Page 97 of Try Line Hearts
Eli smiled faintly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Listen,” Maeve said. “He’s not malicious. But that doesn’t mean he’s being fair. And you’re allowed to be hurt without turning that hurt into something ugly.”
Eli glanced down at the cracked phone in his hand. At the ghost of the image that still burned behind his eyes.
“I don’t want to be someone he keeps in a pocket,” he said quietly.
Maeve didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t be.”
Silence stretched again.
“Get some rest,” she said. “And don’t make any decisions tonight. That includes punishing yourself.”
He huffed. “You’re very bossy for someone not picking sides.”
She laughed. “I’m not bossy, just right.”
They hung up.
Eli set the phone down gently this time.
He stayed where he was, towel slipping, the flat quiet around him, the desire ebbing into something duller and sadder.
He didn’t delete the photo.
But he didn’t look at it again.
Instead, he lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, finally letting the thought settle without pushing it away:
He wasn’t asking for a grand gesture.
He was asking not to feel like an afterthought.
And no amount of want—no matter how sharp—was going to fix that on its own.
Chapter Sixteen: Distance
Paris always made things feel louder than they were.
Not because the city itself tried too hard — it didn’t — but because rugby did something to Paris. It pulled the whole place tighter around the stadium like a fist. Even the air outside the hotel had that pre-match tang to it: cold rain, diesel from idling coaches, perfume from people who wanted to be remembered, and underneath it all the faint metallic hum of anticipation.
They were staying in a place Lucas had called “fine” in the way he called a broken nose “fine.” Polished lobby. Too many mirrors. Staff trained to look anywhere except directly at the famous faces. A bar that pretended it wasn’t a bar for athletes by offering cocktails none of them would order.
Eli should’ve been able to handle it.
Away weeks were routine. They were structure. They were rules. The day arranged itself around sessions and tape and sleep and the slow, deliberate narrowing of focus. He’d lived in that rhythm long enough that it usually calmed him — made everything simple.
But nothing about this felt simple anymore.
Not since the dinner.
Not since the cheek kiss and the hug and the whisper that had turned into a photo that wouldn’t die.
Not since Lucas had started wearingeasylike armor—smooth answers, soft smiles, a version of himself polished until there were no edges left to catch on.
And looming over all of it was the World Cup.
Every match tightened the math. Every win made the speculation louder. Pundits talked openly now—about qualification, about seeding, about what it would mean if Ireland went all the way. About how the tournament itself might land on home soil, Dublin floated like a promise and a threat in the same breath.
