Page 114 of Try Line Hearts
He barked orders until his voice went raw, hands slicing through the rain as he adjusted shapes, redirected traffic, compensated for the way everything wanted to unravel. Territory swung back and forth. Tackles landed bone-deep. Bodies stayed down longer than usual.
Kaine was everywhere.
He chased kicks like he had something to prove, flung himself into contact without hesitation, came up grinning and mud-splattered like it fed him. When Byrne sent the ball wide under pressure and felt that horrible, suspended half-second of doubt — the fear that he’d misjudged it, that he’d hung Kaine out to dry —
Kaine was there.
Always.
Hauling it in with hands like magnets. Accelerating through space that shouldn’t have existed. Cutting lines that looked suicidal until they weren’t. Making the kind of choices that looked like madness until they became momentum.
They were in sync in the way that hurt now.
Because it wasn’t personal anymore.
It was just… professional.
That was the lie Byrne told himself as the half dragged on, as the cameras followed every close-up of his face, as the roar of home — of Ireland — rose and fell like an ocean behind his teeth.
By halftime, they were down by three.
The changing room steamed like a furnace.
Wet grass, muscle rub, adrenaline, frustration — it layered the air until it felt thick enough to chew. Boots thudded to the floor. Someone cursed as they ripped tape from skin. Someone laughed too loud, brittle at the edges. Outside, the noise of the crowd bled through concrete like distant thunder — impatient, believing, demanding more.
Carmody paced, voice rough and relentless, pointing out missed chances, hammering discipline. No panic. No theatrics. Just truth delivered with the confidence of a man who believed they could take it.
Byrne listened. Nodded. Absorbed.
Across the room, Kaine sat on a bench, head tipped back against the lockers. Rainwater dripped steadily from his hair, darkening the concrete between his boots. His chest rose and fell hard, shoulders loose with exhaustion.
He stared at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.
He did not look at Byrne once.
Byrne forced himself not to stare.
The second half was uglier.
The rain intensified, hammering down so hard it blurred the stands into a single grey wall. Visibility dropped. The ball skidded free. Feet went out from under bodies without warning. It was grinding, mean rugby — the kind that stripped everything down to want.
Byrne welcomed it.
Pain was honest.
He took hits he didn’t need to. Stayed in rucks longer than was sensible. His lungs burned. His thighs screamed. He stayed upright on spite and muscle memory. The crowd rose with every inch, and the commentators’ voices turned hoarse, frantic, reverent — the language of a day that would be replayed for years.
With ten minutes left, the score was tied.
The stadium had gone feral.
Noise tore out of the stands like something alive — stamping feet, hoarse shouting, approval roaring at every collision. Byrne could barely hear his own calls.
They won a penalty just outside the twenty-two.
Byrne didn’t hesitate.
He kicked for the corner.
