Page 88 of Try Line Hearts
And it landed like erasure.
Because therewassomeone new in Lucas’s life. The confidence, the steadiness, the lightness everyone was praising had been built in stolen moments and quiet agreements and hands brushing in the dark.
And now it belonged—publicly, neatly—to someone else.
The conversation moved on smoothly. Upcoming fixtures. Leadership. What it meant to captain both club and country.
Lucas answered with ease. Confidence honed over years. Every response clean, reasonable, unobjectionable.
Watching at home, Eli swallowed the ache and reminded himself—again—that this was the cost of small and quiet andjust us.
Even when the world decided it needed a different story.
When the cameras cut, the energy in the room shifted immediately. The lights dimmed. The warmth evaporated.
“Perfect,” the host said, squeezing his arm. “Absolutely perfect.”
Lucas thanked her, stood when prompted. A runner handed him his phone.
Three missed messages already.
Across the city, in an apartment with less glass and more quiet, Eli stood in front of his television, arms crossed so tightly his shoulders ached.
He’d told himself he wouldn’t watch.
He watched anyway. Watched Lucas smile. Watched him deflect and turn something private into something clever and consumable; make it look easy.
I don’t kiss and tell.
The line landed like a bruise.
Not because it was untrue.
Because it was careful.
Because it framed intimacy as a game instead of a risk. Because it let everyone laugh and move on without asking who, exactly, and Lucaswasn’ttelling.
Eli shut the TV off before the adverts started. The screen snapped to black, the silence immediate and heavy.
He stood there for a long moment, jaw locked, chest tight. Then he grabbed his hoodie and keys and left, heading for the gym because he needed noise and weight and sweat—something that would drown out the image of Lucas under studio lights, unmarked by consequence.
Maeve watched the interview on her phone with the particular stillness that meant trouble.
She was on her sofa, feet tucked beneath her, tea cooling untouched on the table. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t even swear when the reporter smiled and saidno pressure, of courseand the audience laughed obligingly.
She watched Lucas smile. Watched him perform.
And she made it exactly three minutes after the clip ended before she opened her messages.
Lucas’s phone buzzed as he was peeling off his mic pack, adrenaline still humming under his skin.
Maeve:Oh absolutely the fuck not.
He sighed, already bracing.
Lucas: Maeve…
Maeve: No. Don’t Maeve me. I watched the interview. Twice. Once as your friend. Once as someone who has done crisis communications for men with less emotional intelligence than a houseplant.
