Page 2 of Try Line Hearts
He was New Zealand-born. Maori. Raised in rugby the way some kids were raised in religion. He’d come up through systems designed to feed the All Blacks, through academies that didn’t waste time on maybes. By twenty-one, his name had already been floated—carefully, officially, dangerously close to inevitability.
The All Blacks had noticed him.
Which meant Ireland shouldn’t have stood a chance.
But they’d gone anyway.
Scouts flown out under the guise of “development conversations.” Analysts breaking down every meter he ran, every line he hit, every instinctive choice that couldn’t be coached. Administrators sitting across from him in New Zealand hotel rooms, selling not just money but vision: leadership opportunities, a faster track to international caps, a team being rebuilt around pace and intelligence rather than tradition alone.
They’d made him an offer big enough to make people nervous.
Big enough that when the All Blacks’ interest became formal—quiet but real—Kaine had still paused.
Byrne remembered Carmody saying it once, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “We didn’t just recruit him. We won him.”
Won him away from the black jersey. From history. From gravity.
That alone would have been enough to make Byrne wary.
But standing here, watching Kaine move, he understood why Ireland had risked it.
Kaine didn’t play like someone grateful for an opportunity. He played like someone who knew exactly what he was worth. Like someone whose body trusted itself implicitly. Tall—taller than most of the backs, long-limbed and broad through the shoulders, built with the kind of proportions that made defensive plans unravel. Tattoos traced muscle and movement beneath his kit, ink that spoke of lineage and belonging, of something older than contracts and national anthems.
And he was—Byrne had to admit it, even as his jaw tightened—devastatingly attractive.
Not in a polished, sponsor-friendly way. In a way that felt grounded. Physical. Present. The kind of attractive that didn’t perform itself but existed whether it was noticed or not. The kind that made Byrne’s attention snag before his better judgment could intervene.
Byrne knew the danger immediately.
Not because Kaine was a problem player. Not because he threatened team balance or hierarchy.
Because Byrne felt the pull in his own body.
Because captains were supposed to manage risk, not become it.
Because Ireland hadn’t just brought in a winger—they’d brought in temptation wrapped in potential and set it loose under Byrne’s watch.
And Byrne—disciplined, devout, practiced at restraint—felt the unmistakable, unwanted truth settle into his chest:
This man was dangerous to him.
And the worst part was that he knew it the instant he saw him.
Byrne forced his gaze forward, jaw tightening until it ached. He hadn’t been shaken by a teammate on day one in a very long time—raw and stupid and still learning how quickly attention could turn into exposure.
Time to get himself under control.
Warm-ups bled into drills. Passing patterns. Rucks. Pace changes. Set-piece rehearsals. Byrne let the structure swallow him—catch, spin, call, direct. Numbers steadied him. Angles. Timing. Precision wrapped around him like armor.
Until Carmody’s whistle cut through the air.
“Right—tackle drills! Pair up!”
Byrne’s breath misted as he slowed. He looked automatically for Rory, his usual partner—predictable, steady, uncomplicated—
“Captain.”
The word landed low and warm against his spine.
