Page 9 of High Hopes

I flip him off, but a grin tugs at my lips. Chase is annoying, cocky and sure-footed, but damn if he isn’t one of the best strikers I’ve ever played with. Fast, ruthless, and always two steps ahead, both on and off the field.

As we jog back to reset for the next drill, I see Santi and Amir messing around near the goalposts, taking turns launching shots into the net. Santi’s the kind of player who’s always talking trash, but he’s got the skills to back it up, and Amir’s the quiet type—solid as a rock, a defensive wall that’s impossible to break through.

Chase sidles up to me, nudging my shoulder. “You’re slow today, bud. Late night? I saw your light on when I got back.”

I was up late finishing a civil engineering assignment. That’s what happens when you put things off until the last minute. Some people lose it under pressure. Me? I can’t focus until there’s a tight deadline staring me down like it’s daring me to fail. But at least I get things done, even if I have to practically set fire to my brain to do it.

It’s a hellscape up there. Calculations, diagrams, and deadlines all fighting for space in my mixed-up head.

I grunt, rolling my neck to shake off the tension. “Classwork.”

“Don’t you usually just wing it?”

“I mean, I usually stare at my screen for a few hours before pulling an all-nighter the night before it’s due. If that’s what ‘winging it’ is, then yeah.”

Chase snorts. “Brutal, buddy.”

Before I can respond, Coach’s whistle shrieks again. “Alright, guys, small-sided game. Five-on-five. Let’s go!”

Chase flashes me another grin, and this time, it’s all shiny, perfect teeth and unshakeable confidence. “Guess I’m kicking your ass today.”

“Bring it,” I mutter, jogging over to my side of the field.

The game is fast-paced—tight spaces, quick decisions, constant movement. I’m a winger, so my job is to keep the ball moving, to weave through defenders and set up crosses. But today, I’m distracted. My mind keeps drifting back to all the things I don’t usually like to think about.

School is a relentless one. The civil engineering assignment I barely finished on time. The pressure to balance it all. The donor event with my parents and the way my dad chewed me out afterward.

I couldn’t bring myself to act the part. To play along like everything was fine.

“You embarrassed me, Liam,” Dad had said, his voice low and full of disappointment. “Running away from me in front of a prospective recipient. Leaving halfway through the event without a word to your mother or me. Do you think that’s funny?”

What was I supposed to say? I didn’t want to be at the event in the first place. I tried my best, but I knew it the moment I stepped out of line. Why should I pretend like I belong in those rooms, making small talk with people who wouldn’t even look twice at me if my last name weren’t Donovan?

The ball comes flying toward me, forcing me back to the present. I take off, sprinting down the sideline, heart pounding in my chest. Santi’s coming up fast, trying to block me, but I duck around him, sending the ball sailing toward the goal just as Chase comes barreling in.

He heads it into the back of the net. Goal.

Chase pumps his fist, flashing me a triumphant grin, but all I can do is nod and jog back down the field. Practice is winding down, and exhaustion’s starting to creep into my bones. I glance toward the arts building, my gaze lingering on the window I shattered with that damn ball.

It’s patched up now—fresh glass, not even a scratch. I wonder if Birdie’s in there, spinning clay on her wheel, cursing under her breath when things go wrong. I wonder what she thought when she realized that “out-of-touch artist” was my dad.

Maybe she was confused or embarrassed, but she shouldn’t have been. She was right, after all—my dad does want to feel important. He wants to feel like he’s still relevant, like his work matters. Always has.

A man who chases validation but can’t be bothered to spare any for his own sons.

“Donovan!” Coach’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I snap back to reality. He waves me over. “Get your head out of the clouds and come over here!”

I jog toward him, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My legs feel heavier than they should, my focus still half-scattered.

Coach Harris gives me a look I don’t waste time deciphering. “Had an interesting chat with Ted Graham the other day.”

Oh, right. Here we go. I know I shouldn’t open my mouth when it comes to team dynamics, but it wasn’t done in an effort to tattle. I was trying to be relatable, I think. Or maybe I was trying to take the attention off myself and shift the conversation.

“Apparently,” Coach grits out, “you’ve been telling our president that I use barbaric shaming tactics to keep you all in line.”

I tilt my head. “I wouldn’t say it’s barbaric. In fact, I think it’s character-building. A real bonding experience. Graham must have misread me.”

He raises an eyebrow, but I just shrug. It’s not a lie. I didn’t bring it up to rag on my coach—I just thought it was funny at the time. The team jokes about it constantly.

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