Page 41 of Try Line Hearts
“About last night—” Byrne began, then stopped, hands twisting in the hem of his hoodie.
“We don’t have to talk,” Kaine said immediately. No pressure. No expectation.
“No,” Byrne said, shaking his head. “We do. I just… need time to say it properly.”
They stood outside the dorm, the night cool and still, the sounds of camp muted around them. Kaine waited, giving him space without leaving.
Understanding clicked quietly into place in Kaine’s eyes. “Was that your first time,” he asked gently, “with a man?”
Byrne winced, then exhaled. “No.” He stared down at his trainers, jaw tight. “I don’t usually drink. There’s a reason for that.”
Kaine didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the silence.
“I lose control,” Byrne continued, quieter now. “Not in a fun way. In a… say-things-I-can’t-unsay way. I’ve made a mess of things before.” A pause. Something old and sharp flickered behind his eyes, then vanished. “I don’t let myself get there anymore.”
Kaine saw it—not a confession, not a story, but the outline of one. He didn’t push.
“I’m not sorry it was you,” Byrne said, words tumbling faster now, like he was afraid of losing his nerve. “I just—” He swallowed. “I’m terrified.”
Kaine stepped closer—not enough to crowd him, just enough that Byrne felt the shift. His hand brushed Byrne’s, knuckles grazing knuckles, a quiet, accidental-on-purpose touch that lingered for half a second before settling.
“Yeah,” Kaine said softly. “I get it.”
He looked at Byrne then—really looked. Held his gaze longer than strictly necessary, eyes dark and intent, something unreadable moving behind them. Without thinking, he licked his lips, a small, unconscious tell, then seemed to realize he’d done it and stilled.
“We can go slow,” he said. “Or nowhere. On your terms.”
Byrne nodded once, breath catching. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Kaine echoed.
Night dropped over camp, quiet and ordinary, as if nothing had happened at all—except Byrne could still feel the echo of that touch, and Kaine walked away carrying the weight of the look they’d just shared.
Byrne showered late, waiting until he was sure most of the lads were finished. Hot water hammered down his spine as he tried to unpick the knot lodged behind his sternum—not guilt, exactly, but the echo of want. Not the first time. Not the first man. But the first time with this much hunger, this much clarity, and the knowledge that someone had seen it and hadn’t recoiled.
He dried off, pulled on sweats and a hoodie, and instead of heading back to the room, turned into the corridor. His feet carried him to the stairwell with the narrow window overlooking the dark training pitch. Cold glass. Empty field. Silence thick enough to hold him upright.
His phone was in his hand before he’d fully decided.
Maeve picked up before the second ring finished. “Lucas Byrne,” she said, switching immediately to Irish, her voice low but alert. “Tá tú suas ró-dhéanach don oíche seo. Cad atá cearr?”
You’re up far too late for this night. What’s wrong?
He leaned his shoulder into the concrete wall. “Tá mé ceart go leor,” he said—I’m fine—and knew she’d hear the lie.
“I love that lie,” she said dryly. “Try again.”
He exhaled. “Rinne mé rud amaideach,”I did something stupid.
“Stupid like you mouthed off to a coach,” she said, “or stupid like you did something with the pretty roommate?”
Silence.
Her breath hitched. “Ó,” she said softly.Oh.“So it’s the second one.”
“I kissed him,” Byrne said. “Kaine.”
“And?”
