Chapter Seven Under The Floodlights
Training camp ended not with a bang, but with a whistle and a speech.
“Right,” Carmody said, hands on hips, wind biting at his cheeks. “You’ve survived pre-season. Most of you. If your legs still function tomorrow, you’re doing it wrong.”
Weak laughter rippled through the squad.
“We fly out Thursday,” he continued. “First away match, big statement game. Cardiff isn’t going to roll over and let you tick your little dream boxes. So tonight—” his mouth twisted, “—tonight you get to pretend you’re normal people. Within reason. Aoife?”
Aoife stepped forward, beanie pulled low, clipboard tucked under one arm. “Ground rules. No videos of you doing shots off strangers. No climbing statues. No singing rebel songs on TikTok. No fights. No arrests. If a camera comes out, assume it’s the front page. Clear?”
A chorus of Yes, Aoife followed.
She pointed her pen at Byrne. “Captain?”
Lucas straightened automatically. “We’re clear.”
“Good,” she said, softening just a fraction. “Go blow the cobwebs out. Try remembering you’re more than your hamstrings.”
Darren threw an arm around Finn’s shoulders. “You heard the boss. Cultural enrichment, lads. To the pub!”
The first pub was small, warm, and old enough to have seen some things. Low ceilings. Scarred wood. A fire sulking in the grate. Jerseys framed on the walls. The kind of place where locals watched newcomers carefully, then decided whether to adopt them or eat them alive.
The team spread out across two pushed-together tables. Pints appeared like magic. So did crisps, chips, and a plate of sausages someone swore were “traditional recovery food.”
Lucas ordered a Guinness with water on the side.
Eli slid in beside him, eyeing the extra glass. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Personal growth.”
“Maeve threatened to haunt me if I got blackout again,” Lucas said quietly.
Eli grinned. “She sounds terrifying. I like her already.”
“She is,” Lucas said, without thinking. “Infuriating.”
He took a slow sip. The pint warmed him without stealing his edges. One drink. He could manage one.
Across the table, Jamie attempted to teach Rory a song and failed spectacularly. Mick told a story that sounded medically inadvisable. Darren held court, folding beer mats into increasingly abstract shapes.
Lucas leaned back in his chair as Rory rattled on about Cardiff’s defensive shape, nodding along until he found himself answering without thinking.
“If Eli cuts inside early, it’ll pull their fullback out of position and—” He stopped, the word already cooling on his tongue.
“—Kaine,” he corrected smoothly, lifting his glass for a sip that came a beat too late.
Rory’s eyebrow flicked up, just briefly, a silent noted, but he didn’t comment.
He just nodded and kept talking, as if nothing at all had happened.
Aoife hovered long enough to ensure no one was livestreaming stupidity, then mouthed behave at Lucas and disappeared.
Eli bumped Lucas’s shoulder lightly. “You’re allowed to smile,” he said. “It doesn’t have to hurt.”
“It might,” Lucas replied.
“Worth the risk,” Eli said, lifting his pint to clink against Lucas’s.
The second pub was louder, music bleeding from speakers, a trad band wedged aggressively into a corner. Someone acquired a hat. Someone else acquired shots.
Lucas declined with a shake of his head and received only a respectful nod in return.
Eli noticed everything — Lucas clocked that now. Noticed when he switched to water. Noticed when he stood just slightly between Lucas and a too-curious stranger. Never obvious. Never dramatic.
“Clubs?” Jamie shouted eventually. “We’re not eighty!”
“I am spiritually eighty,” Mick declared. “I enjoy sitting.”
A loose plan formed. Some would go home. Some would eat. Some would explore bad lighting and worse decisions.
Lucas should’ve chosen food and bed.
Eli nudged his knee under the table. “You in?”
“For a bit,” Lucas heard himself say.
Eli’s grin suggested that counted as a win.
The club was noise and light and bodies.
Lucas lasted ten minutes.
The lads dissolved into chaos — Darren dancing like he’d invented rhythm, Finn shouting about cardio, Rory clapping off-beat with absolute conviction.
Eli danced a little. Laughed a lot. Kept glancing toward Lucas.
“You look like a man awaiting execution,” Eli said into his ear.
“Not my scene,” Lucas admitted.
“Too loud?”
“Too exposed.”
Eli scanned the room once. “Walk with me?”
Lucas nodded instantly. “Please.”
They slipped out without ceremony.
The night air hit like a reset. Cool, damp, late-September cold. Lucas dragged it into his lungs and felt something inside him unclench.
“Where to?” Eli asked.
“The river.”
“Bold,” Eli said. “Let the Liffey judge us.”
They walked anyway.
Dublin at night softened itself. Streetlights fractured across wet pavement. The river slid dark and patient between its walls, catching reflections like secrets.
They fell into step without discussion. Same pace. Same rhythm. It felt intimate. Alarming.
A busker near Ha’penny Bridge picked out a tune. Couples drifted past, shoulders touching, hands linked.
Eli nudged Lucas’s shoulder. “So this is where you bring all the wingers you refuse to drink with.”
“Only the persistent ones.”
“Honored.”
They walked in companionable silence.
Lucas realized he wasn’t scanning for cameras.
That alone made his pulse jump.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Always,” Eli said. “But excited. Mostly I don’t want to fuck it up.”
“You won’t,” Lucas said, immediate.
Eli glanced at him, something soft flickering.
They slowed near a wider railing. Lucas leaned on it; Eli mirrored him, shoulders almost brushing.
“Tell me something that isn’t rugby,” Eli said.
“Maeve stole apples from the neighbor’s tree,” Lucas said. “Made me confess for both of us.”
Eli laughed. “Saint Luke.”
Lucas huffed. “Patron saint of stolen fruit.”
The silence that followed was warm.
“What about you?” Lucas asked.
“My nan talked to the sea,” Eli said. “Said it listened better than people.”
“Did it?”
“Better than some of my exes.”
“Some?” Lucas echoed.
“Several,” Eli said. “I fall fast. Too fast. Love like it’s my job.”
Lucas absorbed that.
“You?” Eli asked gently.
“There was someone,” Lucas said. “Once. A teammate. He never knew.”
Eli didn’t push. Just stood with him.
“You’re not finished yet,” Eli said quietly.
A gust of wind cut up the river. Lucas shivered.
Without ceremony, Eli stepped closer. Sleeves brushed. Shared warmth.
Lucas didn’t move away.
“I don’t hate this,” he said.
Eli smiled, soft and real. “Me neither.”
They walked back slower.
Outside the dorm, Eli dug into his pocket, then paused. “Oh — hold on.”
He produced a square of chocolate, the purple wrapper glimmering in his hand.
“Have it,” Eli said, dropping it into Lucas’s waiting palm.
“Thank you.”
Eli beamed a megawatt smile in return.
They went inside.
The room felt different now. Less tight. Less like a cell.
“Thanks,” Lucas said quietly. “For tonight.”
“Anytime,” Eli said. “Rivers are kind of our thing now.”
“Goodnight,” Lucas said.
“Night, Luke.”
Lucas lay awake later, staring at the ceiling, tasting Guinness and river air and something dangerously close to hope.
Nothing big had happened.
Which somehow made it feel enormous.