Epilogue
EPILOGUE
LIAM
It’s cold in Chicago, the kind of chill that creeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. The snow hasn’t started falling yet, but the weather app says it’ll hit by midnight.
Birdie walks beside me, her gloved hand tucked into the crook of my elbow as we make our way through the streets. The city’s all decked out for the holidays—twinkling lights in every window, wreaths on lampposts, and the faint sound of a street musician playing “Jingle Bells” on a saxophone somewhere in the distance.
She nudges me with her shoulder. “Stop looking like you’re about to storm the field. We’re going to a gallery, not a game.”
“I’m not,” I protest. “I’m just . . . taking it all in. Did you know that Chicago dyed the river green for St. Patrick’s Day so many times they had to check if it was killing fish?”
Her smile grows, and she squeezes my arm. “Yes, I did know that. And no, it didn’t, Mr. Fun Facts.”
I lightly slap her ass, and she gasps, her eyes narrowing in mock outrage before breaking into a soft laugh. By the time we arrive at the gallery, she’s giving me side-eyes that are equal parts amused and exasperated.
The one she picked is tucked into a quiet street, all minimalist lines and big windows. Inside, the warm glow of recessed lighting highlights an array of ceramics—everything from impossibly delicate teacups to bold, abstract sculptures that look like they belong in a history museum.
Birdie’s face lights up the second we step inside, and I swear, watching her take in the space is better than the art itself.
“You picked a good one,” I say, trailing behind her as she moves from piece to piece.
“Of course I did,” she replies, her fingers hovering just shy of a vase with swirling blue and white glazes. “I always do my research.”
I watch her for a moment, the way her eyes linger on every curve and texture, and for a second, the weight of tomorrow presses just a little less heavy on my chest. The MLS draft is less than twenty-four hours away—everything I’ve worked for, dreamed about, is almost within reach.
And Birdie has been by my side every step of the way, grounding me when my thoughts spiral, celebrating every win, no matter how small.
“Do you think your stuff will look good here?” I ask, leaning against a display case.
She pauses, her lips pressing together like she’s trying not to smile. “Maybe. It’s no Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it’ll do.”
“Just wait,” I say, my tone certain. “People are going to be lining up just to get a glimpse of your work.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a faint blush creeping up her neck. “You always know how to make me sound way cooler than I am.”
“Not possible,” I reply, straightening up and stepping closer. “You’re the coolest person I know.”
She turns back to the display, a soft laugh escaping her. “You’re biased.”
“Damn right I am,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist. “And I can’t wait to be even more obnoxiously biased when your name is displayed in galleries across Chicago—or New York—or wherever else people are smart enough to show your work.”
It’s not just a dream, either. She’s been working with Claire nonstop this semester, experimenting with larger pieces, more sculptural forms, and finally gaining the confidence to show them off.
Her ceramics were part of the Ellsworth showcase in the fall, and one of her pieces even made it to the Montrose Gallery student exhibition—a huge step for someone who spent last year doubting her place in the program.
She tilts her head. “And when your name is up on stadium lights tomorrow?”
I smile, my fingers tightening slightly around her hip. “We’ll celebrate. No matter what happens, we’ll celebrate.”
She leans into me. “Deal.”
The weight of tomorrow presses a little less heavy, and as we leave the gallery, the first snowflakes start to fall. Birdie lifts her face to the sky, her eyes bright with wonder, and I know without a doubt that whatever happens tomorrow, I’ve already won.
The next morning, nerves hit me hard.
The Chicago Convention Center is massive, all glass and steel, with banners for every MLS team hanging from the ceiling. Snow flurries dance outside the windows, but the cold doesn’t follow us in. Inside, it’s all heat and energy, a steady buzz of excitement and anticipation.
Birdie walks beside me, her green coat a pop of color against the sea of dark suits and jerseys. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though my stomach is doing flips. “Just feels ... big.”
“It is big,” she replies, smiling. “But so are you.”
I snort and waggle my brows. “I know what you mean, but I’m trying really hard not to make a dirty joke right now.”
She smirks, giving my hand a squeeze. “I think you can keep it tucked up in your noggin’. Just this once.” She tugs me toward the doors, the green of her coat standing out against the muted tones around us. “You’ve worked for this your whole life, Liam. You’re ready.”
I want to believe her, and maybe a part of me does. But as the doors slide open and we step into the lobby, the sheer size of it all threatens to knock the air out of me. The space is sprawling, filled with banners, booths, media stations, and clusters of people talking in hushed but excited tones.
Birdie stays close, her hand warm in mine as we check in and head toward the main ballroom where the draft is taking place. My agent, Ben, is already inside, texting updates and telling me to “stay loose.”
“Stay loose,” I mutter under my breath, my lips twitching. “Right. Sure.”
Birdie glances up at me, her eyes shining with quiet amusement. “You’re already killing it at pretending to be calm. Very convincing.”
“Thanks.”
She digs into her pocket and pulls out something small and bright yellow. “Here. I thought this might help.”
It’s a lemon.
The tightness in my chest eases as soon as I see it. I take it from her, bringing it to my nose and inhaling the sharp, citrusy scent. The absurdity of the gesture—of us—makes me grin.
“Thanks, baby. But sniffing lemons at the MLS Draft isn’t exactly gonna help my street cred.”
“Right. Because you’re always so worried about your reputation.”
“Exactly. I’m a pillar of seriousness and dignity.”
“You’re lucky,” she says. “I almost brought our Jellycat bunnies for emotional support, but then I was worried they’d get lost in transit.”
I laugh, leaning down to kiss her, and it’s enough to make the nerves quiet for just a second. She smells like coffee and something sweet, and it’s the only thing that feels real in this huge, overwhelming space.
We find our seats near the middle of the room, surrounded by other prospects, their families, and agents. The stage is front and center, decked out with MLS logos and a massive screen cycling through highlights of the top-ranked players.
“You were right,” Birdie says after a moment, her voice quieter now. “This is ... a lot.”
I nod, my gaze fixed on the stage. “Yeah.”
“But it’s also kind of amazing.”
I glance at her, my lips quirking. “You just like the banners, don’t you?”
“They’re very well designed,” she admits, grinning. “Someone here has artistic vision.”
The first round starts, and the tension in the room is electric. Names are called, players walk to the stage, and applause fills the air. Each announcement feels like it stretches forever, but also like it’s over too quickly.
Birdie stays close, her hand resting on my leg, her thumb brushing soothing circles against my knee. Every time the commissioner steps up to the podium, I hold my breath.
“With the fourteenth pick in the 2025 MLS SuperDraft,” the commissioner announces, his voice echoing through the room, “FC Cincinnati selects Liam Donovan, winger, Dayton University.”
For a second, the words don’t register. Then Birdie’s hand tightens on my leg, and her voice cuts through the haze. “Liam.”
I turn to her, and she’s grinning, her eyes bright with pride and something softer, something steady.
“That’s you,” she says, her voice cracking just a little.
I stand, my chair scraping against the floor as applause rises around me. Ben claps me on the back, and I manage to give him a quick nod before heading toward the stage.
The lights are blinding, and the cameras feel like they’re aimed straight at my chest, but the moment I shake hands with the coach and hold up the FC Cincinnati scarf, it hits me.
I did it.
One of the staff members hands me a jersey—bright orange and navy with my name on the back—and someone else points me toward another round of interviews. The reporters’ questions blur together: “What does this mean to you? How does it feel? What are you most excited about?”
Ben’s at my side, guiding me through the chaos like he’s done it a hundred times before. Cameras flash in every direction, and my face hurts from smiling, but every few seconds, I catch glimpses of Birdie at the edge of the crowd, her presence a steady anchor in all the madness.
Later, when the buzz finally dies down, I find Birdie waiting for me in the lobby. She looks up, sees me, and her smile widens, lighting up her entire face. It’s the kind of smile that makes everything else fall away.
“You did it,” she says, launching herself into my arms.
I laugh, catching her easily. “ We did it.”
She pulls back, hands resting on my shoulders. “I didn’t kick a single ball, Donovan. This was all you.”
I shake my head, my grin softening. “You were there every step of the way. I couldn’t have done this without you, Birdie. You know that, right?”
Her eyes shimmer. “Okay, maybe I was a little helpful.”
I chuckle, pressing my forehead to hers. “Just a little?”
“Fine, a lot.”
“Then it’s settled,” I say, leaning in to kiss her, soft and slow. “This is ours.”
Her lips twitch, her cheeks flushing pink. “So, Cincinnati, huh?”
“Looks like it.”
“You ready for it?”
My grasp on her hand tightens. “Yeah. Are you?”
She tilts her head, pretending to think. “Am I ready to visit my boyfriend in the middle of Ohio? Sure. I’ll bring snacks.”
I laugh. “We’re gonna make this work, Birdie. No matter what.”
She presses one last perfect kiss to my lips. “I know we will.”