Page 5 of High Hopes

I open my mouth, fully prepared to give the usual nod-and-smile response my parents expect. A safe, polished answer to keep things simple. But something tugs at me. Something that makes me want to say what I’m actually thinking instead.

“Coach is solid,” I reply. “Keeps us running drills until we’re about ready to faint, but hey, that’s his job, right? Better than the end of last season when he had us playing puke-and-rally. Too many losses can really mess with a man’s head.” I grin, fully aware I’m saying too much, but I can’t seem to stop. “We’re all lucky he hasn’t brought out the tactics cone yet.”

Graham raises a skeptical eyebrow, glancing briefly at my dad for context. “Is that like a ... motivational tool?”

I snort. “Yeah, we sit on it if we screw up a play, and the rest of the team has to yell at us. It’s pure humiliation, but I guess it works.”

The president chuckles politely, but I can feel my mom’s hand on my wrist, her fingers pinching in that subtle way that says stop talking, now.

I glance down at her hand, then back up at President Graham, giving him a tight, brief smile. “Anyway, Coach is good. Thanks for asking.”

I shake off her hand, clenching my fist as I step back. It’s a small gesture, but one that makes my skin itch with irritation. It’s suffocating. A reminder that I’m supposed to fit into their mold, even when it feels like wearing a suit two sizes too small.

Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk away from the group, leaving my mom to handle the rest of the small talk.

I know they mean well, but they expect me to be a different version of myself at these things. The version they’ve carefullymolded over the years. The man who’s the perfectly neurotypical poster child of their success.

I’m not that guy. I don’t want to be him, and I’m not great at pretending otherwise.

I wander around the room, weaving between guests and peeking at the art pieces on display. I don’t know much about art. It’s always felt like something distant, something my parents understood and appreciated, while I kept it at arm’s length rather than risk feeling out of place. But it’s quiet over here, just the way I like it.

And there’s something familiar about this corner.

Birdie, standing next to a collection of pieces—small vases, bowls, and what looks like an abstract sculpture of some sort. She’s wearing a dress, simple but nice, nothing flashy. Her short hair’s pulled back, and she looks ... different. More put together, I guess. Not covered in clay like she was in the studio, but still the same sort of intensity in her eyes.

The kind that makes you feel like she’s fully present, like she’s seeing things most people don’t.

I don’t think much about it; I just head straight for her.

She’s busy talking to some older woman, probably another donor, nodding and smiling politely, but the second she spots me out of the corner of her eye, recognition dawns. Her smile tightens slightly, and after a few more pleasantries, the woman pats her arm and drifts off, leaving us alone.

“You’re here,” I say as I approach, flashing a grin. “I was wondering if you would be.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Your deductive reasoning is unparalleled.”

I chuckle, letting the sarcasm roll off me. “These yours?” I gesture to the pieces—small, delicate vases with uneven, organic shapes, bowls that look like they were pulled right out of theearth. And then there’s the abstract sculpture—jagged, almost chaotic, like someone captured movement in clay.

“Yes,” she says curtly. “No soccer balls allowed near them.”

I laugh, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Noted. Don’t worry, I left the ball at home.” Then I turn my attention back toward her pieces. “So, these are pretty ... different.”

She cocks her head. “Differenthow?”

Right. People don’t like to hear the worddifferentwhen it comes to their art, their personalities, their anything.Differentmeans out of place, and out of place means wrong. “I don’t know. I’m not an art critic. I just know I like them.”

A quiet giggle escapes her. “High praise.”

Before I can add anything else, that tentative, soft smile of hers fades into oblivion. She looks right past me, eyes going wide, posture stiffening.

I turn to find what she’s staring at, and sure enough, it’s my dad—heading straight for us, all calm and collected. He’s on a mission, it seems, and that mission is to assess the situation like he’s sizing up a potential investment. Or possibly just to scold me for wandering off.

I swivel back to Birdie, and she’s already waving me off, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “You need to go,” she mutters, voice low and urgent. “I need to impress these donors if I want a shot at winning the fellowship. That guy behind you, he’s a major part of the selection committee, and I already know he’s a stickler for formality.”

I blink. She doesn’t know we’re related, of course, because how would she? But it’s almost funny how dead-on she is about his vibe. “You mean the tall guy in blue? He looks a little lost here, doesn’t he?”

“Just another out-of-touch donor. Made it big, and now he wants to feel all important again.” She huffs, her eyes darting back and forth between us. “But his money talks, and I kindaneed him to like me. So, sorry, not sorry, but I need you to leave. Like right now.”

I snort and then flash her a quick, sarcastic bow. “Your wish is my command, Bridget-Not-A-Bird. I’ll make myself scarce.”

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