High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

35. Liam

35

LIAM

The banquet hall is buzzing tonight. It’s the end of March, and the air outside is just starting to feel like spring, all soft breezes and budding trees. Inside, though, it’s fluorescent lighting and formalwear—soccer cleats traded for dress shoes, jerseys for button-downs.

Birdie’s beside me, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the emerald-green dress. It’s formal but understated, the rich color making the gold in her hazel eyes glow. Her heels—a modest two inches because she insisted on not towering over me—tap a quiet rhythm against the floor.

She looks stunning, obviously, but there’s a tightness to her posture, the kind that says she’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You doing okay?”

She nods quickly, but it’s not convincing. Her hands tighten around the fabric, her eyes darting around the room like she’s mapping out potential escape routes. “It’s just . . . your parents.”

Ah, yes. My parents. The immaculately dressed, judgmental elephants in the room.

“They’re not that scary,” I tell her, keeping my tone light. “Annoying? Sure. Overbearing? Absolutely. But scary? Nah. They’re just two people who think being rich makes them more fascinating than they actually are.”

She gives me a look—half-amused, half-exasperated. “That’s not helping.”

I reach over and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Okay, listen. They’re not judging you for who you are.” She raises an eyebrow, skeptical, and I add, “They’re judging you for wanting to be with me.”

Her mouth drops open. “Liam! Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. “They’ve never really warmed up to the whole autistic thing, you know? It’s like they think they got dealt a bad hand with me or something. They’d rather I—” I pause, considering my words. “Blend in better. Be quieter. Basically, not be myself.”

I say it casually because that’s how I’ve learned to deal with it. The blunt honesty makes it easier to swallow. I’m not ashamed of who I am—it’s the rest of the world that tries to make it feel like something to apologize for.

When I glance at Birdie, her brow is furrowed, her lips pressed together in this way that tells me she’s working through how to react. How to balance between sympathy and outrage without making it weird. Then she tilts her head slightly, studying me like she’s trying to see past the words. Finally, she squeezes my hand back.

“Well, screw them,” she says fiercely.

A startled laugh bubbles out of me, warming the tightness in my chest. “Yeah. Screw them.”

The corner of her mouth twitches upward, but the tension hasn’t fully left her shoulders. I fumble in my jacket pocket, feeling the cool, waxy skin of what I’m looking for, and pull it out with a little flourish.

“Here,” I say, holding it up between us.

Birdie blinks at the lemon in my hand, then at me, like she’s waiting for the punchline. “What . . . what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Sniff it,” I say, completely serious.

“Sniff it,” she repeats flatly.

“Yeah.” I roll the lemon between my fingers. “My brother told me that sniffing lemons or limes can help with anxiety. Thought I’d give it a shot. You know, start carrying one around for you. Combat tool.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. Then, out of nowhere, she loops her arms around my neck and pops a kiss on my cheek.

“The strangest brand of sweet,” she murmurs, her voice warm and amused.

“Maybe,” I say, grinning. “But you’re not panicking anymore, are you?”

She huffs out a small laugh and shakes her head. “You win, Donovan. Pass me the lemon.”

I hand it over, and she brings it to her nose, inhaling deeply like she’s humoring me. “I hate to admit it, but it actually smells . . . calming.”

“Told you.”

She rolls her eyes but slips the lemon into her bag, her lips quirking into a faint, reluctant smile. Just like that, the tension in her shoulders softens, and the restless tapping of her foot comes to a stop. For a moment, we sit together in easy silence, her hand still nestled in mine. Then I catch sight of the clock on the wall and let out a quiet sigh.

“Time to face the music,” I say, standing and offering her my hand.

She takes it, and we make our way back to the table, where my parents are already seated alongside two of my teammates and their families. My dad is mid-conversation with Amir’s mom, his expression polite but distant. My mom, on the other hand, is scrolling through her phone, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against the screen.

“Liam,” she says when she notices us, cool and composed. “There you are.”

“Hi, Mrs. Donovan,” Birdie greets. “So nice to see you again.”

“Bridget,” my mom replies, offering her a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You as well.”

We sit, and I slide my palm over Birdie’s thigh, a small, grounding gesture meant as much for me as it is for her. Her hand brushes mine in response, her fingers warm and reassuring.

“How was the drive in?” my dad asks, his tone as formal as ever.

“Uneventful,” I say, reaching for the water glass in front of me. “You know, cars, roads, the usual. Though, there was a squirrel that looked like it was plotting something sinister at a crosswalk. Pretty sure it made direct eye contact.”

My dad doesn’t laugh, but I catch the faintest twitch of my mom’s lips, like she’s fighting a smile. Small victories.

Birdie taps the back of my hand lightly. “How was your day, Mrs. Donovan?”

“Oh, you know,” she says vaguely. “Busy. But nothing terribly exciting.”

Birdie nods. “Well, you look wonderful tonight.”

My mom raises a perfectly arched brow. “Thank you, Bridget. You look ... nice as well.” Her gaze sweeps briefly over Birdie’s dress, lingering just long enough to make the compliment feel pointed, like an afterthought carefully disguised as civility.

My dad, meanwhile, seems focused on Amir’s mom, leaning slightly toward her as he murmurs something I can’t hear. It’s a classic David move: making polite small talk with the people who matter to him professionally while the rest of us might as well be furniture.

Birdie tries again, her gaze shifting to my dad. “Mr. Donovan, I wanted to say thank you for introducing me to Claire Mahler. She’s been so kind and supportive.”

My dad glances at her briefly. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

“Yes, I’m really excited,” Birdie continues. “Did Liam mention I’ll be interning with her starting in May?”

My dad gives a tight nod, his gaze flickering briefly to the bread basket before shifting back to Amir’s mom. He offers no follow-up, no acknowledgment of her excitement. Doesn’t inquire about her work or even feign polite interest. Just moves on like she didn’t say anything at all.

I bristle, my jaw tightening as I glance between them. “Did you hear my girlfriend?”

My dad’s brows draw together. “Of course I heard her,” he says dismissively. “And I responded.”

“No, you brushed her off,” I counter. “She’s trying to make conversation with you guys, and you can’t even pretend to care for five seconds?”

“Liam,” my mom interjects lightly. “Quit being a bug.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Birdie says calmly. She places a hand on my arm and taps it twice. “Really, Liam. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not to me. I want her to feel comfortable around them, even if I’m not. You’d think they’d be excited—proud, even—that I’ve finally found someone I love. Someone incredible, who has more in common with my dad than most people.

If it were just me they were dismissing, I’d let it go, like I always do. I’ve learned to let their passive disapproval slide off my back, a habit born out of years of necessity. But when it comes to Birdie? I can’t stand the thought of them brushing her aside, of their indifference or subtle digs chipping away at her confidence.

She deserves better—better than this, better than them.

It’s probably a good thing, I guess, that Coach Harris steps up to the microphone before I can say something I might regret. “Good evening, everyone. Thank you for being here tonight to celebrate another successful season,” he says, his voice steady and commanding.

The room quiets, all eyes shifting toward the podium, and I force myself to inhale deeply. The simmering anger in my chest doesn’t vanish, but it dulls just enough for me to keep it in check. Birdie’s hand stays on my arm, her fingers moving in slow, soothing patterns against the fabric of my sleeve.

I glance at her, and she offers me a soft, understanding smile. It’s enough to remind me why I’m here—and why making a scene, as satisfying as it might feel, wouldn’t be worth it. For now, I let it go.

Coach launches into a speech about the team’s achievements this year, highlighting key moments and players. My name comes up a couple of times, but I barely hear it, too distracted by the simmering tension I’m trying to tamp down. The noise of clapping and laughter blends into a dull hum, my focus scattered like leaves in the wind.

When the awards are announced, I zone out completely, nodding absently at the names and clapping along with everyone else. It’s not until Birdie squeezes my leg under the table—her nails digging just enough to snap me out of my head—that I realize something’s happening.

“Liam,” she whispers, her voice urgent but still low enough not to draw attention. “They just called your name.”

“What?” I blink, looking toward the stage. Sure enough, Coach is standing there, holding up a plaque with my name etched into it. The room erupts in applause, and the weight of every pair of eyes in the room presses down on me like a spotlight I didn’t ask for.

Birdie grins at me, her face glowing with a mix of pride and amusement. “Go,” she says, giving me a nudge. “It’s the Scholar-Athlete Award.”

I stand, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, and make my way to the front of the room. Coach claps me on the shoulder as he hands me the plaque.

“This young man exemplifies what it means to be a student-athlete. Not only has he been a force to reckon with on the field, leading the team in assists this season and being a relentless presence on the wing, but he’s also demonstrated remarkable commitment to his studies, balancing the rigorous demands of civil engineering with his dedication to the sport.”

There’s a smattering of applause, and I glance back toward our table. Birdie is beaming, her hands clasped together, pride radiating from across the room. It feels good—grounding, even—to have her here for this moment, her confidence in me making it feel a little less daunting.

“But it’s not just stats and academics,” Coach continues. “Liam is the kind of guy you want in your corner. He’s dependable, hardworking, and always willing to put in the extra effort for the good of the team.”

The applause grows louder, and I shift awkwardly, my grip tightening on the plaque. Compliments are great and all, but standing here in front of everyone is overwhelming.

“And,” Coach adds with a grin, “he’s also the only player I’ve ever seen trip over the ball, recover, and still manage to make an assist.”

Laughter ripples through the room, and I duck my head, a smile tugging at my lips. Okay, that one was fair.

“Congratulations, Liam,” Coach says, shaking my hand firmly. “The Scholar-Athlete Award is well-deserved.”

“Thank you, Coach,” I manage, my voice steady despite the nerves crawling up my spine. I nod to the crowd, murmuring a quick “Thanks, everyone,” before heading back to my seat.

When I sit down, Birdie leans in, her eyes sparkling. “So proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I murmur. Her hand finds mine under the table again, and I cling to it like a lifeline.

The rest of the banquet passes in a blur. My parents congratulate me on the award, though it’s more of a measured acknowledgment than a celebration. A quick “Nice job, son” is about all I get.

By the time the event wraps up, I’m more than ready to leave. As people gather their things, I help Birdie into her coat, brushing a stray curl from her face. She murmurs a quiet thank-you, her cheeks still faintly pink from the warmth of the room.

We stand to say our goodbyes, and my dad steps forward, extending a handshake to Birdie. “Good luck with your work.”

Birdie hesitates for the briefest moment before shaking his hand firmly. “Thank you,” she says steadily, her voice unwavering. There’s no shrinking back, no falter, and I feel a flicker of pride watching her hold her own.

My mom, ever the polished diplomat, offers Birdie a faint smile as we turn to leave. “It was nice to see you again, Bridget,” she says. “Perhaps you can join Liam for dinner at our place soon.”

Birdie blinks, surprised, but recovers quickly. “I would love that.”

I raise an eyebrow, caught somewhere between shock and amusement, but I don’t say anything. As we walk toward the parking lot, Birdie exhales a long breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Well,” she says, glancing up at me with a small, tired smile. “That was . . . something.”

I laugh quietly, slipping my hand into hers. “You did great.”

“I’m sorry about tonight,” I say, my voice low as I shove my free hand into my pocket. “My dad—he’s just—”

Rigid? Impossible to please? A laundry list of traits I’ve spent years trying to navigate without losing my mind.

“Don’t,” Birdie interrupts, her tone firm. “Don’t apologize for him. You’re not responsible for how he acts.”

“I just hate that he was so rude to you,” I say, my jaw tightening. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She squeezes my hand, her smile soft but resolute. “I’ve dealt with worse. Besides, I’d sit through an entire evening of tense small talk and sideways comments if it meant supporting you, my prized Scholar-Athlete.”

The way she says it—with unwavering pride, like she truly believes it—stirs something deep inside me, a warmth that spreads slowly and roots itself firmly. It feels like she’s my biggest fan, standing in my corner no matter what. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve earned this.

All the grueling practices, the sleepless nights, the constant balancing act—it wasn’t just about proving something to everyone else.

It was about proving something to myself.