Chapter One Collision Course #2
Momentum carried them both down, boots skidding as the grass gave way beneath them, cold and slick and unforgiving. Byrne felt the impact ripple through his body, felt Kaine’s weight meet his in a way that was balanced rather than chaotic, controlled rather than clumsy.
They went to ground together.
Byrne landed half atop the winger.
And froze.
It wasn’t the position—that happened a dozen times a match. It wasn’t the contact—he lived in contact, thrived in it. It was the sudden, unwanted awareness of detail.
Kaine beneath him was solid and warm, muscle packed tight under the thin stretch of kit.
Byrne felt the line of Kaine’s thigh against his own, the firm press of his torso, the strength held in check even pinned.
There was no softness to him—just heat and density and the unmistakable vitality of someone entirely at home in their body.
Byrne’s palms were planted on the turf beside Kaine’s ribs. He could feel the expansion of Kaine’s breath through the fabric. In. Out. Steady. Unbothered.
Too steady.
Kaine’s face was inches from his.
Droplets clung to his lashes, caught there like glass. Rain and sweat traced slow paths down his temples. His eyes—dark, alert—flicked up to Byrne’s, not startled, not rushed. Just present.
Byrne became abruptly, disastrously aware of where his gaze had landed.
Kaine’s mouth.
Slightly parted, breath warm, lips darkened by cold and exertion. Byrne knew he should look away. Knew it in the same instinctive, urgent way he knew how to set a defensive line or read a break.
He didn’t.
The realization hit him even as it betrayed him—that he was staring, that he’d lingered a fraction too long.
Kaine noticed.
Something shifted in his expression—not surprise, not alarm. Recognition. A flicker of understanding that sharpened the moment rather than diffused it.
Warm breath brushed Byrne’s cheek.
The scent hit him then—eucalyptus, sharp and clean beneath sweat and rain and crushed grass. It was absurd, the way his mind catalogued it, the way his body reacted as if this were something to be learned rather than avoided.
For one suspended beat, Byrne didn’t feel like the captain.
Didn’t feel like the responsible one, the managed one, the man who kept himself carefully contained.
He felt like a man standing on the edge of a cliff he’d sworn never to approach.
Kaine shifted beneath him.
Not abruptly. Not carelessly.
He rolled his hips as he moved, just enough that they brushed—brief, unmistakable, intimate in a way no one watching from a distance could have named. It lasted less than a second.
It was enough.
Byrne’s breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
Then Kaine was gone—rolling smoothly out from under him with an ease that felt deliberate now, controlled, like he’d chosen how to leave the contact. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, mud streaking his shorts, breath barely elevated.
“Not bad, Byrne,” Kaine said, grin easy, voice light, as if nothing had passed between them at all.
Byrne pushed himself up too fast, the sudden movement betraying him. He brushed grass from his arms with more force than necessary, grounding himself in irritation, in anything that wasn’t the echo of sensation still humming through him.
“You telegraph your angle,” he said, clipped and controlled.
A lie.
Kaine laughed, bright and unbothered. “Sure I do.”
Their eyes met again—just for a beat—and something unspoken lingered there. Not a challenge. Not an invitation.
A promise, quietly made.
Then the whistle shrilled, bodies moved, and the moment vanished back into the violence and order of the drill.
But Byrne knew, with a certainty that settled cold and heavy in his gut:
That contact hadn’t been accidental.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
They ran drill after drill, collision after collision, each impact an unspoken problem Byrne could not solve. Kaine adapted fast—too fast—reading him with unsettling ease.
By water break, Byrne’s ribs felt like cracked stone. He straightened, forcing his breath into something steady.
Kaine jogged past and clapped him on the shoulder—casual, friendly, devastating.
“Good session, captain.”
Byrne only nodded.
The team drifted toward the locker rooms in a tide of noise and steam.
Boots thudded against concrete. Someone whooped. Someone else complained loudly about their hamstrings. The sharp edge of the morning dulled as bodies moved indoors, heat and sound rising together until the air felt thick with it.
Byrne lingered at the edge of the pitch, staring out over the grass as if the lines might rearrange themselves into answers.
They didn’t.
The field was emptying now, frost crushed to mud, the session already becoming something that would be reviewed, discussed, managed. He stayed still, hands on his hips, breathing until the sharpness in his chest eased into something bearable.
Ten breaths.
Then he followed.
The locker room hit him all at once—heat, steam, voices bouncing off tile and metal. Bodies blurred into one another in motion: jerseys peeled off, boots kicked aside, towels snapped. The air smelled like sweat and soap and liniment.
Someone dropped a bottle. It clattered and rolled.
“Jesus Christ, Darren!” Rory’s laugh boomed, echoing off the walls.
“Watch your mouth,” Darren shot back. “Or I’ll wash yours out with this shite.”
Byrne didn’t engage. He moved with purpose to the far end of the room, to the last shower stall.
The one that faced the wall.
The safe one.
He stepped under the spray and let hot water pour over him, head bowed, eyes closed. It sluiced sweat and grass from his skin, loosened the tightness in his shoulders, soaked into his hair until everything smelled clean and anonymous.
If he kept his eyes shut, if he focused on the sound of water hitting tile, he could almost forget the way Kaine’s body had felt beneath his.
Almost forget the heat.
The density.
The brief, devastating familiarity of it.
Almost bury the panic climbing fast and sharp beneath his ribs.
Almost.
Another shower turned on beside him.
Too close.
Byrne stiffened, shoulders drawing tight as if the wall might absorb him if he leaned into it hard enough. He kept his gaze fixed on a single square of pale tile directly in front of him—cracked at one corner, grout darkened with age.
Do not look.
Steam drifted between stalls, softening edges, blurring outlines. He could hear movement now—unhurried, unselfconscious.
He knew without turning.
“You always shower like you’re hiding national secrets?” Kaine’s voice drifted through the steam.
Byrne swallowed. His throat felt dry despite the water running over him.
“I prefer privacy,” he said.
A beat.
“You’re facing the wall like it owes you money.”
Byrne didn’t answer.
He tightened his grip on the soap, grounding himself in the ridiculous normalcy of it. Soap. Water. Tile. This was nothing. This was fine.
The towel shifted.
Byrne’s peripheral vision caught the movement before his brain could shut it down—the barest suggestion of skin, broad shoulders, the line of a collarbone.
Kaine was standing there with nothing but a towel looped casually around his neck, damp curls brushing his forehead, utterly unconcerned with modesty.
Byrne locked his gaze harder on the tile.
Do not look.
“Long day?” Kaine asked, quieter now.
“Normal day.”
“Mm.” The sound was thoughtful, unhurried. Then, gently—almost curious: “You always this tense, captain, or am I just lucky?”
The question wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even flirtation in the obvious sense.
It was observation.
Byrne’s breath faltered despite his best efforts. The spray beat down harder, or maybe that was just his pulse roaring in his ears.
He shut off the water abruptly.
Grabbed his towel.
Wrapped it around his waist with movements that were too fast to be casual and stepped out of the stall like the floor might give way beneath him if he lingered another second.
Kaine’s chuckle followed him, warm and unbothered.
“Didn’t mean to chase you off.”
“You didn’t,” Byrne said too quickly, already reaching for his kit bag.
Too sharp. Too defensive.
Footsteps entered the room—heavy, familiar.
Rory’s laugh filled the space. “Christ, it’s like a sauna in here.”
“Shut up and move,” Cillian snapped. “You’re blocking the lockers.”
The moment snapped shut.
Noise rushed back in. Bodies reclaimed the space. The danger dissolved into plausible deniability.
Byrne dressed with hands that wouldn’t quite stop shaking.
Shirt.
Socks.
Boots.
Routine. Muscle memory. Control.
He didn’t look toward Kaine again.
He didn’t need to.
The awareness lingered anyway—like heat trapped under the skin, like a problem that had already decided it wasn’t going to be ignored.
Something was happening here.
Something quiet.
Something dangerous.
Something he absolutely could not afford.
And the worst part was this:
He wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop.
Film review offered blessed sterility—angles, footwork, spacing. Byrne buried himself in it. But every time Kaine asked a question, every time their eyes met across the room, Byrne felt the thread tighten inside him.
Afterward, Carmody pulled him aside.
“Thoughts on Kaine?”
“Strong acceleration. Reads lines well.”
“And?”
“He hits hard.”
Carmody smiled. “Good. You two will partner beautifully. Bring him up to speed.”
Byrne nodded, stomach sinking.
Partnering meant proximity.
Repetition.
Touch.
Too much.
Afternoon training didn’t save him. Kaine only shone brighter.
After sprints, the winger jogged beside him. “You call plays fast.”
“You’ll adjust.”
“You planning to help with that?”
Byrne blinked. “Help?”
“Yeah. Work together. Build rhythm.” Kaine smiled. “You and me—same page? Could be magic.”
Magic shouldn’t make Byrne breathless.
The day ended with him stretching alone until Kaine wandered over.
“Good session,” Kaine said. “Feels right, the way we run together.”
Byrne stretched harder. “Good.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”