Page 115 of Try Line Hearts
The lineout was clean. The maul formed and drove, boots churning through mud, bodies locked together in furious purpose. The opposition fought it desperately, but Byrne felt the shift — the moment resistance began to crumble.
The ball popped out.
He sent it wide, fast and flat, trusting instinct over calculation.
Kaine took it at full tilt.
Time stretched.
One defender beaten. Another slipped. Kaine went down hard just short of the line — and still twisted, stretched, reached.
Try.
The referee’s arm went up.
The stadium detonated.
Byrne dropped to his knees in the mud, rain plastering his hair to his face, breath tearing out of him in something that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob. He barely had time to get up before Kaine crashed into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders in pure, unthinking joy.
For one heartbeat, Byrne let himself hold on.
Then they broke apart.
Too quickly.
The conversion missed — the wind cruel — but it didn’t matter. They defended like men possessed until the final whistle cut through the noise.
They’d won.
The rain kept coming.
Players collapsed. Others shouted and hugged. Mud and water turned everything the same dull colour. Above them, the cameras lingered and panned and hunted for the faces of heroes, for a shot they could stamp into history and sell back to the world in slow motion.
Byrne stood near midfield, hands on his hips, heart pounding so hard it blurred his vision.
Then the reporters arrived.
Ponchos bright against the grey, microphones thrust forward, cameras whirring. Questions came fast and overlapping. Broadcasters elbowed for position; lenses found him like magnets. His name was shouted with the urgency of people who knew exactly how many eyeballs were on the other side of the feed.
He answered on autopilot.
Until—
“Byrne — incredible match. Captain, do you want to dedicate this win to anyone special?”
The words slid into him like a blade.
He knew exactly who she meant.
Evelyn Cross.
Thesafename. The one sponsors loved. The one people expected. The one he’d been hiding behind. The one the internet had already written for him, as if the world could crowdsource his heart.
Byrne looked at the reporter.
Then he looked past her.
And the world slowed.
