Page 111 of Try Line Hearts
But Byrne did.
The words left his mouth and he went utterly still, as if he’d just confessed to murder or sainthood. His eyes widened a fraction. His breath stopped. He stared at the table, unblinking, like he expected the wood grain to recoil.
It wasn’t relief that hit him first.
It was fear.
Not the fear of headlines or sponsors or Declan’s smug little “narrative,” though all of that flared too—but something deeper and more humiliating.
Because that was what he’d been running from. Not sex. Not scandal. Not even being seen. Real love. The kind that didn’t fit into rules. The kind that demanded honesty, not management. The kind that didn’t care if he was captain or Catholic or carved into a national symbol—love that simply pointed at one person and said: that one.
Byrne exhaled on a broken sound—half laugh, half choke. “Oh my God,” he whispered, like he’d only just understood he was capable of it.
Maeve stared at him for a beat, then rolled her eyes toward the ceiling with theatrical exasperation. “Ah, thank Christ,” she said, as if she’d been waiting years for this moment and it had arrived late and inconvenienced her schedule. “Would you look at that. The Lord Himself finally took pity and rattled your empty head, because you’ve not a lick of sense of your own.”
Byrne gave her a stunned, helpless look—like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or crumble.
Maeve’s expression softened, but only around the edges. Still furious. Still protective. Still Maeve. “I’m not picking sides,” she said, voice rougher now, less sharp. “I care about you. You’re my family. And I care about him too, because—surprise—he’s a decent lad, and he’s been trying his best not to ask you for more than you can give.”
Byrne stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.
“I love him,” he said again, quieter, like repeating it might make it less terrifying.
Maeve nodded once. “Aye. I gathered. If more men had the sense to realize it and say it out loud, the last couple hundred years of history would beverydifferent.”
Byrne’s mouth twitched, pained. “And I’ve made a complete balls of it.”
Maeve didn’t argue, which somehow hurt more than if she had.
Byrne dragged a hand over his face, fingers catching on damp skin. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, the words coming faster now, panic cracking through. “I waited. I kept waiting. I thought I was being careful and I was just—” He swallowed hard. “I was just cowardly.”
Maeve held his gaze. “Welcome to the party.”
Byrne’s laugh came out sharp and miserable.
“The fucking World Cup is tomorrow,” he said, like that was the next incoming disaster on the calendar. “We’ll be in meetings, warm-ups, media, the whole circus. I don’t even know if I can get him alone before it starts. I don’t know if he’ll let me.”
Maeve’s eyes narrowed, thinking. Not plotting—just assessing the way she did when she decided a problem was solvable even if it was ugly. “You’re not going to fix this with a perfect speech,” she said. “So don’t try. If you corner him with a rehearsed apology, he’ll smell it off you and walk.”
Byrne flinched. “So what do I do?”
Maeve leaned back, took a slow sip of her whiskey, and said like it was the most obvious thing in the world: “You tell him the truth. The real truth. Not the ‘I’m trying my best’ shite. The truth that you just said out loud for the first time in your life and nearly short-circuited over.”
Byrne went still again.
Maeve pointed at him with her glass. “And you do it when you can. Even if it’s two minutes in a corridor. Even if it’s in the car park. Even if it’s after warm-up when you’re sweating and half feral. You don’t need a perfect moment. You need a brave one.”
Byrne’s throat worked. “And if he’s done?”
Maeve’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then he’s done.”
Byrne’s face tightened.
Maeve softened, just a fraction. “But if he’s not? If there’s still even a sliver of him that wants you?” She tilted her head. “Don’t you dare make him fight for a place in your life like he’s asking for spare change.”
Byrne nodded once, fast. “I won’t.”
Maeve watched him, then sighed like she was resigning herself to an administrative burden. “Right,” she said, brisk again. “Also—practical matter.”
