Page 93 of High Hopes

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

“I know I don’t,” she says, her lips curving into a small smile. “But I want to. As long as you’re okay with my running commentary about how annoying sports are.”

I laugh. “Deal. But you have to promise not to heckle Liam.”

She winks. “No promises.”

We spend the next hour lounging around, sipping coffee. Sena tells me about an improv class she’s taking on the side (how she has time for that, I’ll never understand).

“I know, I know,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s overdone. But they’re adding puppets. Like, full-on sock puppets. I don’t know if it’ll be brilliant or a hot mess, but I’m dying to be a part of it.”

“Of course you are,” I say, grinning. “You thrive on chaos.”

“So true.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, and I glance at the mugs between us, twirling mine idly on the table. “So, uh, Liam did this thing the other day,” I say casually, though my cheeks heat just thinking about it.

She narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. “Define ‘thing.’ Is this aweirdthing or a sex thing?”

I chuckle. “Uh, neither?”

She perks up. “Okay, then spill.”

I rest my chin on my hand. “He made me this list. Two columns—Glad and Bad. And he wants to double down on all the Glad.”

“Oh my God,” she murmurs. “What does that mean?”

“It means he thinks sour gummy worms can fix everything,” I say, rolling my eyes but unable to stop smiling. “Really, he just wrote down a bunch of things that make me happy on a bowling alley napkin.”

She nearly chokes on her coffee. “Aw, I sorta love him.”

“Me too.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted to it, and the truth of it settles over me like the comfort of an old, favorite sweatshirt. “It worked, by the way. For, like, five minutes, I forgot how miserable I was.”

“The man is willing to immortalize his bad jokes in list form to make you laugh. Seriously, B, that’s adorable. And you deserve adorable. Don’t mess this up.”

I blink, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. “I don’t plan to.”

“Good. Because if you do, I’m stealing him.”

“Oh, please.” I swat at her. “Liam wouldn’t survive five minutes with you.”

She gives a dreamy, teasing smile. “But what a glorious five minutes it would be.”

I roll my eyes, but the warmth of the moment settles deep in my chest, like the glow of sunlight after a long storm. It feels good, natural—one of those rare times when life slows down just enough to let you breathe.

When it’s time to leave, she pulls on three layers of clothing and mutters something about frostbite, though there’s a playful glint in her eye that says she doesn’t mind. Not really.

I’m happy that things are shifting—not just with Liam or Claire, but with me. I’m finally starting to let people in, to believe that I deserve the kind of connections I’ve always been too scared to reach for. That despite life’s setbacks—the accident, the loss—I can still find joy in these quiet, fleeting moments that remind me I’m still here, still moving forward.

The cold bitesthrough my layers as Sena and I make our way across campus to the practice field. I can see my breath every time I exhale, and the frosty air clings to my cheeks, numbing them.

Sena has her beanie pulled low over her ears, scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, and her puffer jacket zipped all the way up. “I hate this already,” she mutters, her gloved hands stuffed into her pockets.

“You’re the one who insisted on coming,” I remind her.

“Yeah, because I’m a good friend,” she shoots back, her tone dripping with mock resentment. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

I laugh, nudging her as we approach the field. The players are already out there, jogging around to warm up, their breath misting in the cold air. Liam’s easy to spot, even from a distance—tall, confident, and utterly in his element. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black compression shirt under his practice jersey, his blond hair a messy halo under the floodlights.

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