Chapter Nine Matchday
For a full minute, Lucas had no idea where—or who—he was.
Warm was the first thing his brain processed. Not the scratchy hotel duvet or the faint hum of the aircon, but a solid, living warmth pressed along the entire front of his body. Heat under his chest. Weight in the circle of his arms. The soft drag of someone else breathing.
Someone he was holding.
That realization hit second.
The third hit harder.
He was holding Eli.
Spooning him, full-body, like it was the most natural thing in the world. One arm slotted under Eli’s pillow, the other wrapped low across his waist. Eli was tucked back against him, loose-limbed and trusting, head tipped slightly toward Lucas’s bicep, curls brushing his forearm.
And Lucas was—
Oh, fuck.
Hard.
Not just hard. Exposed.
Sometime in the night, his cock had worked itself up and over the waistband of his sleep shorts, pressed hot and unmistakable into the curve of Eli’s arse, only the thin cotton of Eli’s briefs between them.
His whole body went rigid.
He didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare shift. Even blinking felt dangerous.
Eli’s breathing stayed slow for a few seconds longer—a soft, sleep-warm rhythm against Lucas’s arm.
Then, with the unthinking entitlement of someone absolutely comfortable in another person’s space, he gave a tiny, drowsy roll of his hips backwards.
It was nothing, objectively. A lazy little grind, just him resettling.
It felt like being struck by lightning.
Pressure slid along Lucas’s length, teased by the give of Eli’s body and the drag of fabric. Heat exploded up his spine. His fingers spasmed on Eli’s waist, gripping his T-shirt before he forced them to relax.
Eli hummed in his sleep—quiet, pleased.
And did it again.
Another slow, unconscious push back, the kind people made when their body found something that felt good and, for one unguarded moment, chased it. His arse rocked gently into Lucas’s lap, once, twice, thighs tightening.
Lucas’s eyes slammed shut. His heart thundered in his throat. Every bit of discipline he’d ever developed condensed into one frantic thought: don’t move.
Eli’s breathing hitched.
Awareness arrived all at once. Lucas felt it in the way Eli’s spine straightened, the way the muscles under Lucas’s arm went still. One heartbeat of stunned, frozen quiet, like they were both waiting to see which of them would detonate first.
Then Eli drew in a careful breath.
“Fuck,” he said softly—very awake now. “Sorry. That’s… definitely my fault.”
His voice was low and rough with sleep, apology threaded through it, but there was no flinch. No recoil. No disgust. Just a rueful exhale and a hand flattening briefly over Lucas’s forearm in something that felt suspiciously like reassurance.
Lucas tried to speak. What came out was a strangled, “It’s—”
“Hey,” Eli cut in gently. “It’s fine. Morning happens.”
He eased forward, out of Lucas’s arms, slow and deliberate, giving him time to adjust himself or flee or die of shame—dealer’s choice. The duvet slipped with him, still covering his hips as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
It didn’t hide much.
The tent in his briefs was obvious. Painfully obvious.
Eli grabbed the nearest towel off the chair, holding it haphazardly in front of himself as he stood.
“Gonna, uh—shower,” he muttered, voice scratchy from sleep.
Lucas didn’t trust himself to answer.
Eli paused at the bathroom door, hand on the frame, head tilted slightly as if he were about to say something else.
He didn’t.
He just looked back—briefly, with an expression Lucas couldn’t decode.
Heat. A little embarrassment. A thread of something else that made Lucas’s breath catch hard in his chest.
Then Eli disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Water started running moments later.
Lucas let out a slow, shaky breath and covered his face with both hands.
Perfect. Brilliant. Exactly what he needed on match day.
He sat up, pressing his palms into his eyes until colours bloomed behind them.
He hadn’t done anything; he knew that. He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t moved on purpose, hadn’t turned this into something it wasn’t. His body had just… told the truth without asking permission.
He stepped under the shower and let the water pound into his skin until his thoughts blurred.
By the time he came out again, wrapped in a towel and dragging a T-shirt over his head, Eli had his kit laid out on the chair. Boots polished. Strapping tape ready. Normal.
Eli was sitting on the windowsill now, one knee up, scrolling his phone. He looked up as Lucas emerged.
“Team breakfast in fifteen,” he said. “Carmody’s threatening to confiscate phones if anyone’s late.”
“Terrifying,” Lucas said.
“Man’s drunk on power.”
They just… looked at each other for a moment.
Say something, Lucas’s brain hissed. Sorry I wrapped around you like a koala. Sorry my dick has no manners. Sorry I liked it.
Nothing made it past his teeth.
Instead, he retreated into routine.
He dressed. Compression shorts, socks, track top. Checked his boots again even though he’d already checked them twice.
Eli watched him, expression mostly smooth.
“What?” Lucas muttered.
“Nothing,” Eli said. His tone was mild. “Just wondering how long you’re going to pretend that was a normal morning.”
Lucas’s skin prickled.
“We slept,” he said. “That’s all.”
“That’s one word for it,” Eli said. “You broke the no-cuddling rule, captain.”
“There was no rule.”
“Yeah,” Eli said, standing. “That’s sort of the problem.”
A knock on the door rescued him.
“Breakfast!” someone knocked on their door. “Honeymoon is over!”
Eli rolled his eyes. “Showtime.”
He slung his jacket over his shoulder. Lucas swallowed hard, pulled himself together, and followed.
Matchday routine did what it always did.
The hotel dining room was a fog of coffee and toast and too-early laughter. Lucas ate because he had to. Eli traded jokes with the backs, but his gaze skimmed across Lucas often enough that Lucas felt it every time.
The bus to the stadium hummed with quiet focus. Headphones. Taped ankles. Hoods up.
Lucas pulled on his jersey in the changing room—10, IRELAND—and it settled on his shoulders like a question he still knew how to answer.
Under anthem and kickoff, everything narrowed.
For eighty minutes, there was only rugby.
The opposition were good and mean and clever. Lucas took hits, sent kicks into corners, dragged the line around until it obeyed. Eli ran lines that made defenders look stupid, hands sure as glue, boots flirting with touch without ever quite betraying him.
They were good together.
They were dangerous together.
Twelve minutes to go, scores level, scrum midfield, and Lucas called a move he had no right to try.
He shaped the pass; the defense bit; he stepped against the grain, dragging bodies with him.
He slipped the ball late. Too late for anyone but Eli.
Eli hit the line like a bullet, burned through two tackles, and dove under the posts.
Stadium eruption. Noise like weather. Arms around Eli in the in-goal. Eli pointing straight back at him.
You.
Lucas pointed back.
Us.
They closed it out from there. Ugly, tight, enough.
The final whistle left his bones hollow and humming.
After interviews and ice baths and Carmody’s growly praise, the changing room finally thinned. Steam from the showers drifted lazily. Lads wandered in and out in towels, buzzing on adrenaline and cheap coffee.
Lucas sat at his locker, half in, half out of his kit, head thumping in time with his heartbeat.
Eli dropped down beside him, knees touching his.
“Good game,” he said simply.
“Not bad,” Lucas replied.
“Understatement of the century,” Eli said. “You were ridiculous.”
“So were you.”
They let the quiet sit between them a moment.
Then Eli bumped his shoulder gently. “You done?” he asked.
“With what?”
“With everyone else,” Eli said. “Reporters. Lads. Strangers who want a piece of you.”
Lucas considered it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Think so.”
“Good,” Eli said, standing. “Come on.”
“Where?” Lucas asked.
“Cool-down,” Eli said. “Different kind.”
Lucas gave him a look. “That sounds worrying.”
“Only for people who hate talking about feelings,” Eli said. “So, you, basically.”
He headed for the tunnel.
Lucas hesitated.
Then he got up and followed.
The pitch without the crowd felt almost unreal.
Most of the seats were empty now. A few fans lingered near the barriers, taking last photos. Stewards chatted in small clumps. High up, stadium staff moved along the rows with bin bags and grabbers, headlamps cutting little cones of light through the darkening stands.
The floodlights still blazed overhead, washing the grass in sharp, artificial green. Every white line gleamed.
Eli walked them out to halfway.
Lucas’s studs dug into the turf, each step a reminder of what his body had already done for him today.
“You dragged me out here to admire the paint?” Lucas asked.
“Partly,” Eli said. “You look good under lights.”
Lucas snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
Eli smiled, then let it fade, turning toward him fully.
“Mostly I dragged you out here,” he said quietly, “because no one’s listening.”
Lucas’s throat went dry.
“We should be with the team,” he said.
“They’ll manage ten minutes without us,” Eli said. “I told them you were doing extra visualization. They nodded like it was the most predictable thing in the world.”
Of course they had.
They stood there for a moment, just breathing in the leftover hum of the place.
“You know,” Eli said, eyes on the posts, “I’m going to remember this one.”
“Because you scored,” Lucas said.
“Because we did,” Eli corrected. “Because it felt… right.”
The word hung there.
“We’re good together on the pitch,” Lucas said, aiming for brusque and landing closer to wary.
“We’re good together,” Eli said, softer. “Full stop.”
Lucas looked away toward the nearest stand, where a steward’s headlamp swept slowly along a section of plastic seats, gathering discarded flags and plastic cups into a trash bag.
“I’m not—” He broke off, swallowed. “This is complicated.”