Page 37 of High Hopes

Then the whistle blows, and we’re on.

Twenty minutes in, we’re already down 1-0, so tension’s high. I’ve barely managed to hold possession against their defense—they’re quicker than I’d anticipated, cutting off every angle.

I glance up, and in the split second before I refocus on the game, I spot Birdie, a dot of familiar comfort on the bleachers. She has a hoodie pulled over her head, sitting alone. Watching. My stomach flips.

“Donovan! Push left!” Coach Harris’ voice cuts through my thoughts, and I pull away, darting toward the open wing.

The ball comes over, a clean pass from Amir at midfield. I take it, sprinting down the left side, the defender on my heels. I fake right, then cut back left, just enough to throw him off, and now I’m free. There’s just enough time to whip in a cross toward Chase, who’s already charging into the box like a bull.

It’s a good ball, sharp and angled. Chase connects, but the shot ricochets off the keeper’s gloves, deflecting out. We groan in unison as the opposing team clears it. Our game’s been like this all night—close but just out of reach.

We’re still 1-0 at halftime, and Coach is ripping into us in the locker room, pacing like a caged animal. His voice is low, furious, controlled. “We’ve been too damn soft. Every time you hesitate, they’re capitalizing. Donovan, keep pushing that left side. Their right back’s weak; you’ve got the speed to beat him.”

I nod, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension. The guys are quiet, all of us soaking in the pressure. Chase mutters something to me as we’re heading back out, something about getting a shot in the net this time. I nod, clenching my jaw. We’re close. I can feel it.

The second half isn’t much better. We’re fighting tooth and nail, but it’s like we’re always a step too slow, an inch off. Imanage a few crosses, some decent runs, but nothing’s breaking through.

Each time I lose the ball or a pass falls short, the frustration mounts. I’m inside my own head, and I keep catching myself looking toward the bleachers, wondering if Birdie’s still watching, if she’s seeing every misstep, every missed chance.

Finally, with five minutes left on the clock, we get a break. Amir wins the ball at midfield and sends it wide to me. I take off, pushing everything I’ve got left into my legs, feeling the burn as I tear down the field. The defender’s on me again, but I cut inside this time, faking him out with a quick flick to my right foot.

Chase is in the box, his eyes locked on mine. I send a low cross his way, hoping this one connects. He meets it, sending a sharp shot toward the far post. The ball spins, angling perfectly, and for a second, it looks like it’s going to sneak in—just edge its way over the line.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it glances off the post with a dull thud and ricochets out. I freeze, staring as the rebound clears the box. A collective groan echoes from the stands, and the defeat settles over us like a deflated balloon sagging in slow motion, heavy and inevitable.

The whistle blows a minute later, ending the game. Final score: 1-0.

I’m doubled over, hands on my knees, breath coming hard. As Syracuse celebrates their win, I glance up toward the bleachers, half expecting Birdie to be gone. But she’s still there, watching, waiting. That steadies me, even if only a little.

Chase, though, is simmering. He walks past me, his jaw clenched, frustration etched across his face. I can practically see the thoughts spinning behind his eyes, the missed shot, the sponsor deal he’s been gunning for—all slipping further out of reach. He shoves his hands through his hair, muttering a string of nonsensical curses under his breath.

We don’t exchange a word as we head off the field. Chase’s shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead as we enter the tunnel. I want to say something—crack a joke or offer one of those cheesy pep talks—but he’s too far in his head. Chase always shoulders the loss like it’s his personal failure, and tonight’s no exception.

Coach gives us a short, tense talk in the locker room, telling us to shake it off and push harder for the next game. His words are aimed at the team, but his eyes linger on Chase a little too long.

It’s one loss in a string of close matches. It sucks, yeah, but it doesn’t gnaw at me the way it does him. I’m not the one with an Adidas contract dangling in the distance.

After a quick shower, I pull my bag over my shoulder and head out of the locker room, scanning the exit for Birdie. She could’ve bailed right after the game, but something tells me she didn’t.

Sure enough, there she is, standing by the gate, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket, staring up at the sky like it’s personally offended her. When I call her name, she jumps a little, then grins as she spots me.

“Hey,” I say, rougher than I mean to. I rub the back of my neck, the sting of the loss still fresh. “Thanks for coming.”

“Couldn’t miss it. You played great. Really, Liam, that cross at the end? Beautiful.”

I huff out a small, humorless laugh. How does she even know what a cross is? “Doesn’t mean much if we don’t win.”

She tilts her head, her gaze softening in that way that makes me feel both seen and called out. “You gave it everything. I could see it.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, managing a smirk, “apparently my everything just isn’t good enough.”

She sighs, nudging me with her elbow. “Maybe you just need better teammates.”

I laugh despite myself, the tension in my chest loosening just a little. “Careful. Chase might hear you and start crying.”

She grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m sure. Wanna grab something to eat? My treat.”

I raise a brow, but a small smile breaks through. “You don’t have to do that.”

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