniature soccer ball, a goofy picture of me and James at a theme park, and, right in the middle, a gray Jellycat bunny with one ear flopped over.

Birdie zeroes in on it immediately. “Wait, is that yours?”

I shrug, my cheeks heating. “Yeah. Got it when I was six. Haven’t had the heart to get rid of it.”

She turns to me, delighted. “I love Jellycats. I have a whole collection back at my apartment.”

I blink. “I’ve never seen them.”

She shifts, suddenly bashful. “That’s because I keep them stored away. It’s . . . kind of an embarrassing amount.”

“How many are we talking?”

“Too many,” she says, laughing. “You’d judge me forever.”

“Probably.”

I move closer, sitting beside her as she picks up one of the smaller trophies from the shelf and turns it over. My hand settles lightly on her back, and I lower my chin to rest on the top of her head.

“You’re so cute,” I murmur, my voice soft against her hair.

She freezes for a half second before relaxing into me, her fingers brushing over the trophy. “Because I like stuffed animals?”

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