Page 18 of Try Line Hearts
“You felt that, right?”
“Run it again,” Byrne said flatly.
Kaine’s grin turned feral. “So you did.”
“Again.”
They ran it again.
The line cracked open again.
By the third repetition, Byrne felt the weight of attention settle like a hand between his shoulder blades—teammates watching, coaches watching, the shape of a narrative forming whether he allowed it or not.
He didn’t have room for narratives.
He had room for structure.
For duty.
For nothing else.
So when Kaine offered him a water bottle during the break, holding it out with an easy, wordless question, Byrne didn’t take it.
He couldn’t.
Kaine hesitated, then nodded once and took a drink himself, no comment. No pressure.
That, somehow, was worse.
The incident came during the afternoon scrimmage.
Not the usual roughness—the accidental collisions and hard landings that came with the territory. This was sharper. Internal.
Cillian, hungry for selection and running hot, charged too hard into Kaine at a breakdown.
Shoulder to ribs.
Late.
Unnecessary.
Kaine staggered, breath tearing out of him in a sharp hiss.
Before Byrne’s mind caught up, his body was already moving.
He grabbed Cillian by the jersey and shoved him back with a force no one expected from someone as controlled as Byrne.
“What the fuck was that?” he snapped.
“It was a contest,” Cillian shot back, startled.
“That was late. And stupid. And you know it.”
“Relax, captain,” another forward muttered.
Byrne turned on him, glare sharp enough to cut steel. Cillian lifted his hands, jaw tight, backing down.
Kaine touched Byrne’s arm—light, grounding. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
