High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

27. Liam

27

LIAM

Winter break is nearly over, and my place feels twice as empty now that Chase is packing up to leave. Even with his shoes scattered near the door and the faint smell of whatever protein-heavy monstrosity he cooked this morning still lingering in the air, the space is hollow.

Maybe it’s because I know he’s leaving for good this time. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been left on read by Birdie for what feels like an eternity, and my brain won’t shut up about it.

I shake my head and shove another stack of red plastic cups onto the counter. It’s New Year’s Eve, and Chase’s goodbye party slash New Year’s bash is happening here. My contribution? Cleaning up the mess that Chase didn’t bother with and preparing to host a hundred soccer players and their assorted hangers-on without losing my sanity.

“Liam!” Chase’s voice booms from somewhere down the hall. “Where’s the tape?”

I glance at the rolls of duct tape and masking tape sitting on the counter, then yell back, “Which one?”

“Any! Both! Doesn’t matter!”

I grab the masking tape and walk to his room, where he’s half-buried in a pile of boxes, a roll of bubble wrap dangling off his desk like some kind of sad streamer. He looks up, grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re supposed to be helping,” he says.

“I am helping,” I say, tossing him the tape. “This is me helping you not look like a total slob when your guests show up tonight.”

He laughs and rips a piece off with his teeth. “Fair. But let’s be real—you’re only doing this so you don’t have to think about Birdie.”

“First of all, you don’t need to point it out. Second of all, shut up.”

“Uh-huh.” He smirks, taping a box closed with the kind of enthusiasm only Chase can muster. “You’re quite testy tonight.” Before I can come up with a response, someone pounds on the front door, and Chase grins. “Better get that. Party’s starting early.”

As I head over to answer, I remind myself to breathe. Tonight is supposed to be easy—no overthinking, no spiraling, just a bunch of teammates and friends celebrating the start of a new year. I open the door to a crowd of familiar faces, and within minutes, the apartment is packed.

The music’s blasting, people are laughing, and the smell of pizza mixes with beer and cologne in the air. Chase is in his element, moving through the crowd like a politician at a rally, shaking hands and clapping people on the back.

I stick to the kitchen, where it’s quieter. Slightly.

Santi wanders in next, his hair somehow looking perfect despite the humidity of the packed apartment. He grabs a drink from the counter and leans back, surveying the scene for his own strange reasons.

“This is a fire hazard,” he says dryly.

“It’s Chase’s fire hazard,” I point out, taking a sip of my beer.

“You hiding in here?”

“Strategically positioning myself near the drinks,” I tell him.

“Fair.” He nods, his gaze drifting back toward the living room, where someone just cranked the music even louder. “So,” he says after a beat, turning his attention fully to me. “You talk to Birdie yet?”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Why is everyone so obsessed with my love life?”

“Because it’s like watching someone try to parallel park in front of an audience,” Santi says, smirking. “Painful, but you kind of root for them anyway.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I shake my head, but the teasing works. I’m more relaxed now than I have been all week. The conversation shifts to something else—who’s going to puke first tonight, probably—and for a while, it’s easy to pretend everything’s fine.

Once Santi leaves, Chase barrels into the kitchen to drag me back out into the living room. “You’re not gonna spend this whole party sulking,” he says, practically shoving me into the crowd like I’m some antisocial recluse.

I end up near the couch, drink in hand, watching people dance and shout over the music. Someone hands me another drink I didn’t ask for, and I take it because what the hell. It’s easy to get lost in the chaos, to let the noise and the lights and the people blur together until nothing else matters.

But then Chase climbs onto the coffee table, and I’m both curious and bracing myself. He waves his arms, commanding everyone’s attention.

“Hey! Listen up!” he shouts, grinning like a madman. “I’ve got something to say!” The crowd hushes, all eyes turning to him. “Here’s to the Chicago Fire for drafting me, Adidas for the free cleats, and me for being the greatest thing to ever happen to soccer. Drink up!”

The room explodes into cheers. People are clapping, whistling, raising their drinks in a toast to Chase’s boundless ego. He soaks it all in, throwing in a mock bow that makes the coffee table creak under his weight.

I laugh and clap for him, too, even as a pang of something sharp settles in my chest. It’s pride, mostly. Envy, a little bit. But there’s something else there, too—a quiet sense of loss. Chase is leaving, and everything’s about to change.

As the night winds down and the crowd starts to thin out, Chase finds me sitting on the couch. He flops down next to me, still riding the high.

“You okay?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow.

“Sorta,” I say quietly.

He studies me for a moment, then smirks. “Thinking about me?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ll miss having you around. You’re the only person I know who can burn a hole in a pan making scrambled eggs and somehow blame me for it.”

His eyes go wide. “That was one time. And you did distract me by asking where the cinnamon was!”

“Cinnamon’s not even supposed to go in eggs.”

“Live a little.”

We sit there for a minute together, quiet and thoughtful. I let my head fall back against the couch, my eyes drifting to the ceiling.

Chase was my constant after James and Hayes left. My buffer. My teammate in more ways than just soccer. If he hadn’t been here, I probably would’ve retreated into myself, slipping back into the quiet space I tend to occupy when things shift too much.

And now, with him gone, it’s going to be weird again.

I texted Warren earlier about the space being available, and all I got back was, I’ll let you know when I’m moving in . No questions. No explanation. Just a statement of fact.

“You’re gonna figure your shit out,” Chase says finally. “Whatever’s next—soccer, school, Birdie—you’ve got this.”

I glance at him, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. You too.”

He clinks his bottle against mine. “Damn right.” Then he stands and grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet. “Come on. You’re not sitting out the last party of the year like some kind of hermit. Flip cup. Let’s go.”

“I don’t like drinking games,” I argue, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“You don’t have to like them,” he shoots back, dragging me through the throng of people toward the kitchen. “You just have to play them. And you’re going to play them well because we’re not losing to Amir’s team again.”

The back room is packed. Red Solo cups line the counters, and people are shouting over the music, arguing about whose turn it is.

Amir stands at one end of the table, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered across his face. “Finally decided to join your own party, Donovan?”

“It’s not my party,” I mutter.

He snorts. “We’re literally at your house.”

“Everyone calm down,” Chase cuts in, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Liam’s finally quit his brooding to come play with us. And we’re wiping that grin off your face, Alvarez.”

“Big talk for someone who still hasn’t mastered the wrist flick,” Santi fires back, earning a round of laughter from his side of the table.

“I hate all of you,” I groan.

But I step up to the table anyway. Chase shoves a cup into my hand, and before I know it, we’re off. The first round is a blur of laughter, spilled beer, and increasingly questionable aim. Despite Chase’s insistence that I play like a pro, I manage to miss my flip three times in a row, earning groans and jeers from everyone around me.

“Come on, buddy!” Chase yells, clapping me on the back. “You can do better than that!”

“Maybe if you stopped breathing down my neck, I’d actually make it!” I shoot back, flipping the cup with a little more force than necessary. It lands sideways.

We lose the first round but come back strong in the second. By the third, Chase is fully dialed in, shouting instructions like we’re in the middle of a championship game. I can’t stop laughing, and for the first time all night, I’m not thinking about Birdie or Warren or anything other than this ridiculous moment—this messy, chaotic kind of fun.

Midway through the fourth round, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it at first, focused on flipping my cup, but when the game ends and Chase drags me into another toast, I glance at the screen.

Birdie

Happy New Year.

That’s it. Three simple words. But my heart stutters like she’s just told me she’s outside the house waiting for me. God, I wish she were. I wish I could pull her into the middle of all this and give her the kind of midnight kiss people write songs about.

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” Santi shouts from across the table.

“None of your business,” I say, locking my phone before anyone can peek.

He snorts. “Must be Birdie.”

“Yeah, she makes me smile. You should try it sometime, Santi—having a personality that doesn’t scare people off.”

The guys around us howl with laughter, and Santi clutches his chest like I’ve just mortally wounded him. Then they set up for another game—quarters because Chase insists he’s unbeatable. I’m usually decent at it, but tonight, I miss every shot. Every. Single. One.

I was having fun earlier, laughing, trash-talking, letting myself get swept up in the noise. But now? Now all I want is to talk to her.

Finally, I sneak away from the crowd, leaning against the wall in the hallway to catch my breath. My fingers hover over my phone screen, debating what to say.

Liam

you too. want to meet up later this week?

The wait for her reply is torture. Every passing second feels like a countdown, the buzz of the party fading into the background. I glance at the time—seven minutes. I’ve been out here for seven minutes, staring at a blank screen like a lovesick loser.

“Earth to Liam,” Chase says, suddenly appearing beside me. “What are you doing hiding out here? We’re about to start another round of kings.”

I pocket my phone quickly. “Just texting Birdie back.”

He gives me a knowing look, his grin widening. “Oh, yeah? What’d she say?”

“She didn’t yet.”

He pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Women love guys who are terrible at drinking games and sulk in hallways. Really endearing.”

“Go away,” I say, pushing him lightly.

My phone buzzes. I fumble with it, nearly dropping it in my haste.

Birdie

sounds good. maybe thursday?

Liam

thursday works. let’s meet at the Vault. you can tell me all about how you spent break avoiding me ;)

I immediately regret it. For a whole sixty seconds, I worry it was too soon to tease. A normal guy wouldn’t overthink this. Wouldn’t risk scaring her off before things felt steady again.

Birdie

lol. sounds fair. see you then x

The tight knot in my stomach loosens just enough for me to breathe.

“Come on,” Chase nags. “We’ve got a legacy to defend.”

“Legacy of what?” I ask, giving him a flat look.

“Being ... legends,” he mumbles. “Oh, whatever. I don’t know. Just get your ass back in here.”

I sigh but follow him anyway. It is Chase’s goodbye party, after all. The least I can do is let myself get pulled back into the chaos. Let myself exist in the moment, even if it’s fleeting.

And maybe a text back isn’t as good as a midnight kiss, but Thursday is close enough. This time, I’m not going down without a fight.