Page 14 of Try Line Hearts
“Ah.” Kaine nodded, pleased. “That I can do.”
They started flow drills—pace, distance, angle shifting in constant conversation. Byrne called adjustments; Kaine adapted almost too fast, reading him with unsettling precision.
“You’re reading me too quickly,” Byrne said.
“Sorry,” Kaine laughed. “Didn’t mean to be a prodigy.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Sounds like one.”
“Kaine.”
The way his name landed—quiet, controlled—made something in Kaine’s expression soften. He didn’t push.
“Again,” Byrne said. “Forty percent pace.”
“You don’t even have a forty,” Kaine muttered.
But he ran the drill perfectly.
By the time the rest of the squad arrived—Rory, Darren, Cillian—both of them were breathing hard, shirts clinging to sweat. Catcalls rose from across the pitch.
Carmody approached, pleased. “Early work! That’s what leadership looks like.”
Byrne kept his face neutral.
Kaine shot him a conspiratorial smile.
Byrne ignored it.
Badly.
Practice tore through the morning with its usual ferocity. Kaine carved the sideline like wind given muscle, impossible to catch once he found space. Teammates murmured—about potential, about chemistry, about the Byrne–Kaine connection that was already forming whether Byrne acknowledged it or not.
He tried to tune it out.
He couldn’t.
Afterward, Byrne stayed behind to stretch alone on the freezing grass, ribs aching, thoughts limping. He didn’t hear Kaine approach until the shadow fell beside him.
“Good session,” Kaine said, careful, as if he were approaching something skittish. “Feels right. The way we run together.”
Byrne leaned deeper into the stretch. “Good.”
“Just good?” Kaine crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees. “Come on.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re stretching.”
“Busy stretching.”
Kaine huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t push. Instead, his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge.
“I’m here,” he said simply. “If you need anything.”
Byrne didn’t answer.
