Page 109 of Try Line Hearts
“No,” she cut in, same tone she’d used his whole life when he tried to dodge the truth with manners. “You don’t get to ‘Maeve’ me. Not tonight.”
She pointed at the windshield like she was issuing a directive from the Taoiseach. “Drive. There’s a pub round the corner. You can cry in the dark like everyone else.”
Byrne managed, somehow, to start the car.
Maeve didn’t touch the radio. She didn’t fill the silence with jokes. She let the quiet sit heavy, the way Irish women did when they loved you and were furious at you at the exact same time.
They found the pub—low-ceilinged, warm, tucked down a side street. No photographers. No sponsor reps. Just dim light, wood polished by decades of elbows, and the steady hum of people minding their own business.
Maeve marched in like she owned the place.
Byrne followed, still hollow.
They slid into a corner booth. Maeve ordered without asking—whiskey for her, pint for him, and then another whiskey “for later, because I can tell already.”
When the drinks arrived, Maeve took a sip, set her glass down, and fixed Byrne with the look.
“Right,” she said. “Start talking.”
Byrne stared at the table. The wood grain looked too detailed, like the world had sharpened out of spite.
“I don’t even know where to start,” he admitted.
Maeve leaned forward. “Try the part where you’ve been acting like the lad you love is a shameful habit you’ll quit after the season ends.”
Byrne’s throat tightened. The word love—said so plainly, so casually—hit him like a punch and a relief all at once.
He tried to swallow it down. Failed.
Maeve’s expression didn’t soften, but her voice did. Just a fraction. “Go on.”
So Byrne talked. Not in the neat, controlled way he did with journalists. Not in bullet points. In fragments, at first. The way the truth came out when it wasn’t rehearsed. He told her about the weeks—about the carefulness that had started as a plan and turned into a cage. About Eli’s silence that wasn’t sulking but self-protection. About how Byrne had convinced himself that if he just held on a little longer—until after this match, until after this window, until after the season—everything would settle. Maeve listened without interrupting, except to make small, brutal noises of disagreement when he said something especially stupid.
He told her about the ice bath. About Eli’s question.
Do you intend to keep me a dirty little secret forever?
Byrne’s voice cracked on it, his eyes burning again.
Maeve’s face went tight. “And what did you say?”
Byrne stared at his pint like it contained answers. “Nothing.”
Maeve let out a low whistle. “Christ.”
Byrne flinched. “I couldn’t—”
“Don’t,” Maeve snapped, then caught herself and exhaled hard. “No. Sorry. I know you’re not doing it to be cruel. I know you’re not sitting there twirling a moustache going, ‘How can I ruin Eli’s life today.’”
Byrne’s eyes flicked up, surprised.
Maeve tapped her fingers against her glass, choosing her words like she was trying not to make it worse. “You’re doing it because you’re scared,” she said. “And because you’ve been trained your whole life to treat your feelings like a liability.”
Byrne swallowed. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” Maeve agreed. “It doesn’t. But it means you can fix it, if you stop treating honesty like it’s optional.”
Byrne’s hands tightened around the pint glass. “I don’t know if I can give him what he wants.”
