Page 83 of Try Line Hearts
“I…” he let out a low giggle and whistled. “That was—I don’t think there’s ever going to be any topping that. Pun fully intended.” They both dissolved into breathless giggles and Lucas softly kissed the top of his head.
Eli traced idle shapes on Lucas’s chest.
“What happened to your hand?” Lucas said quietly.
Eli snorted. “I had a… moment.”
Lucas smiled, tired and full and terrified.
“Was this amomentas well?” He asked.
“I just needed to remind you what you’re missing out on.” Eli said. He meant it as a joke but a spark of hurt behind his eyes spoke volumes more.
Outside, the village settled into night.
Inside, something fragile and fierce took root—no longer just want, no longer just fear.
Something chosen.
Chapter Fourteen: False Smile
Media day was always a strange kind of limbo.
Not a match. Not training. Something in between—performance without sweat, pressure without motion. Eli had learned early that it took a different set of muscles. Smile on cue. Speak in clean sentences. Be interesting but not revealing. Authentic but not specific.
This morning, every part of him hurt.
Not catastrophically. Not in a way anyone would notice. Just the deep, echoing soreness that lived low in his body, a reminder of last night every time he shifted his weight or straightened his spine too quickly. His hand ached dully beneath the wrap—knuckles swollen, skin tender where he’d been careless with himself—but it was the other ache that kept catching him off guard. The slow, intimate throb that made sitting an exercise in control and walking a careful negotiation.
It was the kind of soreness you didn’t get from training.
It was the kind you earned.
Eli sat on a folding chair near the edge of the warehouse space, elbows braced on his knees, boots planted wide. He looked relaxed if you didn’t know him well. If you didn’t know that he wascounting breaths, adjusting subtly, grounding himself in small movements so his body didn’t betray him.
Across the room, lighting rigs buzzed softly. Sponsor banners had been clipped into place against temporary walls—logos arranged just so, colors bright enough to be optimistic but not garish. The place smelled faintly of coffee, sea air, and the ozone tang of cables warming under lights.
Somewhere outside, gulls screamed like they were being murdered for sport.
“Lucas Byrne. Five minutes.”
The name cut through the noise like a blade.
Eli didn’t look up right away.
He didn’t have to.
He could picture Lucas exactly—straightening his jacket, tugging once at the cuff, shoulders rolling back into that precise alignment he slipped into the moment someone said his name with expectation attached. Captain first. Always.
Lucas passed him without breaking stride.
Not cold. Not dismissive.
Just… contained.
Eli swallowed, slow and deliberate, and pushed to his feet when his own name was called, joints protesting quietly. He stepped into a smaller setup near the windows, where grey light slanted in off the river.
“Hi! Eli, right?” The sponsor rep held a tablet like a shield. “We’re just doing a few lifestyle shots. Very casual. Think ‘approachable excellence.’”
