Chapter Four Fracture Point
The announcement came at the end of morning physio, tossed out as casually as a spare cone.
“Right,” Carmody said, clapping his hands once. “We’ve flogged you hard enough for a few days. This afternoon’s yours. No formal training block. Recovery’s on you. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“That’s a lot of trust, coach,” one of the forwards called.
“It’s not trust,” Carmody shot back. “It’s paperwork avoidance. I don’t want to sign forms if you die doing something idiotic.”
Laughter rolled through the room.
Byrne didn’t laugh. He felt the knot between his shoulders loosen, not much, just enough to remind him what relief felt like. A free afternoon meant ice, film, maybe sleep. Silence. Blessed silence without men shouting, cameras lurking, or his own name being said like a claim.
He was still deciding which match to rewatch—whether to punish himself with last year’s loss or soothe himself with a win—when a shadow fell across the table he was stretching on.
“So,” Kaine said, “you gonna show me your city? Or do I have to ask a tour guide who doesn’t yell at me about angles?”
Byrne looked up, instantly suspicious. “No.”
Kaine blinked. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
“No, I’m serious.” Kaine leaned a hip against the physio table like he’d always belonged there. “I’ve been here, what, three days? I’ve seen the pitch, the dorms, and the inside of Carmody’s soul. I’d like to see something else before I forget what color sunlight is supposed to be.”
Byrne stretched his hamstring harder. The muscle complained. Good. Pain was simple. Pain didn’t ask for anything.
“I’m not showing you around,” he said.
Kaine stared at him for a beat, genuinely taken aback. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because crowds meant visibility.
Visibility meant phones.
Phones meant pictures.
Pictures meant headlines.
Because he couldn’t afford to be seen enjoying anyone too much.
“Because,” Byrne said, “I have things to do.”
Kaine’s mouth twisted. “Like what?”
“Recovery. Film. Captaincy.”
Kaine folded his arms. The relaxed ease didn’t vanish entirely, but something colder edged into it—irritation, sure, but underneath that… disappointment. That was the dangerous one. Irritation was safe. Disappointment crawled under the skin.
“You do know I moved halfway around the world, yeah?” Kaine said.
Byrne said nothing.
“In good faith,” Kaine continued, voice gaining energy the way it did when he was trying not to sound hurt, “for this team. For this jersey. For the chance to freeze my ass off in your beautiful, miserable city.”
A few nearby lads snorted. Rory muttered, “He’s not wrong,” earning a light smack from Darren.
Kaine went on, undeterred. “The least you could do is point at a landmark and say, ‘That’s something vaguely historic, don’t lick it.’”
“You can use Google Maps,” Byrne said.
“That’s not the same.”
Byrne reached for his water bottle and took a slow drink, buying time. Buying distance. Buying anything.
Kaine watched him for a moment, then sighed and stepped closer, dropping his voice low enough that only Byrne could hear.
“Look, captain. I’m not asking you to marry me.
Just walk around Dublin for a few hours so I don’t look like a complete idiot alone.
” He hesitated, then added, quieter, like it slipped out before he could dress it in humor, “You’re the only one I trust not to abandon me in Temple Bar and laugh about it later. ”
The word trust hit Byrne like an elbow to the ribs.
Trust was not a thing people gave him lightly. Trust was a thing he earned through discipline and distance and a kind of controlled kindness that never asked for anything back.
He tried to swallow around it.
The rational answer was still no.
But across from him, the winger stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders angled smaller than usual, bravado dimmed just enough for Byrne to see the young man underneath—the one who’d left home, family, the sea, the sun, the language, to wear green in a city that was not his.
Byrne exhaled.
“Couple hours,” he said.
Kaine’s face lit like someone had plugged him into a socket. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“Oh, captain.” Kaine grinned, warmth returning full force. “I’m absolutely going to make you regret it.”
They layered up against the cold: Byrne in a dark coat and a beanie pulled low, the kind he could tug down if he needed to disappear. Kaine in a team hoodie under a puffer jacket, curls free and shameless, like weather could do its worst and he’d simply refuse to be affected.
“You’re not wearing a hat?” Byrne asked as they walked toward the city center.
Kaine shrugged. “Why?”
“Because it’s gonna rain.”
Kaine looked up at the sky—grey and heavy, the default Irish setting. “How can you tell? It always looks like this.”
“It will rain,” Byrne said. “Always assume it will rain.”
“That’s the most Irish sentence I’ve ever heard.”
They caught the Luas into town. Byrne stood, hand wrapped around the rail, watching the city slide by: brick terraces, worn stone, the grimy beauty of old streets trying to pretend they weren’t tired.
Graffiti layered over graffiti so long it might as well have been history. The river dark and patient.
Kaine watched everything else.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the water as they crossed.
“The Liffey,” Byrne said.
Kaine made a face like he’d expected something more dramatic. “Wow. You’re a natural guide.”
“You asked.”
“And you’re underperforming,” Kaine muttered.
They got off near O’Connell Street. The Spire speared the low sky like a needle through felt.
Kaine craned his neck. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Byrne agreed.
“Does it do anything?”
“No.”
“Right.” Kaine nodded solemnly. “Art.”
They walked. The crowd pressed in—office workers, tourists, students with headphones, people moving like the city had a pulse of its own.
It was strange, being out here with him.
Strange to see Kaine in civilian clothes, blending instead of cutting lines down a pitch like he’d been engineered for it.
Strange to share pavement instead of a passing lane.
They drifted toward Grafton Street, where buskers layered sound on sound: a fiddle winding through the cold, a guitar jangling, a half-decent cover of a pop song Byrne had never learned the words to. People moved in tides.
Kaine paused to listen, hands shoved under his armpits for warmth. “This is unreal.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Byrne said.
“Exactly.” Kaine’s eyes were bright. “Back home, this would be a festival.”
Back home.
The phrase sat heavy between them.
“Do you miss it?” Byrne asked before he could stop himself.
Kaine’s surprise softened into something thoughtful. “Yeah. Course I do.” He counted on his fingers like a boy listing treasures. “My nan. The sea. The language. The sun, obviously.”
He glanced at Byrne. “But I came here for a reason.”
“To play,” Byrne said automatically.
“To win,” Kaine corrected, voice dropping softer. “And… maybe to be something new.”
Something in Byrne’s chest pinged sharply at that, a note of recognition that felt too personal to name.
Before he could respond, two teenagers approached, tentative but buzzing.
“Sorry,” one blurted, Dublin lilt brightening the word. “Are you—are you Byrne?”
Byrne’s public face slid into place as if it lived under his skin: measured smile, relaxed shoulders, the practiced warmth of a man whose career depended on looking approachable.
“Yeah,” he said. “Hi.”
“And you’re Kaine,” the other girl said, eyes wide. “We saw you in the clips. You’re unreal.”
Kaine’s surprise melted into an easy grin. “Cheers. Appreciate that.”
“Can we…?” The first held up her phone.
“Sure,” Byrne said. “Quick one.”
They crowded in. Byrne instinctively anchored the photo, angling himself so the girls would be fully in frame. Kaine leaned in from the other side, shoulder brushing Byrne’s as he ducked his head to fit.
The camera clicked.
The girls thanked them breathlessly and scurried off, huddling over the picture immediately, thumbs flying.
Kaine watched them go, amused. “Do you always do that?”
“Do what?” Byrne asked.
“Take the hit on the angle so everyone else looks good.”
“It’s habit.”
“Poster-boy instincts?”
“Media training.”
Kaine snorted. “Same thing.”
They kept walking. Every so often someone else stopped them—an older man with a battered scarf, a child in an oversized jersey, a woman on her lunch break. Some wanted photos. Some just wanted to say good luck. Some just wanted to touch something famous, like it would rub off.
Byrne moved fully into public mode: laugh, handshake, humble nod. He knew how to be that version of himself. He knew how to pose with Kaine, shoulder to shoulder, smile easy and non-threatening.
He did not think about how it must look on camera.
Beside him, Kaine handled it all with surprising grace. No forced performance. Just open warmth. A genuineness that made strangers relax.
It made Byrne tighten.
They stopped at a coffee shop off South William Street when Kaine declared he was “about three minutes from dying of frostbite.”
Inside, warmth wrapped around them—espresso, sugar, the murmur of conversations. Byrne ordered black coffee. Kaine ordered something with too many words, extra foam, and a sprinkle that looked like a dare.
They found a small table by the window. Outside, the sky finally decided it was time for rain, droplets streaking the glass in diagonal lines.
“Told you,” Byrne said.
Kaine cradled his drink, watching people run for cover. “It’s good rain.”
“There is no good rain.”
“There’s rain that means you’re somewhere new.” Kaine took a sip, eyes closing briefly in appreciation. “And rain that means you’re stuck. I’ll take this kind.”
Byrne stared at him longer than he meant to.
Sometimes he forgot the winger was more than speed and banter. That under the highlight reels and the cocky grin there was a man who’d torn himself out of one life and stitched himself into another.
“Why me?” Byrne asked quietly.
Kaine glanced over. “What?”
“You said you trust me not to abandon you. Why?”