Page 9 of Try Line Hearts
Brilliant.
If God wanted to punish him, He could’ve sent locusts. A convenient plague. A mild ACL tear—half the squad had one already. But no: God sent him a winger carved by angels equipped with the subtlety of a brick.
A true test of faith.
“It’s fine if it’s a problem,” Kaine added softly.
“It’s not,” Byrne lied before the sentence finished.
Kaine held his gaze a beat too long.
Too knowing.
“All right then.”
Byrne’s phone buzzed.
Maeve Donnelly: Day one check-in. Still alive, or should I start planning your funeral?
A small, involuntary exhale left him before he could stop it. Maeve—the only person on earth who knew his truth—had always possessed a preternatural sense for when his control was under threat.
Barely, he typed.
The reply came instantly.
Maeve:Christ. I give you one training camp and you’re already on death’s door. Drink some water, you stubborn bastard. And breathe. You’re not allowed to die without my permission.
He smiled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. Grounding himself in her steadiness, in the familiarity of someone who knew him beyond the headlines and still bothered to swear at him.
The phone buzzed again.
Maeve: Also. Saw the news reel. Who’s the winger you keep nearly breaking your neck to avoid eye contact with?
Byrne stilled.
The footage had been everywhere that afternoon—training drills, slow-motion tackles, the usual breathless commentary about Ireland’s new campaign. He’d watched it once, clinically, and then sworn off social media for the duration of camp.
What winger?he typed, after a beat too long.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Maeve: Don’t play thick with me, Byrne. I’ve known you since you were fifteen and lying about sneaking pints behind your da’s back. You only go that rigid when something’s wrong.
He didn’t answer.
Maeve:Tall lad. Dark hair. Pretty.
Jesus, Lucas. I clocked you in the first thirty seconds. You looked like you’d been struck by lightning and were trying not to scream.
Byrne closed his eyes.
It’s nothing,he typed.Just camp.
Her reply was immediate and merciless.
Maeve:That’s what you said when you were nineteen and had a catastrophic crush on a teammate your first year in green.
Remind me—how did that end again?
