6. Liam
6
LIAM
Chase and the guys are scattered across our living room, eyes glued to the screen, yelling at every pass and tackle like they’ve got something personally riding on it. The Bobcats are playing the Outlaws. It’s a mid-season game with zero stakes, but everyone’s acting like it’s the goddamn Super Bowl.
I’m sitting on the edge of the couch, and I’m finding it hard to pretend like I care. It’s mind-numbingly dull. I’d rather be playing football than watching it. Never understood the appeal of sitting around, yelling at a bunch of guys doing something I could be doing myself.
The only reason I’m down here right now is because Chase begged me. Said something about tradition, bonding, whatever. So here I am, feet up on the coffee table, scrolling through my phone to kill time while they’re all losing their minds over some missed field goal.
I don’t play sports because I want to be part of some bro-ey culture. I play them because I like running around and being good at something physical, something straightforward.
“You see that?” Chase shouts, slapping me on the shoulder. “Fucking disgraceful, man!”
I grunt, barely glancing up. “Yeah. Brutal.”
“You’re the worst fake fan I’ve ever seen,” Chase laughs, tossing a barbecue chip directly at my face.
I catch it in my mouth with a half-hearted wink. My phone buzzes as Chase snorts and shakes his head, muttering something about my priorities. I glance at the screen. It’s my brother, James, calling, and the sight of his name sends a pang of something sharp and familiar through me.
Without thinking, I’m off the couch, pushing past empty pizza boxes and Solo cups, heading for the back door. Once I’m outside, I shake out my hands and let the tension bleed out of my shoulders.
“Hey,” I say, leaning against the railing. “What’s up?”
“Hey, bud,” James replies, his tone easy but carrying that subtle edge I’ve learned to pick up on. “Just wondering how things are going. What are you up to?”
My stomach dips. It’s been months since we’ve talked—like, really talked. He’s been busy with the season, grinding through his first year in the minors as a third baseman. Between practices, travel, and trying to keep his spot on the team, I haven’t wanted to add to his plate.
Meanwhile, I’ve just been . . . here. Doing the college thing. Soccer. Dealing with our parents. Same old.
“Not much. Watching the Bobcats game with some of the guys,” I say. “How was the end of the season?”
James lets out a low chuckle. “Tough as hell. Got my ass handed to me more times than I care to admit. But I’m still here, so that’s something.”
I laugh. My older brother has always been the kind of guy who’ll throw himself into anything full throttle, even when the odds are stacked against him. Whether it’s baseball or life, he plays like a wild card.
“What’s wrong? Are you still swinging your curveballs directly into the dirt?”
James snorts, but my mind flickers back to us as kids. Him teaching me how to hit in the backyard, the two of us swinging at imaginary pitches until the sun went down. He was always so sure of himself, even back then—confident in a way that felt unshakable.
“Yeah, yeah.” There’s something off in his voice. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know I don’t like it. “How’s the season treating you? Harris still being a hard-ass?”
“It’s good so far,” I say, pacing the deck. “Living with Chase is helping keep me focused. He’s serious about going pro, getting scouted, all that.”
Chase’s lifelong dream is to secure a Generation Adidas contract and leave school early. It’s one of the most coveted opportunities in college soccer—a deal that guarantees a fast track to the MLS, skipping the draft entirely. He talks about it like it’s already locked in, just waiting for the paperwork to clear.
In reality, only a handful of players get offered one each year—maybe a dozen out of thousands across the country. The chances are slim, but Chase carries himself like he’s one of the chosen few, like failure isn’t even on the table.
“That’s awesome, man. You thinking about soccer after school, or are you still on the civil engineering track?”
There’s a long pause, like he’s waiting for me to say the right thing. His silences are weighted, always full of something unsaid, and it’s hard to decipher whether he’s holding back judgment or trying to give me space.
My brother isn’t the steady, play-it-safe type. He believes in having ambitions, sure, but he’s always encouraged me to pursue whatever I want, even if it’s a risk. That’s why he pushed me to chase collegiate-level soccer in the first place, no matter what our parents thought.
“I’m really not sure yet,” I admit. “Mom and Dad are still pushing for the latter. You know how they are.”
“Yeah, I know.” His voice tightens, and it’s clear what he’s thinking—our parents, with their endless expectations, pivoting us toward their idea of success. James took a different route, refusing to fall in line with their version of a “stable” future.
It’s funny, considering they didn’t follow any kind of traditional path themselves. Dad’s this big-shot artist, while our mom’s a public speaker. She lectures on “The Psychology of Charisma and Influence,” which, in my mind, is just a fancy way of saying she’s a master manipulator. Well-versed in the art of wrapping people around her perfect finger.
And yet, professional sports? Not a “real career” to them. Makes no sense.
I shake off the thought, not wanting to get sucked into the usual rabbit hole of resentment and frustration over their hypocrisy. “I met a girl, by the way,” I tell him, changing the subject. “An arts major.”
I don’t know why I bother bringing it up. Birdie isn’t a girl I’m seeing. She’s not a hookup or even close to being that.
“Oh yeah?” He clears his throat. “Didn’t think you’d wanna get mixed up with the artsy type.”
“Eh, it’s not really like that. She’s applying for Dad’s fellowship, and I’m helping her out with the application.”
“Helping her out?” His tone shifts, something guarded creeping in. “And what’s she offering you in return?”
I frown. “Why’s it matter?”
He lets out a low hum, the kind that makes my stomach knot up. “Just be careful. Some people will do anything to get what they want, especially when Dad’s involved.”
I bristle. “I know I’m not great at reading people, but that doesn’t mean I’m some easy target.”
“Didn’t say you were,” he says quickly. “Sometimes you don’t see things the way other people do, and that can make things tricky.”
I grit my teeth, the familiar frustration bubbling up. I’m a twenty-one-year-old man, not some clueless, naive kid. Just because I don’t play the same games as everyone, forget social niceties once in a while, doesn’t mean I can’t see through bullshit when it’s there.
“Why are you acting like Dad?”
James has made a lot of offhand comments over the years—telling me to think before I speak, hitting me upside the head, putting me in my place, typical big brother stuff. But he’s never made me feel less than for being the way I am. I don’t know why he’d start now.
He blows out a long breath. “I just don’t think—”
“I know what I’m doing,” I cut in, eager to shut this shit down.
Birdie’s been clear about her intentions. She’s looking for a way to get ahead, an easy in, and I’m fine with that. I know she’s not interested in getting to know me for me, and honestly, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. At least she’s not pretending it’s something else.
And it’s not even about her specifically; it’s about people always assuming I’m a step behind. The fact that my parents—and now James—think I need looking after, that I’m somehow incapable of handling myself. I’m tired of it.
“Alright, alright,” James mutters. “Just keep your head on straight, okay? I don’t want you getting screwed over.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “I’ll try not to trade in my trust fund for magic beans.”
He snorts, but it’s forced, more out of habit than humor. We chat for a few more minutes, mostly surface-level stuff about baseball and the rest of his season. Common pleasantries that make me want to bang my head against this railing.
When we finally hang up, I sit there for a minute, staring out into the yard, trying to shake off the weirdness. James is being needlessly overprotective. It’s a new development that’s come out of nowhere, like he’s suddenly decided I need more people telling me I’m deficient when I’m not.
I ignore social cues, so sue me.
I know who I am. I know what I’m capable of. And I don’t need my big brother telling me otherwise.
I’m lying in bed on Monday night, tossing a half-empty water bottle in the air, letting it fall back into my hand, over and over. It’s something to do, at least, while my brain runs circles around itself. It’s late, too late to be awake, but I can’t shut off.
Too busy with my big brain and my even bigger impulse control issues.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, and I grab it, squinting at the bright screen.
Birdie
You awake?
Liam
What’s up?
Birdie
I’m working on my proposal and completely stuck. my brain is fried.
Liam
want me to come over? help you work through it?
The words are out before I can think twice. A little too eager, maybe. But whatever. It’s not like I’m doing anything useful. If I could sleep, I would, but this tossing-and-turning routine isn’t doing me any favors.
Birdie
right now? isn’t it kind of late?
Liam
it’s late, yeah, but who’s keeping track? I’m wide awake. I could be there in ten minutes.
A long, stilted pause. I toss the bottle up again, catching it without looking. Maybe this was a bad idea. But before I can overthink it, her message pops up.
Birdie
okay. sure. I live off nile in the oak lane apartments. 304. just ... don’t wake the neighbors.
Liam
quiet as a ninja. be there soon.
I’m already out of bed, pulling on a hoodie and grabbing my keys. As I head out the door, my pulse picks up, thrumming with a weird mix of nerves and excitement.
I’m not sure why—it’s just helping her with a proposal, right? But something about the fact that it’s late and unplanned adds this unexpected edge. Anticipation, maybe. Or just a rush of doing something on impulse.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of Birdie’s door. I raise my hand and tap my knuckles twice.
When the door creaks open, she blinks at me, a little surprised but not unhappy. She’s wearing pajama shorts and a loose sweatshirt, her short hair half-up, with strands falling messily around her face. There’s something unguarded about the way she looks.
She’s stripped of pretense here, comfortable in her own skin. No sharp remarks or forced politeness, just Birdie. I like it.
“Hey.” I glance over her shoulder to the living room beyond her. Her tattered blue couch is littered with notebooks, a half-empty mug of coffee, and a scattered pile of pens. She’s clearly been at this for hours, absorbed in her work. “You really needed me, huh?”
She huffs. “You’re here because you begged me.”
“If that’s your version of begging, you’ve got some pretty low standards.”
“Funny, I’ve been told the exact opposite.” Her eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them before she turns, walking further inside and leaving the door open behind her.
I stand there, rooted to the spot, for a good thirty seconds. It’s a wonder why I’m hesitating now. I insisted on coming over to help, but now that I’m here, there’s this strange feeling wriggling its way inside me—anticipation laced with something heavier I can’t quite name.
“You coming?” she calls over her shoulder. “I don’t have all night.”
I like the way she says it—casual, a little snarky, like I’m not standing here at midnight ready to help her get a leg up on my dad. Like this isn’t something most people would think twice about, inviting a virtual stranger into their home.
It’s refreshing. She doesn’t make things weird, doesn’t get all uppity about every little move. I don’t have to guess where I stand with her, and that’s why helping her out seems like the right thing to do. The only thing I can do.