High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

11. Liam

11

LIAM

Birdie

so, do I name the creepy hand sculpture I’ve been working on, or do I just let it speak for itself?

I chuckle under my breath, glancing down at my phone, where Birdie’s latest text is lighting up the screen. I’m sitting in the dining room at my parents’ house, but my attention is half here, half on my phone under the table where no one can see it.

Liam

“The Grab”

Birdie

maybe “Grasping at Straws”?

Liam

my life in a nutshell

She sends a laughing emoji, followed by a picture of the sculpture she’s been working on. It’s exactly what she’s been describing—creepy, severed, and kind of awesome in a weird way. I can tell she’s put in a lot of hours on it.

Birdie

told you it’s weird, right?

Liam

weird, yes. but also badass

A grin creeps across my face as those three little dots appear. But before a reply comes through, my mom interrupts. “Liam, honey, are you paying attention?”

I snap my head up. Mom and Dad are sitting across the table, looking at me like they’ve just asked something important. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s probably something I’m supposed to care about.

These biweekly dinners are always the same. Polished silverware, a spotless tablecloth, and conversations that feel more like check-ins than actual catching up. I’ve mastered the art of nodding along, but tonight, my focus is clearly slipping.

It used to be me and James, both of us sitting here pretending we weren’t counting down the minutes until we could leave, but now I’m flying solo. James is off in the minor leagues, and I’m left with the full brunt of their attention.

I blink a few times, trying to piece together what I’ve missed. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, stuffing my phone into my pocket. “What were you saying?”

Mom exchanges a glance with Dad, who’s frowning slightly like he’s already tired of this conversation. Tired of me. Great.

“We were talking about your internship for the summer,” Mom says, her voice carefully neutral. “We spoke to Oliver, the head of development at Welch City Planning, the firm I mentioned a few weeks ago? He’s agreed to take you on as an intern.”

I sit up straighter. “Wait, what?”

“Liam, we told you about this. We’ve been working on setting it up for you.” Dad says slowly, painfully, like he’s explaining something to a five-year-old. “It’s a great opportunity.”

I blink again, trying to process. “Urban planning?”

“Yes,” Mom says giddily. “Oliver’s one of the best in the field. This will give you excellent experience—”

“But I’m not interested in doing that.”

Sure, it’s experience, but it’s not the kind of experience I want. It’s more theory, more meetings and planning sessions, and I’m all about execution. I like to actually see things come together in real time.

My parents both exchange a look, their expressions a mix of surprise and mild disapproval. Maybe they thought I’d just go along with it, smile and nod like I usually do.

I should probably dial it back, try to sound more grateful or something, but I can’t help it. My brain’s already buzzing with everything I’ll be missing if I take this internship: the training camps, the tournaments, the chance to really focus on soccer this summer.

Mom frowns, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear in that precise, deliberate way she does when she’s trying not to get upset. “What do you mean? This is a perfect fit for you. We’ve already pulled strings to make it happen.”

“I’m more into construction management,” I explain. “Overseeing projects, being on-site, making sure things actually happen. Urban planning is more ... planning . I’m more hands-on.”

Dad leans back in his chair, fork gripped tightly in one hand. The man is armed and ready to lecture me on responsibility or some shit. “Liam, you need to start thinking about your future. This is a real career path, something stable.”

Bingo. They’re starting to realize I may actually be leaning toward soccer instead. The tension between what they want for me and what I want for myself has been building for months, but I guess the idea of me steering away from their perfectly paved road is finally hitting home.

“I know it’s stable, but I’ve been looking at other opportunities, too. There’s this construction firm that specializes in large-scale projects, and—”

“ Liam ,” Dad interrupts, voice hardening like he’s already decided what’s best for me. “You can’t just chase after whatever catches your attention at the moment. You need an actual plan.”

“I have a plan,” I shoot back. “But it’s not urban planning. And taking a summer internship would mean missing out on soccer training. Pre-draft stuff. Camps. That’s what I actually care about.”

My parents sigh in unison, that same exasperated sound they always make when I bring up soccer. My stomach sinks. They don’t get it. They never have.

“Liam,” Mom says calmly. “Soccer is great, and you’ve done so well with it. But it’s not a guarantee. Civil engineering is a guarantee. This internship will set you up for a long-term career.”

“I get that,” I say, forcing down the irritation. “But if I take this internship, I’ll be stuck behind a desk all summer. I’m not built for that.”

Dad’s jaw tightens. “And what happens if you don’t get drafted? What’s your fallback?”

“I’m not saying I’m ditching my degree,” I argue sharply. “But I want to give soccer everything I’ve got while I still can.”

They’re silent, staring at me with that blank parental mix of concern and quiet judgment, so I push further.

“I’ve got one more year. One more year to prove myself on the field. If I can enter the draft after that, I need to be ready. I don’t want to look back and wonder what would’ve been.”

“The professional sports world is cutthroat,” Dad says flatly. “It’s not realistic for most athletes.”

“Sorry?” I choke down the lump rising in my throat. “Isn’t your precious arts degree the same thing? A long shot? Something you were passionate about that didn’t come with your realistic guarantees?”

His face tightens, but I don’t back down. I’ve kept this in for too long—the feeling of being cornered into one path because it’s safe. Because it’s what they expect.

“Don’t compare the two,” Dad snaps. “The arts are just as valid, but they’re different. You have a practical fallback. Soccer isn’t—”

“I’m not giving up before I even try,” I cut him off, my voice firm. “I’ll have plenty of time to be an engineer, but if I don’t take this shot, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

The table falls silent again. My heart pounds erratically, frustration and anger bubbling up because they just don’t see it the way I do.

“Liam,” Mom says gently, her tone soft like she’s trying to reason with a child. “We want what’s best for you. We know soccer is important to you, but what if—”

“What if I actually make it?” I interrupt her, leaning forward. “What if all this work pays off and I do get drafted? And I’m successful? And you two will have to sit there, eating your words, wishing you’d supported me from the start?”

Dad sighs, rubbing his temples like this conversation is physically draining him. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

I wave a hand in the air. “It did for James. Look what he’s accomplished since graduation. His first rookie season, and he’s already making a name for himself.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. My mention of James hangs in the air like a challenge they’re unwilling to take on.

Mom finally breaks the silence, her voice careful, measured. “Just think about it, Liam. You don’t have to decide right now. The internship will be waiting if you change your mind. We can tell Welch to put a pin in it.”

I nod, but the decision has already been made. Their doubt, their avoidance—it sealed it. Soccer is what I care about. Soccer is what I want.

And even if it wasn’t, I’d probably pursue it anyway—just to prove them wrong.

When I pull into the driveway, the weight of the night hasn’t let up. My parents’ expectations, the internship talk—it all builds up inside me until it feels like I might burst from the pressure.

Chase is out for the night. He’s probably crashing at someone’s place or hitting up one of those parties he’s always trying to drag me to. Usually, I’m fine being on my own. Hell, I prefer it.

But tonight? The thought of sitting in an empty house, alone with my thoughts circling back to the same tired conversation, feels unbearable. And worse, the idea of not having someone to talk to who actually gets it—who won’t just dismiss it or try to fix it—makes me all sorts of itchy.

I reach for my phone, scrolling through my messages to find Birdie’s last text about her speech. She’s become that person for me, hasn’t she? Just as trusted as Chase. Maybe even more.

Liam

you up?

Birdie

if this is a booty call, then no

Liam

it’s not . . . unless?

Birdie

liam donovan

Liam

I just want to know if you’re busy or not

Birdie

I’m drowning in drafts. why? what’s up?

Liam

come over. I wanna help you

That sounds casual enough, right? I mean, I do want to help. But I also just don’t want to be alone right now, and I think Birdie would get that. She doesn’t expect me to be anything other than what I am.

Birdie

I don’t know. aren’t you tired of helping me yet?

Liam

trust me, I’d love nothing more than to whip your speech into shape

Birdie

okay then. text me your address, and I’ll be over soon

I text back, then tuck my phone away before heading inside. The house is too quiet—the kind of silence that’s more suffocating than peaceful. I toss my keys onto the counter and start pacing, trying to shake off the leftover frustration from dinner. But it clings to me, heavy and unrelenting, like wet clothes after a storm.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. Birdie steps inside with her notebook and laptop tucked under her arm. She’s in one of those oversized sweaters, her hair clipped back with those barrettes she always wears. She looks . . . content.

Beautiful as always, but also calm. Like she carries none of the tension I’m drowning in and might even be able to help me wade through the water.

“Hey.” She gives me a sweet smile, and the coil of heat in my chest loosens, spreading into something softer. “You serious about helping me with my presentation, or was this just a ploy to get me to come over?”

“Both.” She follows me into the living room and drops her stuff onto the coffee table. “But I do want to help. Make sure you’re not being too . . . you know, flowery with your words.”

She snorts as she settles onto the couch. “Great. You think I’m flowery?”

“You artists tend to be,” I tease, sitting beside her. “Meanwhile, I get straight to the point.”

“Alright, Mr. Straight Shooter. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Her eyes narrow as she opens her laptop. “I’m supposed to explain my artistic process and how it relates to the themes—delicate versus raw, chaos versus order, all that good stuff. But every time I try to put it into words, it sounds ... pretentious.”

I lean over to glance at her screen. “Classic case of overthinking.”

“That’s what I do,” she mutters.

“Ah, really? You’ve been hiding it so well.”

She elbows me, but a secret smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. For a moment, I watch her, taking in the way she bites her lip in concentration as she queues up another draft. When Birdie’s around, I can let my guard down. She pulls me out of my own head, makes it easier to breathe.

“Alright, hit me with what you’ve got so far,” I say, settling back into the couch.

She scrolls through her notes and clears her throat. “My work explores the delicate interaction between meticulously curated structure and the uninhibited essence of organic freedom—”

I hold up a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Oh, God. Stop.”

Her brow furrows. “What? Too much?”

“Way too much,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s like you’re trying to win a game of Scrabble with your presentation.”

She frowns down at her notes. “I thought I was supposed to sound . . . you know, professional.”

“You’re supposed to sound like you,” I counter. “Not like a thesaurus exploded on your page. I know you’re smart, Birdie. You don’t need to prove it with ten-dollar words. The work is all about tension, right? Between the delicate and the raw. So, just say that.”

She’s quiet for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before finally typing, retyping, cutting, and pasting. Then, she unclamps her barrettes, straightens her shoulders, and clears her throat.

“My work explores the tension between chaos and control. I’m fascinated by the spaces in between—the areas where we can’t predict what’s coming, but we still try to shape it, to create something that feels both fragile and powerful at the same time. With each piece, I’m challenging the idea that these two forces aren’t opposites. Instead, I’m exploring how they coexist and inform one another.”

“See? Way better. Now, tell me why it matters that you’re the one creating this tension. Why should I care about you specifically?”

She furrows her brow, thinking for a moment. “I guess because . . . I’ve always been drawn to extremes, to things that seem contradictory but somehow make sense together. Like, I’m a perfectionist, but my favorite pieces are the ones where I let go of that need. I love working with delicate, intricate details, but I’m also obsessed with rough textures and imperfections. I think it’s because I see myself in that contrast—trying to balance those two sides.”

A slow grin spreads across my face. “That’s your hook. It’s not just about the art itself—it’s about you and what you bring to it. You’ve got something to say, Birdie, so say it.”

She looks at me, wide-eyed, like she’s finally seeing something she hadn’t before. Then she starts typing again, the keys clicking rapidly. “Okay, yeah. This feels . . . right.”

“Good,” I say, tapping her notebook. “No more hiding behind big words.”

She laughs softly, the kind that starts in her chest and works its way up, and I can’t help but feel a little proud. Not just of her work but also of the fact that she let me be a part of it.

I like this—spending time with her, helping her. It makes me feel useful, like I have a reason to stick around and just be here.

Present, grounded. Enough.