Chapter One Collision Course #3
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re distracting.”
Kaine’s smile faded into something quieter. “Didn’t know I was.”
Too softly.
By the time Byrne reached the dorms, exhausted and frayed, he opened the door to find a second duffel on the floor. A jacket on the chair. Size-13 runners by the bed.
His stomach plunged.
“Evening, captain.”
Kaine stood there with damp curls and a book in hand.
“Coach assigned us as roommates,” he said. “Said it’ll help chemistry.”
Chemistry.
Brilliant.
If God wanted to punish him, He could’ve sent locusts. A convenient plague. A mild ACL tear—half the squad had one already. But no: God sent him a winger carved by angels equipped with the subtlety of a brick.
A true test of faith.
“It’s fine if it’s a problem,” Kaine added softly.
“It’s not,” Byrne lied before the sentence finished.
Kaine held his gaze a beat too long.
Too knowing.
“All right then.”
Byrne’s phone buzzed.
Maeve Donnelly: Day one check-in. Still alive, or should I start planning your funeral?
A small, involuntary exhale left him before he could stop it. Maeve—the only person on earth who knew his truth—had always possessed a preternatural sense for when his control was under threat.
Barely, he typed.
The reply came instantly.
Maeve: Christ. I give you one training camp and you’re already on death’s door. Drink some water, you stubborn bastard. And breathe. You’re not allowed to die without my permission.
He smiled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. Grounding himself in her steadiness, in the familiarity of someone who knew him beyond the headlines and still bothered to swear at him.
The phone buzzed again.
Maeve: Also. Saw the news reel. Who’s the winger you keep nearly breaking your neck to avoid eye contact with?
Byrne stilled.
The footage had been everywhere that afternoon—training drills, slow-motion tackles, the usual breathless commentary about Ireland’s new campaign. He’d watched it once, clinically, and then sworn off social media for the duration of camp.
What winger? he typed, after a beat too long.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Maeve: Don’t play thick with me, Byrne. I’ve known you since you were fifteen and lying about sneaking pints behind your da’s back. You only go that rigid when something’s wrong.
He didn’t answer.
Maeve: Tall lad. Dark hair. Pretty.
Jesus, Lucas. I clocked you in the first thirty seconds. You looked like you’d been struck by lightning and were trying not to scream.
Byrne closed his eyes.
It’s nothing, he typed. Just camp.
Her reply was immediate and merciless.
Maeve: That’s what you said when you were nineteen and had a catastrophic crush on a teammate your first year in green.
Remind me—how did that end again?
Oh right. You not sleeping for six months, nearly vomiting before matches, and me having to physically stop you from confessing your undying love in a hotel corridor in Cardiff.
The memory landed with uncomfortable clarity: nineteen years old, fresh into the national setup, all raw nerves and awe and a fixation he’d been too young to name and far too devout to survive. He’d barely escaped with his career intact. His faith—and his fear—had done the rest.
That was different, he typed.
Maeve: It always is. Until it isn’t.
A pause, then:
Maeve: And before you start strategizing like it’s a hostage situation—don’t. You’re allowed to date who you want, Lucas. Openly. Like a grown man. You don’t need my help hiding anything, and I won’t give it.
His jaw tightened.
It’s not that simple.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Maeve: It actually is. You just hate the answer. You’re not protecting anyone. You’re just postponing your own life and calling it responsibility.
Another pause.
Maeve: I’ve been saying this for years, by the way. You just keep hoping I’ll get tired and let you rot quietly. I won’t.
He swallowed.
I’m captain now, he typed. The stakes are different.
Maeve: The stakes are only higher if you keep pretending you’re something you’re not.
And if the job can’t survive you being honest, then maybe it’s not the holy vocation you’ve turned it into in your head.
A beat.
Maeve: I’m not asking you to burn the place down. I’m asking you to stop living like one wrong look will damn you forever.
Byrne stared at the screen, chest tight.
I know, he typed.
Maeve: You always say that. And then you do nothing.
A final message came through.
Maeve: Drink some water. Stretch properly. And for the love of God, if you’re going to fall for someone again, at least don’t do it like you’re committing a crime.
I love you. Now cop on.
The phone went quiet.
Maeve had always been like this—profane, perceptive, unsentimental in her love. A tether to the life he kept insisting he couldn’t have.
And if she’d noticed already—
He exhaled, slow and careful, and stood.
Camp had only just begun.
The rest unfolded unchanged.
Kaine asking about kicking patterns.
Byrne retreating into the bathroom.
Staring at himself.
Counting in Irish.
Trying to hold the line.
Already failing.