Page 87 of Try Line Hearts
The water moved on, indifferent.
Eli watched it and knew, with quiet certainty, that whatever came next would require more than patience.
It would require Lucas choosing him in a way the world could see.
And he wasn’t sure Lucas knew how to do that yet.
Chapter Fifteen: Optics
Morning television had a way of sanding people down.
Everything was softer under the lights—the questions, the laughter, the edges of truth. The couch Lucas sat on was upholstered in a neutral fabric chosen not to reflect glare, the mugs on the table stamped with logos that promised warmth without commitment. The studio smelled faintly of coffee and hairspray and ozone from equipment that hummed just outside the edges of the set.
Lucas sat angled just so, jacket buttoned, mic clipped neatly to his lapel. His knee bounced once before he caught it, posture aligning itself out of habit. Captain’s spine. Public face. He’d learned long ago how to occupy a space without letting it occupy him back.
“So,” the host said, leaning forward, tone bright and conspiratorial, “this team is on an extraordinary run right now. An absolute winning streak. Analysts keep talking about cohesion, confidence—momentum.” She smiled at him. “And you in particular, Byrne. People are saying you look sharper this season. Calmer. Even…happier?”
Lucas didn’t stiffen. Didn’t blink.
He smiled.
It was the smile he used for sponsors and donors and charity events. Open, warm, just self-effacing enough to read as genuine. It slid into place without effort.
“I think confidence is contagious,” he said easily. “When the group trusts each other, everything slows down. Decisions get clearer.”
“And it’s not just talk,” she went on. “Ireland are now in very serious contention for a World Cup spot. Some are saying this could be the biggest season of your career.” She tilted her head, grin widening. “No pressure, of course.”
Polite laughter rippled through the studio.
Lucas laughed along, soft and controlled. “Of course.”
“Fans online have their own theories,” the reporter continued, eyes glinting with practiced curiosity. “They’re speculating that maybe it’s not just rugby. That maybe there’s… someone new in your life.”
The pause was microscopic. The smile didn’t falter.
“And,” she added smoothly, “you and Evelyn Cross were spotted at dinner recently. That certainly got people talking.”
“We did have dinner,” Lucas said lightly. “She’s lovely. Very funny. Terrible taste in wine.”
The host laughed, delighted. “That sounds promising.”
Lucas tipped his head, charm dialed up a fraction. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
The audience reacted exactly on cue—playful gasps, appreciative murmurs. The host clapped once, pleased.
“Well played,” she said. “Very well played.”
Lucas chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was embarrassed, like the attention was flattering rather thandangerous. Like this was just another harmless narrative he could step into and wear for an evening.
“And if thatispart of the reason you’re playing so well?” the reporter pressed gently. “Feeling settled. Supported?”
Lucas didn’t deny it.
“That kind of support matters,” he said. “In whatever form it takes.”
It was true.
It was incomplete.
