High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

4. Liam

4

LIAM

Late September in North Carolina still feels like the middle of summer, with humidity thick enough to choke on beneath a burning, brutal sun. Sweat runs down the back of my neck, and the grass feels like sandpaper beneath my cleats.

I feel every sensation on my skin like it’s turned up a notch—the sticky cling of my jersey, the sting of salt from sweat dripping into my eyes, the grit under my fingertips when I catch myself on the ground. It’s distracting if I let it be.

Today, we’re running drill after drill, no mercy, just sharp whistles and gruff commands from Coach. “Come on, Donovan!” Harris yells. “Move your damn feet!”

I’m already a step ahead—sprinting, dodging, weaving between cones like my life depends on it. Chase is on my heels, breathing down my neck, probably grinning like a little kid because that’s how he is. He’ll chase you down for the thrill of it.

We’re neck and neck by the time we reach the end of the field, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Chase elbows me, just enough to throw me off-balance, and then bolts ahead, laughing as he does.

“Cheap shot, man!” I shout, trying to catch my breath.

“That’s called winning,” he tosses over his shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”

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.

Coach grunts. “Well, next time you’re chatting with the man who signs my checks and a room full of donors, keep your loose lips in check.” He claps me on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “You made me look bad, Donovan.”

There’s that disappointment again. Somehow, I manage to make grown men look bad without even trying. A real feat for a college kid barely scraping by.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck again.

He laughs gruffly. “Just keep it on the field, alright? You’ve got too much talent to be talking yourself into trouble.”

“Got it.” Lips sealed, for now.

It’s not like I even enjoy talking that much. I don’t particularly love the sound of my own voice or the attention it can draw. But sometimes, it’s like my thoughts spill out before I have a chance to lock them down.

I just say what’s on my mind, no filter, no second-guessing, and it’s hard for me to understand how other people can hold it all in. Must be exhausting keeping every stray thought caged up inside.

It’s a constant battle, I think. A pointless fight I’m designed to lose.

It’s a week later, and I’m sprawled out on the grass of the practice field, the first crisp night of October finally cooling things down. My shirt clings to me, drenched in sweat, but I don’t care.

I like being alone out here. When I’m practicing by myself, pushing harder than I need to, everything feels predictable. Outcomes are controlled. Effort and results are balanced. It makes group practice easier—shutting off my brain, not thinking about the thousands of overlapping sensations or the act of playing itself, but just doing it.

I stare up at the sky, dotted with stars, and let the light breeze wrap around me. The faint glitter of light against the black makes me feel like maybe things aren’t as overwhelming as they sometimes seem.

Then there’s a clatter, sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence.

I sit up, my muscles groaning in protest, and glance toward the arts building. Someone’s standing outside, their figure just barely visible under a single flickering light.

I push myself up, curiosity tugging at me, and jog over.

“Shit, shit, shit,” the girl mutters under her breath.

She’s crouched down, picking up the shattered remains of what looks like a clay pot. Soft brown hair, two beaded pearl clips. A frazzled but determined demeanor.

It’s Birdie Collins, of course. She’s kneeling in the dirt, her hands trembling slightly as she tries to gather the broken pieces.

Without thinking much of it, I drop to my knees beside her. “Need a hand?”

Her focus stays locked on the scattered shards as she mutters, “It’s fine, really. This piece was crap anyway.” Her hands move quickly, sweeping up the fragments like she’s trying to erase the evidence before anyone notices—like she can make it disappear if she moves fast enough.

But then her eyes flicker up, and they lock on mine. Her expression shifts, the smallest flicker of recognition crossing her face. For a split second, I can see the wheels turning in her head before she deadpans, “Liam Donovan. What are you doing here?”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re full naming now?”

She snorts, brushing her hands off on her jeans before sitting back on her heels. “You”—she wags a finger in my face—“you let me say all those things. Ran off and didn’t even bother telling me who your dad was.”

I shrug, leaning back slightly. “Neither did you.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a glint of something—maybe amusement, maybe something else—before she shakes her head, dropping her gaze back to the mess at our feet. “Touché.”

I wince. “You could probably ... glue it back together? What’s that thing where you put the gold shit in the cracks?”

I know about this technique—Dad used to go on about it during one of his metaphor-heavy talks. ‘It’s about embracing the flaws, making something even more valuable than it was before.’

“Kintsugi, and it’s urushi lacquer.” She keeps her focus on the broken pot for a second before letting out a long breath. “It’s fine. I didn’t like this one that much.”

I watch her for a moment. “Yeah? Looked pretty solid to me. You sure you didn’t just lose your temper and take it out on this poor, unsuspecting pot?”

She laughs under her breath and gives me a sidelong glance. “I never lose my temper.”

“No?”

“No.” She taps her temple. “This thing up here, it’s like a steel trap. Perfectly tempered at all times.”

I grin. “Right. I can tell by the way you were sweating bullets at the donor event on Saturday. Screams calm under pressure.”

She rolls her eyes. “If I was going to throw something in a fit of rage, I’d pick something a little more satisfying to break.” She gestures noncommittally to the remaining shards. “This one was already on its way out.”

I glance at the pieces, then back at her. There’s something in the way she talks—so casual, like everything’s under control—but the way she was muttering under her breath a minute ago says otherwise.

I’ve only known her a few days, but even I can already tell she’s not the type to let anyone see her slip, not easily.

“So, kintsugi, huh?” I say lightly. “It’s meant to make things more beautiful, isn’t it? The cracks, the imperfections. Wouldn’t it be the perfect fix for a broken piece like this?”

She snorts. “Did your dad teach you that?”

I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “I try not to listen too hard when my dad talks.” Most of it’s just noise—art metaphors, life lessons I’m supposed to care about but don’t. But this one ... it kind of stuck with me. “But if you can fix something and make it better, why not try?”

She’s quiet for a long while, like she’s considering my point, her gaze flickering over the broken pieces in her hands. But then she murmurs, almost to herself, “It doesn’t always work that way.”

I shrug, letting it go. “Okay.”

She tilts her head. “Okay?”

“What? Did you want me to argue with you about it some more? You’re right. Some things are meant to stay broken. Some things can’t be fixed with a bit of gold-dusted glue. I’m not here to change your mind.”

She flashes me a sideways smile. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Just ... let things go like that? Most people would have tried to convince me. Push me to see their point.”

“Not my style. I say what I think, you say what you think, and we move on. Doesn’t mean I have to keep hammering at it. I’m not here to win some devil’s advocate debate.”

Her smile lingers for a second, and then she nods, almost to herself. “That’s ... kind of chaotic. Kind of refreshing.”

I wink. “I aim to please.”

She laughs gently. “You’re strange, too. I like that.”

“So are you,” I say, because it’s the truth. She’s honest in a way that most people aren’t. Guarded, sure, but there’s something else there, too. Something that pulls you in, like she’s constantly holding back a storm but doesn’t let it show. Plus, she’s quite beautiful. “And you’re really pretty.”

Her cheeks go pink. “I—I’m not even sure what to say to that.”

“Well, since we’re exchanging compliments, you could tell me I’m pretty, too.”

She lets out a laugh, one of those short, surprised ones that bubble up before she can stop it. For a second, it looks like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. And then, with a little shake of her head, she says, “You’re pretty, too, Liam. The prettiest disaster I’ve ever met.”

I smile. “I’ll take it.”