Page 124 of Try Line Hearts
“We don’t care,” Rory said simply. “About… any of that.”
A pause.
“We care that you’re our captain,” he added, nodding once at Lucas. “And that you put your body on the line for us every bloody week.”
He jerked his chin toward Eli. “And that you ran like your arse was on fire in that weather.”
Laughter bubbled up again — warmer this time.
“And,” Rory finished, voice quieter but steadier, “that if anyone gives either of you shit for today, they’ll be dealin’ with all of us.”
For a second, Lucas couldn’t breathe.
Cillian crossed the room and clapped Lucas on the shoulder — firm, familiar. Darren followed, slinging an arm around Eli and squeezing like he always did when he was pretending not to be emotional.
“Christ,” Darren muttered. “You couldn’t have picked a less subtle moment.”
“Rain and all,” someone else added. “Very dramatic.”
“On brand, though,” another said. “Captain waits until the whole country’s watchin’.”
There were hugs — awkward, masculine, brief but real. Backslaps. Someone handed Lucas a bottle of water and then immediately took it back because it was apparently the wrong one.
No one made it weird.
No one made it heavy.
Lucas stayed seated, stunned, smiling faintly like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real yet. He didn’t trust his voice. If he spoke, something might break loose that he wasn’t ready to manage.
Eli stood eventually, crossed the narrow aisle, and stopped in front of him.
He didn’t touch him.
Just waited.
Lucas looked up at him and finally, finally let himself breathe.
Around them, the locker room returned to its normal chaos — jokes, complaints, the hiss of the showers kicking on. Life resumed, imperfect and loud and mercifully ordinary.
Lucas leaned back against the bench, smile still small and disbelieving, heart hammering.
The hammer hadn’t fallen.
Not yet.
And for the first time in his life, he wondered if maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t coming at all.
The PR office was smaller than either of them had expected.
A narrow room off the media corridor, windowless, fluorescent-lit, with a table that had seen better decades and two mismatched chairs pulled up like an afterthought. Someone had left a tray of untouched sandwiches on the counter, curling at the edges. It smelled faintly of stale coffee and printer toner.
Aoife had ushered them in with a look that brooked no argument.
“Phones,” she’d said gently. “Take a minute. You’re not needed anywhere else right now.”
And then she’d shut the door behind them.
They were clean now. Showered. Changed into dry kit — hoodies and track pants, hair still damp at the nape of the neck. The physical exhaustion had settled deep into their bones, replacing adrenaline with something heavier and slower.
