Page 103 of Try Line Hearts
And for the first time, Eli didn’t look back at it.
Chapter Seventeen: Shattered
The recovery room always smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal, like something designed to remind you that bodies were temporary and expensive.
Byrne lowered himself into the ice bath with practiced control, breath steady even as the shock bit deep. The water climbed his thighs, his hips, settled brutal and unforgiving. He kept his shoulders loose, jaw unclenched, hands braced on the rim like a man who could out-stubborn any sensation if he treated it like a drill.
Across from him, Kaine sat in the next tub, forearms anchored on the edge, shoulders taut, the line of his mouth carved flat. White bandage wrap peeked from beneath his towel at the knuckles. He stared past Byrne—not quite at the wall, not quite at nothing—like he’d found a point in space that didn’t ask anything of him.
They hadn’t planned this.
They hadn’t planned anything in weeks.
A few lads lingered nearby, half dressed, loud, pretending the cold was funny and not humiliating. Someone complained about the schedule. Someone else moaned theatrically aboutmedia-day lighting. A forward launched into a story about getting stuck in a hotel lift with a sponsor rep and “the world’s most nervous smile.”
“Ah go on,” Seán said, dripping water onto the tiles as he leaned for his towel. “Tell them the best part.”
“What was the best part?” someone asked.
Seán grinned. “Your man panicking like we were going to eat him.”
Laughter—easy, rehearsed.
Then a name floated through it, casual as weather.
“Evelyn Cross is in town, by the way.”
“Stop,” another groaned. “My sister won’t shut up about her.”
“Wouldn’t mind a photo,” Seán added. “For my sister. Obviously.”
More laughter. Some of it forced.
Byrne didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look up.
Neither did Kaine.
The lads drifted out eventually—towels snapped, lockers slammed, noise trailing behind them like something they could shed at the door. The recovery room emptied into a sharper kind of quiet. Pumps hummed. Ice shifted. Overhead lights buzzed thinly.
Byrne kept his eyes on the tiled floor between the tubs. He told himself not to speak. This wasn’t the place. Not the time. Not with Ireland officially locked for the World Cup, not with Dublin confirmed, not with the Aviva already being dressed in banners and expectation.
Every match now was being framed ashistory. Each quote dissected like scripture. His every gesture weighed.
The quiet started to feel like violence.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Byrne said finally, voice low.
Kaine’s mouth twitched. “Have I?”
“Yes.”
Kaine adjusted his grip on the rim, knuckles tightening under the wrap. “I’m listening more.”
That landed worse than anger.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Kaine agreed. “It’s easier.”
