Page 60 of Try Line Hearts
Chapter Ten: The Look That Gave It Away
Eli’s apartment looked like the sort of place people on the internet argued about.
Half the squad had already called it obscene.
Too much glass, too much skyline, too much proof that a national contract and a European club paid better than most of them ever admitted to dreaming about. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Liffey in slick strokes of silver; lights from the far bank glittered like someone had scattered coins across the water and forgotten to pick them back up.
Lucas stood just inside the doorway, boots still on the mat, taking it in.
The space was open-plan and deliberate—clean lines, dark wood, steel accents softened by plants that were definitely real and definitely cared for. Nothing flashy for the sake of it. Everything chosen.
It felt… lived in. Intentionally so.
“Take a picture, captain,” the scrum-half said, clapping him on the back. “It’ll last longer.”
“I’ll see it in film review when you’re late to training,” Lucas replied automatically.
The scrum-half laughed and peeled off toward the kitchen, where noise and bodies had already congregated. Voices bounced off the high ceilings—accents folding into each other; someone arguing about a call from the match; someone else trying to convince a prop that yes, there was a difference between an IPA andnormal beer.
And there, moving easily between it all, was Eli.
Barefoot in joggers and a T-shirt, curls still a little damp, he looked like he’d peeled off the game-day armor and left something softer underneath. He balanced a tray of glasses on one hand, laughing at something a forward said, hip bumping a cabinet door shut without looking.
Lucas felt that now-familiar flick low in his chest.
Don’t stare.
Don’t want.
Eli turned, scanning the room—and caught him.
The change was instant. His shoulders loosened, his face lighting like Lucas was something he’d been looking for rather than something he’d just noticed.
“There you are,” Eli said, like Lucas was late to his own birthday.
“Traffic,” Lucas said, because it was easier than sayingI almost didn’t come.
“Liar,” Eli said lightly. “Drink?”
Their fingers brushed as Lucas took the bottle. Static skittered up his arm, sharp and unmistakable.
“Nice place,” Lucas said, glancing around. “They pay you too much.”
“Say it louder,” Eli said. “I want management to hear.”
The corner of Lucas’s mouth threatened a smile before he smoothed it away.
Someone called Eli’s name from the kitchen—something about ice, or limes, or both. Host duties. He squeezed Lucas’s shoulder once as he passed—brief, grounding—and disappeared back into the noise.
Lucas watched him go.
The party moved around him in waves. He did what he always did at these things—checked in, steadied nerves, laughed when required, and made himself useful. He refilled drinks without being asked. Redirected conversations before they tipped into something stupid. Made sure the balcony door stayed closed.
And every time he looked up, Eli was there in his periphery.
Watching.
Not once did Eli’s gaze skim past him.
