High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

32. Birdie

32

BIRDIE

The voicemail was excruciating. Three minutes of me trying to sound breezy and confident, stumbling through my name, and then immediately second-guessing if I should’ve started with “Hi, this is Bridget Collins” instead of just “Birdie.” Or maybe, “Hey, it’s me. The girl who nearly puked on your shoes at the Montrose opening.” Too late now.

Still, I did it. I called Claire freaking Mahler’s personal number and left a voicemail. And now? Now I’m pacing around the apartment with entirely too much nervous energy and a stomach that feels like it’s been taken hostage by a swarm of anxious bees.

To distract myself, I’ve taken all my fellowship pieces out of their blankets and set them up around the living room. It’s ridiculous—like I’m hosting a miniature art exhibit for an audience of two, and one of them just dragged herself out of bed wearing mismatched socks.

“Wow,” Sena says, her voice laced with awe as she studies the collection. She’s holding a coffee mug shaped like a cat, and her bun of curls is threatening to collapse under the weight of all her hair. “They’re even better out here. Like, in the wild.”

“You make it sound like they’re endangered.”

“Well, they kind of are,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “Rare, valuable, beautiful. You’re lucky I don’t try to steal one for my room.”

I laugh, but her words hit somewhere deep. Rare. Valuable. Beautiful . I haven’t let myself think of my work like that since the rejection, even with Liam’s insistence. But maybe I should. Maybe I’m allowed to.

“Thanks,” I say softly, stepping back to take it all in.

The vases, the bowls, the little sculptural pieces. Each one feels like a piece of me—my anxieties and hopes, my late-night breakthroughs, the stubborn globs of clay that refused to cooperate until they suddenly did.

“You know,” Sena says, settling onto the couch, “I was half expecting you to bury these in your closet forever. But this?” She gestures to the display. “This is cool. It’s like you’re reclaiming them.”

I glance at her, surprised by how much her words mean. Sena has this way of saying the right thing without making a big deal about it. It’s one of the reasons I like her so much.

“Yeah,” I admit, sitting down next to her. “I guess I am.”

She leans back, her gaze still on the pieces. “So, any updates from Claire and her mysterious proposition?”

“Not yet,” I say, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “I left her a voicemail this morning, so now I’m just . . . waiting.”

“Well, obviously, she’s going to offer you something great,” she says confidently. “I mean, you’re amazing. And she knows it. Otherwise, why would she give you her number?”

I nod, fiddling with a loose thread on my sweater. “So, how’s your directing class going?” I ask, shifting gears. “Has Maxxine still been giving you a hard time?”

She groans dramatically, throwing an arm over her eyes. “Don’t remind me. We’re doing scene workshops right now, and it’s not just Max. My whole group has zero chemistry. Like, imagine trying to direct a romantic scene between two bricks.”

I snort. “That bad?”

“Worse,” she says, lifting her arm just enough to give me a pointed look. “If one of them forgets their blocking one more time, I might actually combust.”

“Sounds like a great learning opportunity,” I tease, and she throws a pillow at me.

Sena mutters something about “creative differences” while I stare at one of my bowls—the deep blue one Liam loves. Just thinking about the way he looked at it yesterday makes my chest warm, a quiet flutter settling beneath my ribs.

“Hey, do you want to come watch Liam’s scrimmage with me? It’s at three.”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then she makes a face. Not a bad face, exactly—more like someone just offered her a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal.

“Oh God,” I say, cringing. “Am I not supposed to invite you to my boyfriend’s games? Is that, like, against roommate code or something?”

She bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her coffee. “No, no, that’s not it. It’s just . . . sports.”

“Sports,” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “You hate sports?”

“With the fire of a thousand suns,” she says dramatically. “And it’s freezing outside. Like, I’ll go if you really want me to, but I’ll be miserable and probably complain the whole time.”

I laugh, feeling a little ridiculous for not knowing this about her already. “Okay, no worries. I can go by myself.”

“No, no, wait. Scratch that. I’ll go with you,” she says, quieter now. “I like spending time with you.”

The words hit right in the softest parts of me. Sena’s always been the one dragging me into things—bars with her friends, movie nights, random trips to the farmers’ market for overpriced candles. She’s the reason I have any kind of social life at all.

But this? Her offering to step out of her comfort zone for me? It makes me feel unexpectedly seen, like maybe I’m just as important to her as she is to me.

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

“I know I don’t,” she says, her lips curving into a small smile. “But I want to. As long as you’re okay with my running commentary about how annoying sports are.”

I laugh. “Deal. But you have to promise not to heckle Liam.”

She winks. “No promises.”

We spend the next hour lounging around, sipping coffee. Sena tells me about an improv class she’s taking on the side (how she has time for that, I’ll never understand).

“I know, I know,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s overdone. But they’re adding puppets. Like, full-on sock puppets. I don’t know if it’ll be brilliant or a hot mess, but I’m dying to be a part of it.”

“Of course you are,” I say, grinning. “You thrive on chaos.”

“So true.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, and I glance at the mugs between us, twirling mine idly on the table. “So, uh, Liam did this thing the other day,” I say casually, though my cheeks heat just thinking about it.

She narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. “Define ‘thing.’ Is this a weird thing or a sex thing?”

I chuckle. “Uh, neither?”

She perks up. “Okay, then spill.”

I rest my chin on my hand. “He made me this list. Two columns—Glad and Bad. And he wants to double down on all the Glad.”

“Oh my God,” she murmurs. “What does that mean?”

“It means he thinks sour gummy worms can fix everything,” I say, rolling my eyes but unable to stop smiling. “Really, he just wrote down a bunch of things that make me happy on a bowling alley napkin.”

She nearly chokes on her coffee. “Aw, I sorta love him.”

“Me too.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted to it, and the truth of it settles over me like the comfort of an old, favorite sweatshirt. “It worked, by the way. For, like, five minutes, I forgot how miserable I was.”

“The man is willing to immortalize his bad jokes in list form to make you laugh. Seriously, B, that’s adorable. And you deserve adorable. Don’t mess this up.”

I blink, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. “I don’t plan to.”

“Good. Because if you do, I’m stealing him.”

“Oh, please.” I swat at her. “Liam wouldn’t survive five minutes with you.”

She gives a dreamy, teasing smile. “But what a glorious five minutes it would be.”

I roll my eyes, but the warmth of the moment settles deep in my chest, like the glow of sunlight after a long storm. It feels good, natural—one of those rare times when life slows down just enough to let you breathe.

When it’s time to leave, she pulls on three layers of clothing and mutters something about frostbite, though there’s a playful glint in her eye that says she doesn’t mind. Not really.

I’m happy that things are shifting—not just with Liam or Claire, but with me. I’m finally starting to let people in, to believe that I deserve the kind of connections I’ve always been too scared to reach for. That despite life’s setbacks—the accident, the loss—I can still find joy in these quiet, fleeting moments that remind me I’m still here, still moving forward.

The cold bites through my layers as Sena and I make our way across campus to the practice field. I can see my breath every time I exhale, and the frosty air clings to my cheeks, numbing them.

Sena has her beanie pulled low over her ears, scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, and her puffer jacket zipped all the way up. “I hate this already,” she mutters, her gloved hands stuffed into her pockets.

“You’re the one who insisted on coming,” I remind her.

“Yeah, because I’m a good friend,” she shoots back, her tone dripping with mock resentment. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

I laugh, nudging her as we approach the field. The players are already out there, jogging around to warm up, their breath misting in the cold air. Liam’s easy to spot, even from a distance—tall, confident, and utterly in his element. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black compression shirt under his practice jersey, his blond hair a messy halo under the floodlights.

Sena follows my gaze and groans. “How is he still attractive in this weather? It’s like twenty degrees out, and your man looks like he’s shooting a Nike ad.”

I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through me despite the cold. Mine .

We find a spot along the sideline, close enough to see the action but far enough back to avoid stray balls—or worse, colliding players. Sena pulls out a travel mug from her oversized tote and takes a sip, her breath curling in the cold.

There aren’t many people here—just a handful of friends and girlfriends, bundled up like us, braving the chill to show their support. It’s practice, not a game, so there’s no crowd or pressure, just the low hum of chatter and the occasional laugh as the players warm up.

It’s not long before the scrimmage begins. The team splits into two squads, their jerseys marking the difference—white for one side, red for the other. Liam’s on the white team, playing his usual position on the wing.

Sena leans in close, her voice low. “So, do I cheer like a supportive friend or heckle like a chaotic neutral?”

I snort. “Please don’t heckle. He’ll just use it as fuel to show off, and then I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Her grin is mischievous, but she raises her mug in mock solemnity. “Fine. I’ll keep it classy—for now.”

It doesn’t take long for Liam to get into the rhythm, weaving around defenders with that effortless speed that makes him look like he’s gliding across the field. Even in practice, he’s magnetic to watch. The way he moves, the sharp focus in his eyes, the sheer control he has over the ball—it’s mesmerizing.

“You know,” Sena says after a while, breaking the quiet, “this isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. It’s kind of fun, seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy,” she says simply, her tone softer now. “You’ve got that look, you know? The one people get when they’re completely smitten.”

I duck my head, my cheeks burning. “Shh.”

“It’s true,” she insists, grinning. “And it’s cute. Gross, but cute.”

We both laugh, the sound muffled by the layers of scarves and coats. For the next hour, we alternate between cheering quietly and complaining. Sena’s commentary is relentless and hilarious—she calls the goalkeepers “big bumblebees” and spends a good five minutes trying to figure out why soccer doesn’t allow tackling.

“That guy just pushed Liam,” she says indignantly, pointing at one of the defenders. “Why isn’t there a penalty for that?”

“Because they’re technically on the same team,” I explain, though I’m not entirely sure I understand the rules myself. “And because this is an intra-squad practice scrimmage. Besides, it’s not a foul unless someone actually gets taken out. I . . . think?”

“Annoying,” she declares, sipping her coffee. “Let me at him. I’ll foul him.”

The scrimmage winds down, and Liam’s team finishes strong with a 3–1 win. The final goal is a thing of beauty—a gorgeous assist from Liam that sets up his teammate perfectly.

“Okay, I’m officially frozen,” Sena announces, standing and rubbing her gloved hands together. “I’m gonna go thaw out somewhere warm. Maxxine wants to run lines, so I’m gonna head to hers. You good?”

“Go ahead,” I say, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. “Thanks for coming, though. I know this wasn’t exactly your vibe.”

She waves me off with a grin. “Anything for you. But next time, you owe me a bar night—or something equally indoors. With heaters. And no running.”

“Deal.”

Sena gives me a quick, tight hug before heading off, her steps crunching in the frost-covered grass. I watch her go, warmth spreading through me. Having two people—Sena and Liam—who I’m close to, who I trust, who I really gel with, is so much better than trying to keep up with a big group of shallow friendships.

It’s not about quantity; it’s about connection. And with them, I feel it in a way I haven’t before.

The players pack up their gear, shaking hands and chatting as the scrimmage officially ends. I spot Liam jogging toward me, his breath misting in the cold air, his face still flushed from exertion. His lopsided grin grows wider as he gets closer, and I can’t help but smile back.

“You were amazing!” I say as he reaches me, bouncing on the balls of my feet to stay warm.

“Thanks,” he says, running a hand through his damp, messy hair. “You survived the whole thing. Color me impressed.”

“Barely,” I tease, wrapping my arms around myself. “But you looked great out there.”

“Yeah? You weren’t bored out of your mind?”

“Not even a little,” I say honestly. “You make it fun to watch.”

His expression softens, and he takes a step closer, resting a hand on my arm. Even through my coat, I can feel the warmth of his touch. “You ready to head back? Or do you want to hang out here and freeze a little longer?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Let’s go. My toes stopped working like ten minutes ago.”

“Come on, then. Don’t want you to lose ’em.”

He drapes an arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the parking lot. It’s a firm, steady touch that radiates warmth, and I lean into him, letting the moment settle. Watching him play, seeing him so at ease out there—it felt like catching a glimpse of a world that’s entirely his. A world full of confidence, quiet determination, and joy.

And somehow, he’s letting me be part of it.

I feel lucky that he’s opened his circle to me, that he’s invited me into this part of his life. Into every part of his life. That he trusts me enough to let me exist in all the spaces where he feels most like himself—and that, somehow, I’ve become one of those spaces, too.