Page 117 of Try Line Hearts
“I love you.”
Eli’s breath hitched.
The stadium was utterly still.
Then Lucas leaned in and kissed him.
Not frantic.
Not desperate.
Certain.
For half a heartbeat, Eli froze — disbelief written through him — and then he melted, fingers fisting in the front of Lucas’s jersey like he was afraid this might vanish if he let go.
The crowd exploded.
Cheers tore through the stands, roars of approval rolling like thunder. Whistles. Stamping feet. Happy, joyous noise crashing over them in waves. A sound that didn’t just approve — it claimed the moment and made it communal, made it real in the way nothing whispered ever could.
Teammates whooped and clapped. Someone yelled something incoherent and ecstatic. Cameras flashed wildly.
Lucas barely noticed.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Eli’s.
“I meant it,” he said, softly. “All of it.”
Eli laughed — broken, breathless — and shook his head.
“You’re an idiot,” he said.
“Yeah,” Lucas said. “But I’m yours.”
Eli kissed him again, fierce and unafraid, right there in the rain, right there in the center of the pitch, right there with the whole world watching and no apology left in either of them.
Somewhere in Dublin, Maeve Donnelly stood barefoot in Lucas Byrne’s apartment, wrapped in Lucas Byrne’s jumper, drinking Lucas Byrne’s very good whiskey straight from the bottle like she’d paid for it herself.
Which, frankly, she felt entitled to after his bullshit.
She’d kicked her shoes off hours ago, feet tucked up on the kitchen chair, the match on far too loud, the windows rattling faintly every time the crowd roared. She’d been pacing for most of the second half, muttering at the screen, flinching at every hit like it was landing on her own ribs.
“Jesus Christ, Luke, will you breathe,” she’d snapped at one point, pointing an accusatory finger at the television. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack and I do not have time to explain that to your mother.”
The final whistle had barely finished echoing.
And then—
The reporter.
The question.
Maeve froze.
The whiskey bottle hovered halfway to her mouth as the words landed.
Do you want to dedicate this win to anyone special?
“Oh no,” Maeve said aloud, dread curling sharp in her chest. “Don’t you dare, you cowardly bollocks.” The finger came up to point at the tv again. “Don’t do it you cunt!”
