Chapter Two Fault Lines
The first thing he registered was warmth.
Not the weak radiator kind that fogged the windows and did nothing for the bones, and not the heavy weight of the duvet either. This warmth was closer—alive, almost—pressing gently at the edge of sleep, coaxing him upward like a hand at his shoulder that knew him well enough not to shake.
Byrne surfaced slowly, breath thick, limbs heavy with the residue of a night that hadn’t quite rested him.
The second thing he registered was humming.
Low. Soft. Familiar in a way that tugged at something old and tender. A tune sad but sweet, carried on a voice that wasn’t trying to be heard.
Pokarekare Ana.
The song settled into him before thought did. Loss braided with longing. Distance held in melody. It took him a moment—too long—to remember where he was.
He opened his eyes.
Kaine stood at the foot of his bed, towel slung loose around his neck, shirtless, balancing precariously on one foot as he wrestled with a sock.
Steam clung to his skin, beading along the lines of muscle and collarbone, softening the sharpness of him.
Damp curls bounced every time he wobbled, catching the light in small, unruly halos.
Byrne’s stomach tightened, sharp and immediate.
“Morning, captain,” Kaine said when he noticed him awake, voice easy, unguarded. He smiled—bright, uncomplicated, the kind of smile that didn’t ask permission to exist. “Didn’t take you for an early riser.”
“Captaincy requires it,” Byrne said, pushing himself upright, already reaching for composure like a reflex.
“Or insomnia.”
Byrne didn’t dignify that with an answer.
Kaine hopped once, finally victorious over the sock. “You still good for seven? I can give you a grace period. Five minutes. Maybe ten if you bribe me.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Byrne swallowed hard.
“Seven means seven.”
Kaine’s grin widened, clearly delighted. “Love the commitment.”
Byrne grabbed his towel and stood, aware of his own body in a way he usually avoided—too awake, too present. He headed for the bathroom, grateful for the excuse to put a door between them.
“Shower’s still warm,” Kaine added lightly, like it was nothing. Like warmth wasn’t exactly the problem.
Byrne paused just long enough to be irritated—with Kaine, with himself, with the entire situation.
“I’ll manage,” he said, and shut the door before any more kindness could slip under his skin and lodge somewhere dangerous.
The dorm bathroom lights flickered on, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating a space too small for comfort and too honest for his liking. The mirror offered no mercy.
Black hair mussed from sleep.
Blue eyes shadowed from restless nights.
Stubble darkening a jaw the media obsessed over.
Influencers online called him devastatingly hot.
The union called him marketable.
Teenagers plastered his face on bedroom walls.
Byrne, national captain—carefully assembled fantasy.
He called himself tired.
He stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water crash down over his shoulders. It loosened muscle, steamed the glass, filled the tiny room with a thick, enveloping heat that pressed in from all sides.
But the lingering warmth wasn’t from him.
Kaine had been here moments ago.
Humming.
Bare-chested in their shared room.
Speaking through the door like intimacy was effortless.
You good?
It was too much.
Too real.
Too damn tempting.
Byrne pressed his palm flat against the tile, breath going shallow, his forehead dropping forward as if the wall might hold him upright. He tried to think of drills. Of formations. Of anything utilitarian and safe.
But every thought curved back, traitorous and insistent.
The warmth in Kaine’s eyes.
The steadiness in his voice.
The way he moved through the world like nothing in it had ever taught him to be afraid.
Heat coiled low in Byrne’s spine, sudden and undeniable. His body knew this terrain even if his mind refused it.
He fought it.
He failed.
The moment broke him open with terrifying ease. He bowed his head, breath thin and shaking, reaching for himself in a gesture born of desperation more than desire. Shame threaded through it, sharp and biting, but longing cut deeper.
His mind betrayed him in flashes—Kaine under running water, droplets tracing his shoulders; the curve of his smile when he said morning like it meant something; the quiet patience in his voice when he asked questions Byrne never answered.
It was quick.
Urgent.
A fracture disguised as relief.
Byrne stroked himself like a man chasing silence, like the only thing that mattered was the brief mercy of not thinking.
It didn’t take long—not with Kaine not six feet away, breathing in the same air.
Not with the imagined weight of his gaze, whiskey-brown and steady, looking up at him. Those lips—
Byrne clenched his jaw and rode out orgasm without a sound, swallowing the noise, swallowing everything.
Afterward, he stayed there, frozen, forehead pressed to the tile while steam wrapped around him like judgment.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he whispered.
The room gave him nothing back.
He washed quickly, mechanically, and shut off the tap. Wrapped himself tight in a towel like armor. Forced himself to meet his own eyes in the mirror.
He looked like someone who’d lost ground he couldn’t afford to lose.
Kaine was lacing his boots when Byrne emerged, but he looked up immediately—expression soft, attentive, as if he’d been listening for the sound of the door.
“No rush,” Kaine said gently. “We’ve got time.”
Byrne couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t risk it.
“Let’s go.”
They walked side by side down the hallway toward the pitch, footsteps echoing in the early quiet. Kaine moved loose and unhurried, hands clasped behind his back like this was all exactly where he wanted to be.
“You always this quiet in the morning?” he asked.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Fair enough.” Kaine tilted his head, considering. “But morning quiet feels different. Like you’re trying not to wake the world.”
Byrne stiffened.
That familiar tightening closed around his chest—the instinctive recoil when someone edged too close to truth.
“I’m not hiding,” he said.
Kaine didn’t rise to it. “Didn’t say you were.”
The calm in his voice was worse than accusation.
Byrne adjusted the strap of his bag. “Focus on the session.”
“Right,” Kaine said softly. “Got it.”
And just like that, he gave Byrne exactly what he asked for.
Fog wrapped the pitch in lavender haze, floodlights carving gold through it like something holy. The cold bit at Byrne’s cheeks; he welcomed it.
Discipline lived in cold places.
Kaine jogged across the grass, warming up with effortless fluidity. Even at a distance, he seemed to glow with ease, like movement was a language he’d never had to learn.
“So,” Kaine said, spinning a ball between his hands, “what’s the plan, captain?”
“We build predictability,” Byrne replied. “Then variation.”
Kaine grinned immediately. “Predictable? Me? You sure?”
“Predictable to me,” Byrne said. “Not to defenders.”
“Ah.” Kaine nodded, pleased. “That I can do.”
They started flow drills—pace, distance, angle shifting in constant conversation. Byrne called adjustments; Kaine adapted almost too fast, reading him with unsettling precision.
“You’re reading me too quickly,” Byrne said.
“Sorry,” Kaine laughed. “Didn’t mean to be a prodigy.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Sounds like one.”
“Kaine.”
The way his name landed—quiet, controlled—made something in Kaine’s expression soften. He didn’t push.
“Again,” Byrne said. “Forty percent pace.”
“You don’t even have a forty,” Kaine muttered.
But he ran the drill perfectly.
By the time the rest of the squad arrived—Rory, Darren, Cillian—both of them were breathing hard, shirts clinging to sweat. Catcalls rose from across the pitch.
Carmody approached, pleased. “Early work! That’s what leadership looks like.”
Byrne kept his face neutral.
Kaine shot him a conspiratorial smile.
Byrne ignored it.
Badly.
Practice tore through the morning with its usual ferocity. Kaine carved the sideline like wind given muscle, impossible to catch once he found space. Teammates murmured—about potential, about chemistry, about the Byrne–Kaine connection that was already forming whether Byrne acknowledged it or not.
He tried to tune it out.
He couldn’t.
Afterward, Byrne stayed behind to stretch alone on the freezing grass, ribs aching, thoughts limping. He didn’t hear Kaine approach until the shadow fell beside him.
“Good session,” Kaine said, careful, as if he were approaching something skittish. “Feels right. The way we run together.”
Byrne leaned deeper into the stretch. “Good.”
“Just good?” Kaine crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees. “Come on.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re stretching.”
“Busy stretching.”
Kaine huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t push. Instead, his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge.
“I’m here,” he said simply. “If you need anything.”
Byrne didn’t answer.
Kaine waited a beat—one heartbeat too long—then stood and walked away.
The hollow that opened in Byrne’s chest was sharp and immediate.
Stupid.
Unmanageable.
Later, the locker room churned with chaos—steam, shouting, bottles clattering against tile. Byrne waited until the noise thinned before stepping under the water.
Then—
“Thought you said that bruise wasn’t bothering you.”
Every muscle in his body locked.
Kaine leaned against the wall just outside the stall, towel slung low around his hips, curls still damp. He didn’t intrude. He didn’t touch.
He was just devastatingly near.
“I didn’t say you could follow me in,” Byrne murmured.
“I didn’t follow you,” Kaine replied, amused. “I’m showering. Same time as you.”
“You could’ve used another stall.”
“Yeah,” Kaine said, voice softening. “But then we wouldn’t talk.”
Byrne’s chest tightened painfully.
“We don’t need to talk.”
“Maybe not,” Kaine said gently. “But don’t shut me out completely, captain.”
Byrne shut his eyes.
He wanted the conversation, the closeness…
He wanted too much.
“You don’t know me,” he whispered.
“I’m trying to,” Kaine said.
Steam thickened. Silence stretched, heavy and full of things unsaid.
Then Kaine stepped back, giving Byrne space he hadn’t asked for but desperately needed.
“See you in review.”
His footsteps faded.
And Byrne felt ruined.
He pressed his forehead to the tile, breath shaking as disappointment washed through him—sharp, relentless.
Not disappointment in Kaine.
Disappointment in himself.
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—wanting him—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.