Page 67 of Try Line Hearts
Then, because he was a coward and a captain and a man who’d learned to survive on the smallest truths possible, he added:Not a big deal.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then:
Eli:[thumbs up emoji]
One emoji. Clean. Neutral. Professional.
It was somehow the most vicious thing Eli had ever said to him.
Lucas pocketed the phone like it burned.
Downstairs, the lobby had been polished into a kind of soft glow—glass doors, muted music, a few people who smelled like finance and expensive cologne. Lucas crossed it with the practiced ease of a man who had learned how to inhabit attention without letting it touch him.
Declan waited by the revolving door, smile locked in place.
“There he is,” Declan said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Captain. Golden boy. Ireland’s favorite jawline.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Declan laughed like Lucas had made a joke. “You look sharp. Good. That’s half the battle.”
“Half the battle is playing rugby.”
Declan’s smile didn’t slip. “Rugby is your job. Your image is your career.”
The wordcareerlanded like a weight.
They slid into the car. The city passed in reflections—wet pavement, streetlights, the river catching light in lazy silver streaks. Lucas watched it and thought, unhelpfully, of Eli’s apartment. The view. The couch. The way Eli had looked at him like Lucas wasn’t something owned by a country.
Declan talked the entire drive.
“Evelyn’s team is smart,” Declan said. “She’s a singer, not an influencer. She’s got credibility. Chart presence. A tour coming up. She needsgrounded. You needuncomplicated.”
“I’m not uncomplicated.”
Declan’s smile widened, patient and practiced. “That’s why we curate.”
Lucas pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek.
Declan leaned back, folding his hands. “You’re on a winning streak,” he went on, tone easy but deliberate. “People are already talking about trajectories. If you keep playing like this, you’re not looking ataWorld Cup someday—you’re looking atthisone. Sooner rather than later.”
Lucas didn’t look up.
“There’s chatter about hosting, too,” Declan added, as if it were idle. “UK cities in the mix. London, Cardiff… there’s even a serious push for Dublin if the numbers line up.”
That got Lucas’s attention, sharp and unwelcome.
“Imagine it,” Declan said smoothly. “Home soil. Global eyes. A final that turns captains into monuments.”
He held Lucas’s gaze now. “Which means every photo, every rumor, everyassociationmatters. You don’t get to be anything but polished. Not messy. Not complicated. Not right now.”
Lucas nodded once, jaw tight.
Polished, he thought.
Like something meant to be looked at—not touched.
