Chapter Fifteen Optics
Morning television had a way of sanding people down.
Everything was softer under the lights—the questions, the laughter, the edges of truth.
The couch Lucas sat on was upholstered in a neutral fabric chosen not to reflect glare, the mugs on the table stamped with logos that promised warmth without commitment.
The studio smelled faintly of coffee and hairspray and ozone from equipment that hummed just outside the edges of the set.
Lucas sat angled just so, jacket buttoned, mic clipped neatly to his lapel. His knee bounced once before he caught it, posture aligning itself out of habit. Captain’s spine. Public face. He’d learned long ago how to occupy a space without letting it occupy him back.
“So,” the host said, leaning forward, tone bright and conspiratorial, “this team is on an extraordinary run right now. An absolute winning streak. Analysts keep talking about cohesion, confidence—momentum.” She smiled at him.
“And you in particular, Byrne. People are saying you look sharper this season. Calmer. Even… happier?”
Lucas didn’t stiffen. Didn’t blink.
He smiled.
It was the smile he used for sponsors and donors and charity events. Open, warm, just self-effacing enough to read as genuine. It slid into place without effort.
“I think confidence is contagious,” he said easily. “When the group trusts each other, everything slows down. Decisions get clearer.”
“And it’s not just talk,” she went on. “Ireland are now in very serious contention for a World Cup spot. Some are saying this could be the biggest season of your career.” She tilted her head, grin widening. “No pressure, of course.”
Polite laughter rippled through the studio.
Lucas laughed along, soft and controlled. “Of course.”
“Fans online have their own theories,” the reporter continued, eyes glinting with practiced curiosity. “They’re speculating that maybe it’s not just rugby. That maybe there’s… someone new in your life.”
The pause was microscopic. The smile didn’t falter.
“And,” she added smoothly, “you and Evelyn Cross were spotted at dinner recently. That certainly got people talking.”
“We did have dinner,” Lucas said lightly. “She’s lovely. Very funny. Terrible taste in wine.”
The host laughed, delighted. “That sounds promising.”
Lucas tipped his head, charm dialed up a fraction. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
The audience reacted exactly on cue—playful gasps, appreciative murmurs. The host clapped once, pleased.
“Well played,” she said. “Very well played.”
Lucas chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was embarrassed, like the attention was flattering rather than dangerous. Like this was just another harmless narrative he could step into and wear for an evening.
“And if that is part of the reason you’re playing so well?” the reporter pressed gently. “Feeling settled. Supported?”
Lucas didn’t deny it.
“That kind of support matters,” he said. “In whatever form it takes.”
It was true.
It was incomplete.
And it landed like erasure.
Because there was someone 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 and just 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 Lucas wasn’t telling.
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 said no pressure, of course and 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.
Another message arrived before he could reply.
Maeve: They’re saying you’re playing better because of Evelyn. You are not a Victorian poet who needs a muse. I have watched interviews with Evelyn. She is perfectly nice and has the emotional impact of a tasteful throw pillow.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
Lucas: It was harmless.
Her response came instantly.
Maeve: It was useful. Which is worse. Do you know what I saw? I saw you stand there and let the world give credit for your joy to the wrong person while the right one wasn’t even allowed to exist.
Lucas swallowed.
She wasn’t finished.
Maeve: And before you say, “it’s the plan,” I’m pretty sure he agreed to discretion, not historical revisionism. There is a difference, Luke.
A pause. Longer this time.
Maeve: He texts me more than you these days… and he’s not skimpy with detail.
Lucas closed his eyes.
Lucas: That’s wildly inappropriate.
Maeve: Correct. And I won’t stop.
She softened, just a fraction.
Maeve: That man looks at you like you are the last safe place on earth. And you just let a presenter with a professional blowout imply he’s a training aid.
Lucas’s chest tightened.
Lucas: What was I supposed to do?
This time, Maeve waited before answering.
When she did, it was quieter.
Maeve: I know why you did it. I know you’re scared. I know what’s at stake.
Then the line that hurt.
Maeve: But you don’t get to protect your career by slowly erasing yourself. Or him.
Her final message landed like a kiss to the forehead and a knife between the ribs.
Maeve: You are not playing better because you had dinner with a pop star. You are playing better because you are finally telling the truth somewhere. And if the world keeps mistaking him for a PR strategy, something is going to break.
She signed off the way Maeve always did — with love sharpened into warning.
Maeve: I love you. I am on your side. But if you keep letting other people name your happiness, I will drive over and ruin several very expensive careers.
Including yours.
More texts.
Declan: That was excellent. Exactly the tone we wanted.
Aoife (PR): Clean, charming, no commitments. Textbook.
Lucas exhaled slowly.
They met him at a café two blocks away, tucked into a corner away from the windows. Declan was already halfway through a flat white, suit immaculate, eyes bright with momentum. Aoife had a tablet open, fingers flicking through engagement metrics.
“Everyone’s happy,” Declan said. “Producers loved it. Social engagement’s already climbing.”
“The ‘don’t kiss and tell’ line is tracking especially well,” Aoife added. “Reads confident without being evasive.”
“It wasn’t meant to be evasive,” Lucas said, wrapping his hands around his coffee.
Declan smiled patiently. “It doesn’t matter what it was meant to be. It matters how it landed.”
Aoife glanced up. “We’ve had some feelers already. Nothing formal, but another appearance wouldn’t hurt. Casual. Low-pressure.”
“I don’t need another appearance,” Lucas said.
“You don’t need one,” Declan agreed. “But it would help.”
“I said I didn’t want this to become a thing.”
Aoife softened her tone. “It doesn’t have to be a thing. Just… a thread. Something stable.”
“Stable,” Lucas repeated.
Declan leaned back. “You’re thirty-one. You’re a captain. People like narratives they can understand.”
“And if I don’t want to give them one?” Lucas asked.
Aoife didn’t hesitate. “Then they’ll give you one anyway.”
Lucas nodded slowly. He told himself this was rational. Temporary. A holding pattern.
Just a little longer, he thought. Until the season ends. Until it dies down.
He didn’t consider what that little longer was costing someone else.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal—until Lucas noticed what was missing.
Eli didn’t avoid him.
That was the unsettling part.
They trained together. Ran drills. Passed cleanly. Spoke when necessary. Eli laughed at the right moments, responded when spoken to, moved with the same competence he always had.
But the ease was gone.
No casual shoulder bumps. No murmured jokes in the line. No instinctive reach when they crossed paths.
Lucas noticed it everywhere once he started looking.