Page 16 of Try Line Hearts
Because when Kaine walked away, something inside him fractured.
Because he had pushed him away.
Because he could not stop wanting him.
Because wanting this—wantinghim—felt like the most dangerous thing he had ever allowed himself to feel.
And because the man he wanted wasn’t supposed to say his name like that.
Chapter Three: Pressure Lines
Morning film review always felt a little like confession.
A dark room, too quiet, with every mistake magnified to stadium size. No hiding places. No excuses. Just grainy footage and the collective judgment of men who understood exactly how small a fraction of a second could ruin you.
Lucas Byrne took the captain’s seat beside the projector, notebook open, pen aligned with the spine. Ritual mattered. Control mattered. If he could order the small things—the angle of the page, the weight of the pen in his hand—then maybe the larger things would stay in line.
Something he could hold.
Chairs scraped. Laughter rose and settled. Someone coughed.
Kaine slid into a seat two rows back, stretching his long legs out like he owned the floor and the space around it. He had a way of occupying a room that felt instinctive rather than claimed—no sharp edges, no defensiveness. Just presence. Comfortable. Unselfconscious.
Infuriatingly at ease.
Carmody dimmed the lights. “All right, lads. Yesterday’s scrimmage. Pay attention.”
The projector hummed to life, light flickering across the wall. There it was—the run everyone had already been talking about in lowered voices and not-so-lowered group chats.
Byrne stepping inside a defender at exactly the wrong moment.
Kaine streaking down the sideline like a goddamn comet.
The ball threading between them with impossible timing, finding Kaine’s hands as if it had always known where it was going.
Someone whistled low.
“Jesus, look at that,” Rory Keane muttered from the back.
Carmody rewound it. Played it again.
“Kaine,” the coach said, satisfaction naked in his voice, “this is good work. Sharp line. Clean footwork. Byrne—excellent read.”
Groans of mock approval rolled through the room.
“A love story in motion,” one of the props called out.
“Captain’s got a favorite,” Darren Morris added, delighted.
Kaine grinned, wide and unbothered, accepting the attention like it weighed nothing.
Byrne’s stomach tightened into a knot that could have anchored a ship.
Chemistry was dangerous when people pointed at it.
Chemistry was even more dangerous when he couldn’t deny it.
The clip played a third time, too smooth, too effortless. Byrne dropped his gaze to his notebook, pen hovering uselessly above the page. He hadn’t written a word.
