High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

13. Liam

13

LIAM

The floodlights glare over the field, cutting through the dark as a light rain drizzles. It’s a Wednesday night game, late October, and the air’s thick with that edge of chill that creeps in just before winter in Carolina, the kind that finally makes you pull your sleeves down and your collar up.

But I’m warm, my body humming from pre-game adrenaline and hours of training. It’s everything that’s been building to these last games before the season’s end.

As I stretch on the sideline, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I catch a glimpse of the bleachers filling up. Not exactly packed—midweek games rarely are—but the stands have a decent crowd already.

I scan the seats with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Birdie mentioned maybe coming. She texted me earlier, something about being swamped but wanting to try. And the thought of her sitting up there, watching me, makes my pulse kick up a notch.

It’s Chase who snaps me back, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Focus up, man. Let’s show them what we’ve got.” He’s grinning, always keyed up before games, his usual smirk replaced with something sharper. The kind of focus I’ve been trying to channel all season.

Then the whistle blows, and we’re on.

Twenty minutes in, we’re already down 1-0, so tension’s high. I’ve barely managed to hold possession against their defense—they’re quicker than I’d anticipated, cutting off every angle.

I glance up, and in the split second before I refocus on the game, I spot Birdie, a dot of familiar comfort on the bleachers. She has a hoodie pulled over her head, sitting alone. Watching. My stomach flips.

“Donovan! Push left!” Coach Harris’ voice cuts through my thoughts, and I pull away, darting toward the open wing.

The ball comes over, a clean pass from Amir at midfield. I take it, sprinting down the left side, the defender on my heels. I fake right, then cut back left, just enough to throw him off, and now I’m free. There’s just enough time to whip in a cross toward Chase, who’s already charging into the box like a bull.

It’s a good ball, sharp and angled. Chase connects, but the shot ricochets off the keeper’s gloves, deflecting out. We groan in unison as the opposing team clears it. Our game’s been like this all night—close but just out of reach.

We’re still 1-0 at halftime, and Coach is ripping into us in the locker room, pacing like a caged animal. His voice is low, furious, controlled. “We’ve been too damn soft. Every time you hesitate, they’re capitalizing. Donovan, keep pushing that left side. Their right back’s weak; you’ve got the speed to beat him.”

I nod, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension. The guys are quiet, all of us soaking in the pressure. Chase mutters something to me as we’re heading back out, something about getting a shot in the net this time. I nod, clenching my jaw. We’re close. I can feel it.

The second half isn’t much better. We’re fighting tooth and nail, but it’s like we’re always a step too slow, an inch off. I manage a few crosses, some decent runs, but nothing’s breaking through.

Each time I lose the ball or a pass falls short, the frustration mounts. I’m inside my own head, and I keep catching myself looking toward the bleachers, wondering if Birdie’s still watching, if she’s seeing every misstep, every missed chance.

Finally, with five minutes left on the clock, we get a break. Amir wins the ball at midfield and sends it wide to me. I take off, pushing everything I’ve got left into my legs, feeling the burn as I tear down the field. The defender’s on me again, but I cut inside this time, faking him out with a quick flick to my right foot.

Chase is in the box, his eyes locked on mine. I send a low cross his way, hoping this one connects. He meets it, sending a sharp shot toward the far post. The ball spins, angling perfectly, and for a second, it looks like it’s going to sneak in—just edge its way over the line.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it glances off the post with a dull thud and ricochets out. I freeze, staring as the rebound clears the box. A collective groan echoes from the stands, and the defeat settles over us like a deflated balloon sagging in slow motion, heavy and inevitable.

The whistle blows a minute later, ending the game. Final score: 1-0.

I’m doubled over, hands on my knees, breath coming hard. As Syracuse celebrates their win, I glance up toward the bleachers, half expecting Birdie to be gone. But she’s still there, watching, waiting. That steadies me, even if only a little.

Chase, though, is simmering. He walks past me, his jaw clenched, frustration etched across his face. I can practically see the thoughts spinning behind his eyes, the missed shot, the sponsor deal he’s been gunning for—all slipping further out of reach. He shoves his hands through his hair, muttering a string of nonsensical curses under his breath.

We don’t exchange a word as we head off the field. Chase’s shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead as we enter the tunnel. I want to say something—crack a joke or offer one of those cheesy pep talks—but he’s too far in his head. Chase always shoulders the loss like it’s his personal failure, and tonight’s no exception.

Coach gives us a short, tense talk in the locker room, telling us to shake it off and push harder for the next game. His words are aimed at the team, but his eyes linger on Chase a little too long.

It’s one loss in a string of close matches. It sucks, yeah, but it doesn’t gnaw at me the way it does him. I’m not the one with an Adidas contract dangling in the distance.

After a quick shower, I pull my bag over my shoulder and head out of the locker room, scanning the exit for Birdie. She could’ve bailed right after the game, but something tells me she didn’t.

Sure enough, there she is, standing by the gate, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket, staring up at the sky like it’s personally offended her. When I call her name, she jumps a little, then grins as she spots me.

“Hey,” I say, rougher than I mean to. I rub the back of my neck, the sting of the loss still fresh. “Thanks for coming.”

“Couldn’t miss it. You played great. Really, Liam, that cross at the end? Beautiful.”

I huff out a small, humorless laugh. How does she even know what a cross is? “Doesn’t mean much if we don’t win.”

She tilts her head, her gaze softening in that way that makes me feel both seen and called out. “You gave it everything. I could see it.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, managing a smirk, “apparently my everything just isn’t good enough.”

She sighs, nudging me with her elbow. “Maybe you just need better teammates.”

I laugh despite myself, the tension in my chest loosening just a little. “Careful. Chase might hear you and start crying.”

She grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m sure. Wanna grab something to eat? My treat.”

I raise a brow, but a small smile breaks through. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she says, nudging my shoulder again. “Besides, you need consolation fries.”

I let out a long breath, finally relenting. “Yeah, alright.”

“Deal,” she says, already turning toward the parking lot.

We walk away from the stadium, her shoulder brushing mine every few steps. The frustration of the game doesn’t disappear, but with Birdie beside me, it fades to something quieter, something manageable. Something that feels like maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss.

The noise from Lucky’s hums around us, a low, comfortable murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional cheer from a nearby table. We’re wedged into one of those small, sticky booths that makes it impossible not to bump knees, and Birdie’s ordered us a basket of waffle fries and two dark lagers I can’t pronounce.

I pick up the glass and take a sip, only to stop mid-swallow, fighting the urge to make a face. “Oh God,” I mutter, setting it down a little too quickly. “Did you pick the most bitter beer they had on purpose?”

Birdie raises her eyebrows, clearly amused. “You said ‘surprise me.’ So, here you go. Welcome to the acquired taste club.”

“Acquired, huh?” I say, giving the drink a wary look. “How long do I have to drink this before it doesn’t taste like liquid regret?”

She laughs, nudging the glass closer. “You get used to it, I promise. Just think of it as building character.”

I raise the glass again, eyes narrowing. “Building character through suffering. Got it.”

She shakes her head, laughing, before lifting her glass for a sip, and we fall into easy conversation. Not a single mention of the fellowship, the game, or anything else with a shadow looming over it. It’s nice. A rare moment where we’re not trying to fix or unpack something, just existing in this small, happy place.

She grabs a fry, and her eyes light up like she’s struck gold. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. “I saw a sign advertising chocolate lava cake that’s literally the size of my head. Do you want to try it?”

My face twists in mock disgust. “A Lucky’s lava cake will probably take a decade off my life. Besides, the entire concept is disturbing. Why would you want chocolate soup inside a cake?”

She gasps, her mouth dropping open in exaggerated offense. “Excuse me? Lava cake is a work of art. It’s gooey, chocolatey perfection.”

I chuckle, pulling out my phone and typing quickly. “What if I told you I had a better option?”

She arches a brow. “Better than lava cake?”

I hold up a finger, pretending to be serious, then finish my search with a grin. “Pie. They give out birthday pie over at Sweet Seasons, and it just so happens...” I trail off, letting the suspense hang in the air as I flash my phone screen at her. “I have a birthday coupon.”

Birdie stares at the screen, her eyes widening. “Wait—are you telling me today’s your birthday?”

I scoff, shaking my head. “No. I just ... know a little hack.”

“Is that so?” she asks, leaning forward, intrigued.

“Birthday perks,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Most places give you something free on your birthday. All you have to do is sign up with a different birthday for each account, and voilà—you get rewards all year.”

She blinks, clearly taken aback. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I lean back, grinning. “I used to have a whole spreadsheet. The goal was to fill as many days as possible. I’m talking a free donut on January third, free tacos on March twelfth, then there’s smoothie day, ice cream on August twenty-first.” I shrug. “I’d gotten up to one hundred forty-three days of birthday rewards last year, but then it just got time-consuming. Decided it was too much work.”

She’s staring at me, torn between amusement and amazement. “Liam Donovan, I swear, you are a full-time job all by yourself.”

I laugh, taking a sip of my disgusting beer. “A job with excellent benefits.”

She laughs. “Let me guess—you’re the kind of person who dives headfirst into something new and then, I don’t know, drops it the second you get bored.”

“Pretty much,” I admit, grabbing another fry. “But only with my side quests. The real stuff—the things that matter—stick around.”

“Like soccer,” she says, her eyes studying me with that piercing look she gets sometimes, the one that makes me wonder if she can see right through all my deflections.

“Yeah, exactly,” I reply, feeling the easy humor melt into something quieter. “Soccer’s different.”

She tilts her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she leans closer. “What makes it different?”

I pause, not quite sure how to explain it in a way that doesn’t sound cliché. I’m not usually the type to dig deep into feelings, but there’s something about Birdie that makes it easier. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me, like she’s genuinely interested, not just waiting for a punchline.

“It’s ... just always been there,” I say slowly, picking at the label on my beer glass. “When everything else gets complicated or changes, soccer’s the one thing that stays steady. I get out there, and all the noise inside my head, all the pressure, it just ... fades.”

She watches me for a beat, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I’m glad. It’s good,” she says, “to have something that grounds you like that.”

I clear my throat, shifting under her gaze. “Yeah, keeps me from spinning off into a thousand different directions like usual.”

She watches me, something softening in her eyes, her mouth curving into a gentle smile. “I hope you know you don’t have to do that with me.”

I look up. “Do what?”

“Self-deprecate,” she says softly. “It’s a bad habit of mine, too. Feels a bit like hiding.”

“You don’t want me to hide from you, Birdie?”

“I’d prefer it if you showed up, actually. Flaws and all.”

“Okay.” I give her a small grin, leaning back. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”