Page 66 of Try Line Hearts
He pictured Lucas in a tailored suit, polite smile in place, hand resting just-so at the small of someone else’s back. The same man who had, minutes ago, let Eli suck his cock in a storage room like secrecy was a second skin.
The whiplash made his stomach twist.
This was the deal, he reminded himself.
This was always the deal.
Lucas had never promised anything else.
Eli had known, from the beginning, that whatever they were doing lived in margins and shadows. He’d agreed to it willingly. He’d even told himself he preferred it that way—less pressure, fewer expectations.
Careful.
He adjusted the towel around his shoulders and forced his breathing to steady.
He didn’t seek Lucas out.
Instead, he told himself—calmly, carefully—that this was what careful looked like.
That he knew the rules.
That he could live with being wanted only where no one else could see.
The thought didn’t hurt.
Not yet.
But something had shifted, quiet and unmistakable, settling low in his chest like the first ache of a bruise.
And Eli knew—instinctively, unwillingly—that when it finally bloomed, it was going to hurt like hell.
Chapter Twelve: Smoke And Mirrors
Lucas knew the exact second the thing became real.
It wasn’t when his agent said the wordsjust a dinner, nothing dramatic. It wasn’t when the club’s media manager smiled too brightly and handed him a schedule like it was a prescription. It wasn’t even when Lucas watched his own name appear in a neat little typeface on a reservation card, as if that made it less absurd.
It was when he tugged on his jacket in the mirror and realized he was doing the same thing he did before a match: checking seams, checking posture, checking for anything that could be used against him.
Except tonight there would be no whistle.
No set plays.
No clean parameters.
Just a room full of people who made a living off seeing through things.
He adjusted his tie. It sat perfectly.
His phone buzzed, once.
Eli: you still coming to physio or u already in full James Bond mode?
Lucas stared at the message longer than he needed to.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. A dozen replies came and went—jokes, deflections, something honest, something that would only make it worse.
He typed:Late. Talk after.
