9. Liam
9
LIAM
We’re up 2-1, and it’s the seventy-fifth minute. My lungs are burning, legs heavy with that familiar ache that means we’re in the thick of it. The ball’s at my feet, and I’m sprinting down the sideline, eyes locked on the Louisville defender shadowing me.
I fake left, cut right, and then I’m free—just for a second. Long enough to whip in a cross toward Chase, who’s already charging the box like a freight train.
It’s a good ball. The kind I’ve practiced a thousand times, and Chase knows it. He meets it perfectly, sending a header rocketing toward the top corner of the net.
The crowd’s breath catches. The keeper dives, fingers brushing the ball as it deflects—straight off the post.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, already turning to hustle back on defense. No time to celebrate, no time to dwell. That’s soccer—one second, you’re on top of the world; the next, you’re chasing someone down, hoping you don’t get caught flat-footed.
Coach Harris is yelling something at us, but I block him out, too focused on the game. There’s still fifteen minutes left. Plenty of time for things to change.
Plenty of time to screw it all up.
By the time the final whistle blows, we’ve held on for the win, 2-1. Chase’s earlier goal was enough to secure the points, and the bench explodes in cheers, clapping each other on the back and pulling into quick embraces.
But I’m already thinking about the bus ride. And Birdie Collins.
The field starts to empty as we shake hands with Louisville’s players. Coach is giving his post-game speech in the background, talking about our grit, our persistence. But I’m not really listening. My head’s somewhere else.
Somewhere back in the studio, two days ago.
I should be feeling amped right now, but I’m more focused on how Birdie’s day went. She’d signed up for some off-campus studio critique at a neighboring university—one of those big deals with a reputation for being brutally honest.
She’d been wound tighter than a spring when I left her on Friday, anxious about what her peers and the professor would say. I tried to reassure her, tell her her work was killer, that she had something different, something people would notice. But I could still see that doubt in her eyes.
I shake my head, focusing on getting back to the bus. The last thing I need is to be distracted in the middle of a win. Chase catches up to me, clapping a hand on my back.
“Hell of a game, man. That cross was perfect. Just a damn shame about the post, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “real shame.”
Chase doesn’t notice the sarcasm. He’s too busy talking about the match, reliving every play like we didn’t all just live through it together. I zone out, only half listening as I find a seat on the bus, pulling out my phone.
It’s late, almost nine, and I’m sure Birdie’s critique is long over. I want to text her, ask her how it went, but I hesitate. She’ll probably text me when she’s ready, right? I shove my phone back in my pocket, trying to shake off the restlessness creeping up my spine.
The ride back is mercifully short, though it feels longer with Chase still chatting beside me. I respond here and there, but my mind keeps drifting. I wonder if Birdie’s stressing out. I can picture her now, probably holed up in her apartment, dissecting every bit of feedback she got today.
I want to tell her she’s overthinking it, that her work speaks for itself, but I know she’s too hard on herself to see it that way. She always gets in her own head. We’re similar that way, though I manage to distract myself better—or maybe I’m just better at faking it.
When we finally pull up to the hotel, I grab my bag and head straight for the room. Chase follows me, still talking, though I’m barely paying attention. The team dinner’s in an hour, and all I want to do is lie down and shut my brain off for a minute.
As soon as we step into the room, I toss my bag on the floor and flop onto the bed. Chase heads for the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I pull out my phone, staring at the screen for a second before opening my messages.
Liam
how’d the critique go? still in one piece?
I send the text and toss the phone aside, rubbing my hands over my face. There’s this weird, restless energy in me tonight, like I can’t settle down. Maybe it’s the game, the adrenaline still pumping through me. Or maybe it’s something else.
My phone buzzes almost immediately, and I grab it, my pulse kicking up.
Birdie
barely. it was brutal. but constructive. I think?
Liam
an award-winning combo
Birdie
seriously, though. the prof tore into one of my pieces. said it felt “contrived”
I sit up, frowning at the screen. I know how much effort Birdie puts into her work. Contrived? No fucking way.
Liam
contrived, my ass. what a pretentious dipshit
Chase comes out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair, and shoots me a knowing look. “You texting your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say automatically, though my mind lingers on the word a little longer than it should.
He smirks. “Not yet, huh?”
I ignore him, my focus back on my phone.
Birdie
you’re just saying that because you’re biased
Liam
or maybe I just know talent when I see it
I can almost hear her laughing through the screen, and something warm settles in my chest. It’s weird how easy it is with her, how much I look forward to these conversations. Small talk isn’t my thing. Yet, I find myself wanting to keep going with her, like the conversation could stretch on forever and I wouldn’t mind.
Birdie
what about you? how was the game?
Liam
stellar. I was bored
Birdie
lol if not even winning a game can keep your interest, we need to find you a new sport. ever considered bog snorkeling
I’m about to reply when Chase chucks a sock at my head.
“Hey, we’ve got fifteen minutes,” he says. “You better get moving.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I shove the sock off my bed, still glued to my phone.
Liam
no, but I know I’d be excellent at it. I have to go out for our team dinner now. talk later
Birdie
have fun xo
Chase leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “You coming or what?”
I glance at my phone, the screen still glowing with Birdie’s last text, and for a second, the pull to stay in and keep talking to her is overwhelming. But I shove the thought—and my phone—into my pocket, forcing a nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Dinner’s loud, as usual. The team’s riding high on the win. We’re all squeezed into this dimly lit, family-style Italian place near the hotel. Plates of pasta and pizza litter the table, and the noise level’s almost unbearable—laughing, shouting, forks clattering, the whole deal.
I sit back, picking at my slice of pizza, letting the guys’ voices buzz around me. Chase is beside me, talking a mile a minute about his header that should have gone in if the crossbar hadn’t been out for blood today.
His energy is endless, a constant hum of excitement that makes it hard to tune him out, even when I’m not in the mood. Finally, he turns to me and says, “Man, you’ve got it bad.”
“What’s bad?”
He gestures at me with a piece of garlic bread. “You’re staring off into space. You’ve barely touched your food. If that’s not a guy hung up on a girl, I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah, actually, I can’t stop thinking about Birdie. You think that’s bad?”
His grin doesn’t falter. The man is like a dog with a bone, and he’s not about to let it go. “No, it’s good. If you like her, you should go for it.”
“Go for what?”
He laughs. “Ask her out. Kiss her. Fuck her, if that’s all you’re after.”
I smack him. “Try that again.”
“In the three years I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you date anyone . I figured it’s because you’d rather not bother. I mean, are you looking for a hookup, or do you have real feelings for her?”
It’s not that I don’t want to date—I do. But connecting with people outside of what’s familiar doesn’t come as easily to me. My brother, his best friend Hayes, Chase—those relationships were effortless, built into the fabric of my life. Being teammates, roommates, it all naturally fell into place.
Forming new bonds is harder. There aren’t a lot of places that make space for someone like me—someone who doesn’t glide effortlessly into conversations or feel at home in big, boisterous crowds. It’s like trying to join a game that’s already halfway through, where everyone else knows the rules and I’m still scrambling to catch up.
“It’s new,” I tell him. “But I do think about her a lot. I want her to be happy. The idea of her stressing out all alone makes my stomach a bit sick.”
He raises his eyebrows. “That’s called feelings, my guy.”
“Hadden,” Santi interrupts, tossing a balled-up paper napkin at Chase’s head. “Care to weigh in?”
Chase whirls around to face the others. “What are we talking about here?”
“How you whiffed that free kick,” Amir chimes in from the end of the table, shaking his head as he pours himself more water.
The rest of the guys snicker and join in, while Chase just grumbles, shoving a piece of pizza into his mouth. It’s the same routine—everyone ripping into each other like always.
Santi gestures wildly, clutching his chest in an over-the-top reenactment of Amir’s missed slide tackle that sent him sprawling face-first into the turf. Amir just rolls his eyes, smirking, knowing there’s no point in defending himself. With Santi in full performance mode, the ribbing isn’t stopping anytime soon.
I sit back, soaking it all in. I like being the observer in these moments, letting the chaos swirl around me. It’s easy to tune out the noise and just appreciate the energy of the team—the laughter, the teasing.
Once the food dwindles and Coach makes his rounds, reminding everyone we have to be back in the hotel by midnight, Chase turns to me with his usual cheeky grin.
“Back to pottery girl,” he says, voice low. “You should call her when you get back to the room.”
I shrug. “Maybe. She had a big critique today. Probably busy.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Perfect opportunity for you to swoop in and be her hero. Lick her wounds a little.”
I give him a look, but he just laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulder as we head out. The guys shuffle into the night, some veering toward the bar across the street, others trailing back to the hotel. A few seniors manage to convince Coach to let them stay out for one more drink, promising they’ll cap it at two.
Back in the hotel room, I toss my bag onto the floor and flop onto the bed, immediately pulling out my phone.
Liam
back from dinner. what are you up to?
Birdie
sitting on the floor, staring aimlessly
Liam
sounds thrilling
Birdie
oh, it is. and I’m out of coffee, so I’m extra grumpy
Liam
if I was home, I’d bring you some
Birdie
alas, you’re stuck in louisville
Liam
minor detail
i’ll be back tomorrow. you’ll survive until then
Birdie
we’ll see
I hover over the screen, Chase’s suggestion from earlier playing in the back of my mind. I probably should just let her get back to work. She’s undoubtedly deep in her element, focused and determined, probably miffed at every minor distraction. But before I can talk myself out of it, I hit Call.
She picks up on the second ring. “Liam, it’s midnight.”
“What, too late for you?”
“Hardly,” she says with a soft laugh. “I just figured you’d be beat after your game. And, honestly, I didn’t think you were the late-night phone call type. Your distaste for small talk is well-documented.”
I snicker. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Prove it.”
“For starters, I can picture exactly how your hair looks right now. All messy from your floor-induced panic.”
Her short bob is likely sticking up in every direction, the way it does when she’s been running her hands through it all day. It’s chaotic but in that pretty, effortlessly sexy way that makes me want to see it in person.
She huffs. “You’re annoying, and that’s not exactly a surprising anecdote.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” she admits, still laughing. “It’s a disaster. Like, bird’s nest level.”
“Hot.”
She groans, and I can hear the faint rustling of her moving around, probably trying to smooth her hair down. It’s nice, this ease between us. Like I don’t have to try so hard to be any version of myself around her.
I suppose that’s why I called her instead of crashing like I should. Because I like this—hearing her voice, knowing I can get under her skin as easily as she gets under mine. But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I settle back into the bed, letting her voice fill the space around me. It’s soft and steady, with a certain warmth that sinks in slowly, easing the tension until all the other noise in my head fully fades away.