Pale and Freckled Princess.

His eyebrows flew up in surprise when he spotted you and he held a hand up in greeting. “Hey. You alright?” 

“Good. I’m good, everything’s…” 

“Good?” He supplied, arching a dark brow. You nodded stiffly and he suddenly looked amused at whatever was going on with you. “Glad to hear. You, uh—you look really nice today.” 

He did this all the time. Said or did something that made you think that maybe, just maybe, he might have some more than friendship feelings for you—and then he’d avoid you for the rest of the day. Sometimes even two days. And then he’d be right back at it with the compliments. It was a never ending cycle of the same thing, and quite frankly you were getting tired of it. 

You grabbed Roy’s arm, yanking him across the corridor and into the boot room, letting the door slam shut behind you before whirling around to face him. 

“What the fuck?” 

“I’ve had it with you, Roy.” 

Roy opened his mouth to respond but closed it right after, pressing his lips together in thought before speaking. “Is something wrong?” 

“Is something wrong? Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“...No.” You had to hand it to him, he was doing a good job of looking genuinely confused. His brow furrowed even deeper. “Are you okay?” 

“No, I’m not okay.” You huffed. “I’m in love with you, Roy. And I’ve been trying to drop hints and skirt around the topic hoping that you’d pick up on it, but obviously you haven’t.” 

Roy blinked a few times, processing the new information slowly. “You’re fucking joking.” 

“Why would I even joke about something like this?” You asked shakily, pushing down the feeling of shame creeping through you, threatening to crawl up out of your throat in the form of a pitiful cry. 

This was the worst possible way your plan could’ve gone. Roy didn’t feel the same way about you as you did about him, and now things were weird. You’d probably just fucked up your entire friendship with him, all because you couldn’t keep your fucking feelings in check.

Roy’s mildly amused expression immediately morphed into one akin to horror at the realization that you were entirely serious. “Wait, wait, that’s not what I—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—fuck, I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Maybe start with an actual, thoughtful response? S’not like I just bared my soul to you or anything.” 

He was silent for an agonizingly long time before he inhaled a sharp breath. “I just…I never thought someone like you would ever be interested in someone like me.” 

“How could I not? You care about others even if you don’t show it, you’re passionate about what you do, you’re annoyingly fit.” That last part made Roy straighten up a little bit, dark eyes crinkling at the edges in the tiniest of smiles. “I think I’ve loved you since the day I met you.” 

He just blinked at you some more, like he couldn’t bring himself to believe what was happening right now. That was also something you’d learned about him in the time that you’d known him—the time it had taken you to fall in love with him. 

Roy Kent was a rock. Stagnant. Unwavering. He was the team’s rock, and it helped them to become a top tier Premier League team while also providing a supportive environment for these people he called his friends—his family. 

But being a rock wasn’t always a good thing. Sometimes being a rock meant he was only in his own way of change. He was the reason he believed he didn’t deserve anything good in life. 

You were here to prove him wrong, to prove that he deserved happiness. And maybe it was a little presumptuous of you to assume that you could be a source of that happiness, but neither of you would know if you didn’t at least take that chance. 

Roy was never one for many words, so he did the only thing he could think of that would show you his feelings better than his words ever could. 

He kissed you. 

He kissed you like you’d slip from his grasp at any moment, like if he didn’t hold onto you this all might be a dream and he’d wake up wishing it was real. 

“Fucking hell. Didn’t think I’d ever get to do that.” 

“I wish you’d done it sooner.” 

Roy stifled a snort of laughter, giving you a playful squeeze around the waist. “Me too.” 

“So what now?” 

“We’ll figure it out. Together.” He replied, eyes flicking around your face, taking in each and every one of your features like he was trying to commit you to memory. “And don’t you say a fucking word to anyone, Will. You hear me? Nobody.” He growled, not even looking away from you whilst he spoke. 

Your face grew warm with embarrassment even though you couldn’t see where Will was. You hadn’t even known he was in the room in the first place. Guess the talk about Will the kit man knowing everyone’s secrets had some truth to it after all. 

“No, ‘course I won’t.” The poor boy squeaked from somewhere behind Roy, clutching a pair of boots to his chest with wide eyes. “I’ll take it to my grave.” 

“Good.”

“Thank you, Will,” You offered meekly, peeking over Roy’s shoulder with what you hoped was a reassuring smile. 

“No problem. Happy for you two!” With that, Will practically scurried out of the room, leaving the two of you to finally be alone with each other.  

You smacked Roy’s firm chest halfheartedly, squinting up at him. “You’re so mean to him!” 

“Well I can’t have everyone knowing I’m capable of such a successful love confession, now can I?” 

“Successful? This whole thing was a train wreck, Kent.” 

“Kinda sums us up though, doesn’t it? Wasting the past few months we could’ve had with each other because neither of us wanted to fucking do anything about it?” 

“I guess it does. Not anymore though, right? We’re both on the same page about things? About us?” 

“About offing Will if he tells anyone about what he just witnessed?” You smacked his chest a second time. “Yes, we’re on the same page. Now are you gonna let me take you out to dinner tonight or are we gonna waste even more time?”

It starts off as a joke, really. 

You’re both at the same party and arguing about who’s the better kisser, when suddenly your lips are on Jamie’s and neither of you are quite sure who made the first move. 

You don’t talk much, just enough to say that this competition extends to other physical activities and to order a car, so a few hours later you collapse exhausted on the bed in your flat. 

“Fuck,” Jamie gasps. 

“Fuck,” you agree. 

“We’ve got to do this again sometime,” he says, hand on his stomach as he stares up at the ceiling. 

“Give me ten minutes,” you reply. “Can’t let my twenties go to waste now, can I?”

So yeah, it’s like a thing. 

It’s not a romantic thing, that’s for sure.

It’s a “we just won a match” thing, or a “I had a shit day at work” thing, or “I need to blow off steam and can’t be bothered to pick up a stranger at the club” thing. 

No, romance does not factor in. This is strictly a friendship-type deal. 

It’s great, because neither of you actually has time for a relationship, and hookups are so hit or miss. And besides, you’ve never been extremely thrilled at the idea of some random person knowing where you live. And Jamie’s a little worried that someone will try to steal his jerseys. 

(Not worried enough, apparently, because you manage to make off with one from his Man City days.)

You both swore that neither of you would catch feelings and maybe that would have been true except for the evening Jamie called you and said, “Can I come over?” in a voice you’ve never heard before. 

You’ve barely hung up the phone when he’s knocking at your door, dressed in a suit and actual dress shoes, not trainers, hands leaving your body only for a moment to shut the door and turn the lock. 

He kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world, all slow and hungry.

He touches you almost like you’re someone else, and you’d think it’s strange except you can’t think of anything other than the fact that his body is pressed against yours and he’s holding you like it means something. 

You don’t say anything until you’re walking back to your room wrapped in a towel, water bottles in hand. 

“What was that about?” you ask, handing him his water. 

Jamie barely lifts his head. He decides not to play dumb, to be a little bit truthful. He’s not sure why, maybe because he’s still coming down and his brain doesn’t work proper. 

“Me and the lads were at a funeral today. For Ms. Welton’s dad. Made me feel all fuckin’… strange and shit. Dunno.” He takes a sip of his water and you settle in the bed next to him. 

You nod and say, “Makes sense.” It does. Funerals are fucking strange. The last one you went to had you feeling weird for a month so yeah, you get it. 

You’re both silent for a while longer when Jamie blurts out, “I told Keeley I still loved her,” and then you’re silent again, but it’s a different kind of quiet. The kind where you can practically hear the words oh shit hanging in the air. 

A couple things click into place where they probably shouldn’t, and so you take your cues from Jamie and say what’s on your mind as you blurt out, “Is that who you were thinking of?”

Jamie goes completely still, which is also strange because he’s never still. Always tapping or shifting around or something. 

“Right,” you say, far too brightly. It’s fine, after all. “I understand. Yeah, no, makes sense.”

You’re not sure what else to say after that so you kind of just sit there and wait for Jamie to move again. He does, sits up enough to grab his knickers from where he dropped them off the side of your bed, slide them on, and say, “Better get going. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” you say halfheartedly, suddenly very, very tired. It’s doesn’t escape your notice that Jamie doesn’t meet your eyes the entire time he collects his clothes and heads out the door. 

You manage to get up and fish a new pair of underwear from one drawer and a sleep shirt from another, and it’s not until you’re back in your bed that you realize it’s Jamie’s 51 kit. 

But you’re too tired to get up and change so you just leave it and pass out. 

—

You wake up the next morning with way too many emotions to consider, so you let yourself buy a coffee from the shop instead of making one at home. You get an extra shot of espresso to block out the great big warning bells firing in your head. 

You’re not-so-blissfully unaware of the fact that Jamie’s on the other side of town having a similar morning. One that involves going to Nelson Road early to sneak in some extra cardio so he can work off whatever feelings still linger from last night. 

For a brief moment, he considers going to Dr. Sharon. But no, there’s no need for that because it’s all straightforward, innit? He’s a little fucked from the funeral and telling Keeley he loves her, and all he needs is one more good fuck and then it’s all out of his system. 

Except whenever he thinks about your face of all body parts, his chest gets all squeezy. And worse. 

So maybe it’s not so straightforward. 

He does fucking love Keeley, right? He’d take a bullet for her, and he misses talking to her every day. He scrunches up his face and imagines kissing her, nothing too wild, and it doesn’t make his chest tighten. 

That’s a good thing. 

Right?

—

By the time you get home from work, you’ve decided that it’s fine. It’s weird that he was thinking about someone else, but it doesn’t mean anything. Honestly, you two are just messing around until one of you decides to get into a relationship. So yeah, it’s all good. It’s not like you’d date him anyway. 

You’ve been pushing away thoughts like that for years, you’re not about to let them surface now. 

—

Jamie does not particularly want to talk to Dr. Sharon about this. He wants to talk to Keeley, except last time he tried that she walked him all the way to the therapist’s office and left him there. 

He thinks maybe Ted would be good, except he’s not sure Ted would know how to deal with Jamie’s whole “friends with benefits” situation. 

Beard probably would, except his relationship with Jane is one step away from psychotic, so Jamie thinks that he’ll talk to Sam because Sam is smart and probably won’t judge him. 

It works out, actually, because he’s going over to Sam’s for a sleepover since they have an out-of-town match the next day, and need to be up early. Jamie hates waking up early so Sam promised to make sure he wouldn’t press the snooze button on his alarm. 

So yeah, now he’s in Sam’s car (a fucking Tesla, all eco-friendly and shit) and they’re talking about training and brand deals and Jamie asks if Sam’s got a girl, but Sam just blushes and says I don’t know, not anymore before turning the question on Jamie. 

Jamie sighs and puts his face in his hands. “Let’s wait till we ain’t in your fucking car, yeah? It’s too fucking long to say here.”

Sam obliges and just turns up the radio for next eight minutes it takes to get to his house. 

Jamie hauls his bag into Sam’s flat and down on the guest room floor before taking a deep fucking breath. 

Right. He can do this. 

He makes his way to the kitchen where Sam’s pulling something out of a crock pot and Jamie is a little envious of his ability to cook so well for himself. 

Sam is oblivious to Jamie’s internal monologue as he says, “Alright, this girl. Tell me about her.”’

Jamie takes another breath and then the words just come spilling out. 

“I’ve known her since we were fucking…fifteen or some shit and like, we’ve always been friends. But lately it’s been like, what’s the word, friends with benefits? Where we have sex but aren’t dating. It’s been alright, mostly, except yesterday I told Keeley I loved her and things got all fucked up in me head.”

“How so?” Sam prods encouragingly. 

“It’s like…” Jamie pauses. What is it like? “Thinking about kissing Keeley didn’t make me all tingly or nothing. Dunno, felt- wrong. But I think of her face-” he groans. “Shit, man, me heart started pounding like mad. I’ve seen her naked, and it’s her face that gets me. I mean, what the fuck is that?”

Sam’s face is doing some weird contortionist movement, trying to hide his expression, so Jamie says, “Fucking hell man, spit it out before you break something,” and Sam says, 

“I don’t think you love Keeley.”

That makes Jamie mad. Of course he loves Keeley. He’d do anything for Keeley. 

Sam must see it written in his face because he hurries on. “I don’t mean that you don’t have love for her. I mean that you do not seem to love her romantically. It would seem to me you like this other girl.”

Well shit. That’s exactly what Jamie was afraid of. Leave it to Sam to get to the heart of the problem in five minutes, only this leaves him with another problem:

He’s spent the last nine years pretending like he had only friendly feelings toward you. Innocent, like. 

He can’t let all that pretending go to waste now. 

—

You don’t see each other for a week which is fine, because you had decided way beforehand not to meet up until the next weekend. You were finishing a major project at work and he was wrapping up a killer week at training. Hence, Friday night was the night to blow off all that steam.

You’ve successfully squashed any feelings for Jamie. They’re gone, buried deep down once again and you will not let them come back up.

And yet, you’ve put on a pink set under your shirt and sweat shorts, with a little more makeup than you’d gone to work with. Maybe the whole Keeley thing is lingering in your head a little more than you thought.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

You grab your keys and head out the door to Jamie’s house.

—

Jamie’s already texted you to let you know the door’s open, so you slip in and turn the lock behind you. The foyer is lit with a dim glow from upstairs.

“Jamie?” you call softly, “You here?”

There’s no response, so you pad up the stairs, stopping only to drop your keys on top of the table in the hall.

“Jamie?”  you say again, peering into his bedroom. Ah. So that’s where the light’s coming from. 

Jamie jumps from where he’s been bending over a candle. “Shit, you scared me. Didn’t hear you fucking come in.”

You smile tentatively, unsure what to say. Jamie shakes out the match and crosses over to the ensuite to drop it into the sink. He comes back out again and dips you into a kiss.

He says, “Nice shirt,” with his lips still against yours, and it’s only then that you remember you’ve put on his old kit, the one you stole the second time you went home with him.

You grin and kiss him again, waiting to be on your own two feet again so you can slide a hand under his sweatshirt. Neither of you have worn anything particularly amazing because it’s what’s underneath that counts, isn’t it?

Jamie’s thinking something similar because he starts backing you up to the bed as you fumble to slip shirts over heads and pants down on the floor. He traces an appreciative palm over a pink flower appliqué, and then you push the last traces of doubt as he hooks a finger under your waistband.

—

“What’s with all the candles?” you ask, when it’s dark enough to be considered nighttime but the clock says it’s technically morning.

“Setting the mood,” Jamie replies, voice gravely and just a little bit raw.

“Hmm,” you say. “Glad you didn’t burn the house down.”

Jamie’s been pressing kisses up your bare arm and you can feel him grin at that. “Psh. I’m an adult now. I’m fuckin’ responsible.”

“Sure,” you chuckle, then shiver as Jamie’s mouth has found its way to a spot behind your ear. “You ready to go again?”

“No,” Jamie replies between kisses, “What makes you think that?”

“Just a hunch,” you say as you roll on top of him. You trace his lower lip with your thumb, and he takes that opportunity to his it. And to run his knuckles up your sides.

“Fucker,” you hiss. “That tickles.”

He smirks, a real one, with his eyes all heavy-lidded and the barest hint of his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. 

“Yeah?” he whispers. “What about this? Does this tickle?”

He actually fucking dances his fingertips up your sides as you gasp and try to get off of him. He’s not having it, because he rolls you over and continues tickling you as if you hadn’t just been fucking fifteen minutes ago. 

You’re laughing and half-heartedly pushing at him and it’s so ridiculous that you stop trying to get him away and instead press as much of your skin against his as you can. 

He’s whispering in your ear, a combination of crude jokes and compliments, the kind that makes a blush bloom from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears.

God fucking damn it, he’s going to be the death of you, but you can’t make yourself stop smiling.

He’s still murmuring in your ear and he’s saying something about how fucking gorgeous you look, how fucking beautiful you’d look on the side of the pitch with his number on or as his date to some event and how everyone would be jealous because you’re so fucking hot, but you belong with him and he’s the one who gets to see you last thing at night and first thing in the morning.

It’s so utterly ridiculous.

He’s only saying it because he’s so far gone.

It’s so. Utterly. Ridiculous.

“Jamie, we can’t date,” you say between giggles.

He pauses to ask “Why not?” and the remnants of your laughter die in your throat. Oh shit. One good look at his face tells you he’s not joking. 

“Jamie,” you say again, this time more seriously, “Jamie, we really can’t date. That’s not how this works. You’re supposed to date a model or an actress or something, and I’m supposed to date, like, an accountant. Or a lawyer.”

“Why?” Jamie asks, accent thick as it’s ever been. 

“Because,” you reply. “I’m not really the trophy-girlfriend type. And… we’ve been friends pretty much forever. It’d mess everything up when we break up.” He’s still on top of you, propping himself up on his elbows so he can see your face. You want to point out that this is a conversation that probably requires clothing, but you don’t actually want that so you stay silent.

“What if we didn’t break up?” he suggests. 

You bark out a short laugh. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just choose not to break up.”

“Can,” he responds.

“Can’t,” you counter. 

“Don’t be Roy Kent,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you reply. “And anyway, I’m way sexier than him. And less scratchy.”

“You fucking like when I tell you what to do,” he says. 

You make a face. “I like it when it’s sexy. This is not sexy. This is sad and stupid, and we promised we wouldn’t have this conversation.”

“You promised,” Jamie reminds you. “I just didn’t disagree.”

He’s not wrong.

“Fine,” you say, pushing him a little so he’ll get off you. 

You sit up and wrap the sheets around your chest, pulling your knees close. “You told me less than a week ago that you were still in love with Keeley, and now you want me to date you? I love you, but you’re just getting your wires crossed because we’re having sex.”

Jamie shoots up, mouth open and you realize what you just said. 

“Shit, not like that, I mean as a friend, not- not as- I don’t know, I didn’t mean to say that,” you stutter out.

“I love Keeley as a friend,” Jamie says. “Talked to Sam about it, and he says I don’t know how to tell the difference between a friend and fucking romance. He said I’m fucking in love with you, not her, and he’s fucking right.”

You’d say that sounds like the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, except you’ve known Jamie for nine years and yeah, that sounds like something he’d do.

“Right,” you say slowly, “and you just now started feeling this way?”

He hesitates before deciding fuck it. “Nah. I think- I’ve been pretending like I didn’t since we were like, fuckin’ sixteen, probably. Didn’t want to screw it up though, did I?”

You shake your head before saying, “No, I guess not.”

“And anyway, us being together is that different from what we do now,” he continues. “Dating just means we can like, hold hands.”

You laugh and ask, “Is that the only thing that’s going to change?” but you can feel your resolve softening. Jamie can feel it too.

“Nah,” he says, feeling confident to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I can tell you that I love you. And kiss you just because. And get me mum off my back about never making a move on you.”

Keeley Jones was persistent, I had to give her that. When she’d originally asked about helping me find a dress for the charity gala, I gave a little “Yeah, sure”, figuring she was just being polite. Instead, she hounded me until I set aside the Wednesday afternoon before the event so she could turn me into her personal Barbie doll. Lucas pouted when I asked him to take over training, complaining that he wanted to be there for my “Cinderella moment”, but he agreed once I promised to let him pick me up for the event so he could be the first to see the finished product.

As though she expected me to bail, Keeley marched out to the pitch at our appointed meeting time, promising to send Lucas lots of pictures as she pulled me off the field; my players, knowing where I was going, whistled and hollered boisterously, calling for me to “find something pretty!”

“Back to work!” I barked, unable to hide the grin on my face, pleased that they were comfortable enough to tease me.

We walked briskly through the building, with Keeley listing off all the stores she wanted to take me to, asking me about what colors I liked, and stalking through my Instagram to see what kinds of dresses I’d worn in the past. I was so immersed in looking over her shoulder and pointing out what I liked about certain outfits, I didn’t notice someone in my path until I’d crashed into them.

“Fuck, sorry,” I yelped, looking up.

Roy Kent raised those thick eyebrows at me as I took a step back. “Cutting training early?” There was an edge of teasing in his voice, an almost friendly tone.

“We’re going dress shopping,” Keeley announced, a Cheshire-cat grin on her face. “This one needs something for the gala.” She poked Roy in the chest coyly. “You’ll be there, right, Roy?”

He rolled his eyes. “Like I have a fucking choice,” he mumbled. He returned his gaze to me. “Your players ready to be auctioned off like pieces of meat?”

I shook my head. “Oh, we’re not doing that.”

“I’m sorry?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

“I told Rebecca that selling dates with women felt kind of gross.” I wrinkled my nose. “So, we’re sponsoring a silent auction instead. Season tickets, signed jerseys, that sort of thing. Some of the gals pitched in for things like trips and wine tastings. I even got some of your guys to sign things to auction off.” I couldn’t help but grin. “My personal favorite item is a ball signed by the 1991 U.S. women’s team. Had to call in a few favors for that one.”

To my surprise, Roy chuckled. “Does that include Brandi Chastain?”

I scoffed in surprise. It was the second time now that he’d shown off that he remembered my poster. “Why yes, it does.”

Keeley was watching us with far too much interest. “We should get going,” she hummed, tearing my attention away from Roy. She quirked an eyebrow at the gruff manager. “Roy,” she started slowly, her voice playful. “What do you think Bucky’d look sexy in?”

We both choked on her question. I gave her a wide-eyed stare. What the fuck, Keeley?

Roy, just as red-faced as I knew I was, seemed to be looking everywhere but my face. “What? Fuck, I dunno. Why the fuck would I know?”

“Just thought you’d have an opinion,” Keeley purred. “We’ll see you later.” She linked her arm through mine and tugged me onwards.

Unable to help myself, I glanced back at Roy, who was staring after us, mouth slightly open. When he saw me looking at him, he shook his head violently, as if trying to rid himself of whatever thoughts ran through his mind.

I wondered if he could see how deeply I was blushing.

“The fuck was that?” I hissed to Keeley as we made our way to the parking lot, where Keeley’s sleek little convertible was waiting for us.

She shrugged casually. “What? Just wanted a man’s opinion.”

I snorted as I climbed into Keeley’s car. “We don’t need a man’s opinion.”

“Babe,” Keeley said in a patient voice. “Number one, wanting a man to think you look good doesn’t make you a bad feminist, alright? Number two-” Her eyes lit up as she pulled out of the parking lot. “-don’t you think Roy’s mad fit?”

My face warmed. “What, do you think he is?” I wasn’t sure why the thought made something in my stomach twist.

“Oh of course. Roy’s gorgeous,” she giggled. “We used to date, actually.” She eyed me carefully, as if gauging my reaction to that piece of information; I did my best to keep a neutral face. “But we’re much better as friends, trust me. He’s actually one of my best friends now.”

“Oh.” Why couldn’t I say anything else?

Keeley continued. “He’s a great guy. Like, I could write a glowing letter of recommendation to any potential partner.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Anything you want to know?”

“Why would I want to know anything about Roy Kent as a boyfriend?” I scoffed, maybe a bit too much protest in my voice.

Keeley’s voice was suspiciously sweet. “Oh, no reason.”

~

“Hi, Coach Kent!” A few voices called as Roy strolled onto the pitch.

Roy gave a curt nod to the passing Whippets. They were nice women, very friendly, great athletes, got along well with his Greyhounds. But they giggled at him. Well, a couple of them did. Mostly Samara Scott and Kira Malone. Sometimes a few others. He wasn’t sure why, or even when it started, but when they crossed paths with him there were raised eyebrows and knowing smirks and whispers and giggles. It couldn’t be an “isn’t he cute?” thing; these ladies had no problem telling the Greyhounds to their faces when they thought the guys looked good, offering compliments the lads were more than happy to reciprocate.

No, it was as if the Whippets knew something. Or at least, they thought they did. Roy just couldn’t figure out what the fuck it was.

“Oi, Lucas.”

The assistant coach stopped mid-step to turn to Roy. “What’s up, Coach?”

Roy shuffled his feet as he watched the Whippets disappear into the building. “What’s up with your team?”

Lucas tilted his head. “How d’you mean?”

“They…” Roy felt stupid saying it out loud. “They always fucking giggle when they see me.” His face was warm with embarrassment.

“Oh.” Lucas laughed, adding to Roy’s frustration and curiosity. “No, you don’t want to know.”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Come on, man. I have an entire team snickering like children every time they see me. Fuck’s going on?”

Lucas gave a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Well, I mean, it’s only a couple of them giggling,” he pointed out. “And, I mean, I dunno, not to stereotype, but you know how women can be. Mysterious and shit.”

“Lucas.” Roy’s voice was stern; it was obvious the man knew more than he was letting on.

“It’s because they can’t giggle at their own manager.” Coach Beard’s voice made Roy nearly leap out of his skin; when had he become so fucking jumpy? Beard went on. “So, they’re giggling at you instead.”

Roy’s frown deepened as the Greyhounds straggled onto the training pitch. “Right, but why? What the fuck is so damn funny?”

To everyone’s surprise, Nate spoke up. “Well, you know, some of the players… they think you and-and Coach Buck…”

“What about me and Coach Buck?” Roy felt himself beginning to fume, suspecting what direction this was headed in.

“The two of you want to shag,” Jamie chirped as he strolled by.

Roy reached out and grabbed the back of Jamie’s shirt, choking the striker a little as he yanked him backwards. “What the fuck did you just say?” Everyone except Beard looked nervous now.

Jamie cleared his throat and adjusted his shirt. “You and Coach Buck,” he blurted out. “Everyone thinks you fancy each other.”

“We. Don’t. Fucking. Fancy. Each. Other.” Roy growled out each word slowly, emphatically. “Can’t fucking stand each other, you all know that. So, knock this shit off. And tell the Whippets the same thing, alright?” He raised his voice. “Laps until you puke. GO! WHISTLE!”

Lucas cleared his throat as the Greyhounds began running. “Um, Coach Kent, can I go now?” He jerked his head towards the building. “Kind of got my own team to work with.”

He regretted speaking up when Roy whirled around on him. “She hates me, right?” Roy’s voice was low; he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to be right.

“Uhh…” Lucas squirmed. “I mean, she probably wouldn’t be sobbing uncontrollably at your funeral, but she probably won’t be the direct the cause of your death either.”

Roy wasn’t quite sure what to do with that answer. “Right.” He blinked at Lucas, who offered up what he hoped was an innocent smile. “D’you think we should shag?”

“Gotta take me to dinner first, Coach.” Lucas nudged him and winked. He chuckled at Roy’s amused expression before turning to walk away. “See ya later.”

Roy shook his head. He wasn’t quite sure what the fuck everyone was on about, but he knew it was going to be all he could think about during training.

~

As we wandered through department stores, I realized that Keeley was very much in her element. Between her modeling and PR experiences, helping a friend find a flattering dress felt like something Keeley could do in her sleep. In the time it took me to find one dress I thought might look good on me, she had already grabbed about a dozen.

In our third store, Keeley declared she knew I’d find a dress here. I wasn’t so sure, but her confidence dared me to defy her. So, I hung up the dresses she had chosen in my fitting room and peeled off my sportwear in favor of sequins and lace and satin.

She demanded to see each dress, taking photos to send to Lucas, whose quick responses had me grumbling, “Who’s running my fucking practice?”

It was starting to get frustrating. I was attractive as hell; I knew I had what Keeley called a “bangin’ bod”, thanks to years of working out. And it wasn’t as if I’d never dressed up. I’d been to awards banquets and charity events, even the fucking White House. I liked dressing up and feeling pretty. But for some reason, this stupid gala had me scrutinizing every single dress I tried on.

“Here, babe, I’ve got one I think you’re going to love.” Keeley threw another dress over the door.

Wondering if I would ever find anything I genuinely liked, I tugged it on and took a tentative look in the mirror. Fuck.

“Keels, you should add personal shopper to your resumé,” I hollered, unable to contain my grin. I turned this way and that, amazed by the view. Black. Strapless. Plunging neckline. Tight. And a gorgeous thigh-high slit that perfectly straddled the line between tasteful and indecent.

When I stepped out of the fitting room, Keeley’s jaw practically hit the floor. “Oh, I am brilliant!” she squealed. “Give us a twirl, I’m gonna send Lucas a video.”

Feeling almost princess-like, I did as Keeley asked, blowing Lucas a kiss at the end. When Keeley showed me the video, I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped my lips.

“Wonder what Roy would think of this video,” she hummed, eyebrows raised.

My smile faded. “Why the fuck would you show Kent that video?”

She shrugged, her slender fingers tracing the exterior of her phone teasingly. “I won’t. I want him to get the full effect when he sees you walk through the doors on Saturday.” Her face softened. “He thinks you’re pretty,” she added.

“Does fucking not.” Could she hear my breath hitch?

“Well, I think he does,” she backtracked. “Pretty sure he has a crush on someone, and I’m pretty sure it’s you.” She grinned. “Could hardly keep his eyes off of you at your first match. Can’t really blame him, you looked gorgeous, all sexy and badass.” She gave me the onceover. “And when he sees you in this, well…” She winked at me. “Game over, coaches.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “If I tell you to fuck off, can we still grab dinner after this?”

“Oh absolutely, my treat,” she assured me, steering me back into the fitting room so I could change out of the dress. “But I’m definitely not fucking off about this.”

~

Roy frowned at the mirror. He hated the gala. Well, he liked the open bar and free food. He almost enjoyed the spectacle of watching his friends get auctioned off now that he was safe from the meat market. And he didn’t mind opening up his wallet to help underprivileged children. But fuck, he hated dressing up. The red carpet. The dancing. The well-to-do pricks who felt like he owed them his time just because they inherited their money or made it in the stock market or some other posh shit while he earned his by kicking around a football.

And now he hated the way he criticized his reflection and the way his mind wandered to her. What would she be wearing? Keeley had taken her shopping, so something stunning, no doubt. Not that she needed a dress to look gorgeous. His heart hammered in his chest just seeing her in her running shorts and sports bra after work. Maybe he’d actually have that heart attack Keeley had mentioned when he saw her at the gala.

And what would she think when she saw him? Roy thought he was still a good-looking guy. Sure, maybe a little gray here and there, and he hadn’t had defined a six pack in years, but he was still attractive. Women still liked him. And with his black suit and hair almost managed and beard freshly trimmed, he thought he looked pretty fucking good.

But why the fuck did he care if she thought so? What the fuck, Roy?

He spent the whole ride over to the venue trying to turn his focus to other things. Work. The auction. Yoga. Phoebe’s most recent school play. His upcoming dentist appointment. That phone call from Ted that he needed to return. That phone call from his mother that he would not return because she’d just ask him if he was seeing anyone lately.

But his stupid, stupid brain just kept wondering what she would be wearing and what she would think when she saw him.

As soon as the car stopped, Roy handed some cash to the driver and hopped out. Just like every year, there were the fucking paparazzi, lined up to take pictures and shout asinine questions at people who just wanted to get inside and grab a free drink.

He stood at the edge of the red carpet, watching Rebecca pose for photos, so much more poised and confident than she’d been her first time hosting the gala on her own. Roy felt a surge of pride as he observed his friend; he’d seen her grow so much over the past few years, and she’d helped him to grow as well. He hated the idea that he’d been disappointing her lately with his behavior. He promised himself he’d do better. Do things the Richmond way.

“Lookin’ good, Coach.” Jamie clapped a hand on Roy’s shoulder; behind him stood Dani, whose arm was wrapped around a dolled-up Whippet, and Colin, who held hands with Michael.

“Fellas,” Roy greeted with a curt nod. He warily eyed the red carpet, knowing he couldn’t avoid it for long, before his eyes wandered in the direction everyone was arriving from.

“Bucky’s not here yet,” the Whippet- Esme?- pipped up when she noticed his lingering stare towards the line of cars. “She texted me that she’s running a bit late.”

Roy narrowed his eyes at her. “Not sure why I need to know that,” he mumbled. Not wanting an answer to that, he turned around for his annual speedwalk down the red carpet, calling out various combinations of “fuck” and “no” and “you” to the reporters.

He was finally inside, safe from the reporters, but not safe from the knowing looks of his friends and colleagues. Against his better judgement, he approached Keeley at the bar, who greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t you look lovely,” she murmured, giving Roy the once-over and straightening his tie. When he rolled his eyes and grumbled nonsense under his breath, she shook her head. “No, really, Roy. You look quite handsome.”

“Thanks,” he managed. He quickly gave a drink order to the bartender, then leaned against the bar, watching as people wandered in, everyone dressed to the nines. He had just turned to grab his drink when he saw Keeley perk up.

“Lucas! Bucky! Over here!” She waved towards the entrance.

Roy bit back an annoyed groan, then turned around and bit back a definitely-not-annoyed groan.

Fuck.

Arm in arm with Lucas, the Whippet’s manager strolled towards the bar. And, probably to no one’s surprise, she was fucking gorgeous. Hair down and wavy and framing her face angelically, looking better than any model Roy’d ever dated, lips red and so fucking kissable, she was wearing the hell out of a black dress that- for a brief moment- Roy thought would look damn good on his bedroom floor.

What the fuck?

Roy turned his attention to chugging his drink as fast as he could, hoping the answer to what was wrong with him was at the bottom of the glass. He found no answers there, but at least he was able to stop himself from ogling the beautiful manager as she approached.

“Babes, I told you that dress would be perfect!” he heard Keeley gush as she hugged the American. “And you, Lucas, very dapper.” She elbowed Roy, urging him to face the Whippets’ coaches. “Don’t they look great Roy?”

He finally had to force himself to look at her. She gazed up at him expectantly, her red, red lips slightly parted, eyes a little wider than he was used to seeing. Roy ignored the annoying feeling that they were being watched by more than just Keeley and Lucas.

“Coach Kent,” she greeted shortly. Her eyes searched his, as if she were asking him to take the lead and set the tone for their interaction.

“You… look… nice,” he managed, wondering if she could see his eyes straining to avoid trailing down her figure, the way he often let them wander during their silent evening runs on the treadmills.

She nodded. “You too,” she replied, fingers fidgeting on her clutch. “I, um, like your suit.”

Roy unconsciously licked his lips. “Thanks. I like your…” Fuck, he just noticed the slit. “Dress,” he finally blurted.

Her shy smile was almost enough to make Roy squirm. “Thanks.” She cleared her throat and patted Lucas’s arm. “Let’s go check out the silent auction before we sit down.” Her eyes returned to Roy. “See you guys later.”

In spite of himself, Roy watched her walk away, letting himself appreciate the way her dress hugged her figure as she walked. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten Keeley was leering at him.

“Oi, Kent,” she teased, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Pick your damn jaw off the floor.”

He brought his hand to his chin, realizing his mouth was indeed agape.

Fuck.

~

Fuck Roy Kent for looking so fucking good, I thought as Lucas and I perused the silent auction. It didn’t take a psychic to know he’d be in all black, but I hadn’t expected my knees to actually go weak at the sight of the man. I tried to tell myself it was because I was nervous that he’d start an argument about the silent auction or something, but deep down I knew it was because the stupid, feral part of my brain wanted to tug Roy by his black tie and take him straight to my apartment.

“See anything you like?” Lucas hummed, shooting me a not-so-sly wink when he caught me glancing over mt shoulder.

I gave a casual little shrug. “The 1991 ball is pretty awesome,” I murmured coolly. “Might put down a bid.”

Lucas elbowed me sharply. “You sure you wouldn’t rather bid on R-”

“Luke,” I warned in my most dangerously low voice, giving his tie a tug. “I will grab one of those butter knives and cut your tongue out if you finish that sentence.”

“So violent,” he tsked. “The two of you really are a match made him heaven.”

Before I could make another threat, Rebecca hurried over and wrapped me in a hug. “You came!”

“Of course,” I laughed, squeezing her back before letting go. “It’s in my contract.”

She winked at me. “You’re damn right it is.” She gave Lucas a quick kiss on the cheek. “You two look great. Americans clean up very well, apparently.” Her gaze lingered over the silent auction tables. “Excellent job with this, by the way. I took a quick peek, there’s already some big bids being put down.” She laid a hand on my arm, giving me a squeeze. “I’m very proud of you.”

And I knew she didn’t just mean the auction.

“Now then, you two are at table nine.” She gestured towards the tables, where people were beginning to settle for dinner. “You, me, Keeley, and all the coaches.”

“All the coaches,” I echoed, forcing a tight smile. “Of course.”

When we approached the table, I tried to make a beeline for the open seat next to Coach Beard, but Lucas immediately engaged Beard in conversation and stole the seat. That left just the spot on Lucas’s other side- next to Roy.

It was like everyone at Nelson Road had conspired to force Roy Kent and me into close proximity.

He gave me a curt nod as I sat beside him. “You decide who I have to dance with yet?”

Oh. Right. My team had won the charity game; I got to pick someone for Roy to dance with during the gala. I hadn’t even given it a single thought, assuming he wouldn’t bring it up and hold himself to our bet.

“Still thinking on it,” I answered. “Any requests?”

He gestured towards a nearby table, where an older woman was blowing kisses to a perturbed Jamie. “Not that old bird,” he hissed. “Won me in the auction one year. Had to go on a date with her, and it was the worst night of my fucking life.”

I couldn’t help myself. “You shag her?”

To my amazement, a smile appeared on his face. “Look at you, speaking our English. Maybe there is hope for you Yanks after all.”

I ignored the butterflies that appeared in my stomach. “But if I pick her,” I clarified slowly, “you will dance with her?”

His glare was playful. “Now, why would you go and ruin all our progress? We almost tolerate each other now. If we were any friendlier, Rebecca’d give us a fucking raise.”

Dinner was surprisingly painless and unsurprisingly delicious. I found myself actually enjoying chatting with Roy Kent. He pointed out the rich people at other tables and told Lucas and me horror stories about some of the auction dates he’d gone on.

“Oi, Coach Buck.” Jamie Tartt knelt down next to me, wearing a very stylish suit and a serious expression.

“Hi Jamie,” I greeted. “You look nice.”

He nodded. “I know.” He glanced up at Roy, who was rolling his eyes, before turning back to me. “Wanted to ask… How well d’you know your players?”

“Um, pretty well, I guess.” I frowned. “Why?”

His pretty face turned shy. “I was wondering about Kira. Is she… a Denver Broncos fan?”

My frown deepened. I knew Kira better than most of the Whippets; she’d played for me for one season before coming to England and playing for Arsenal for a couple of years. I wracked my brain for this random piece of trivia that was apparently very important, according to the look on Jamie’s face. “Well,” I started slowly. “She grew up near Pittsburgh, so she probably likes the Steelers. Don’t quote me on that, though.”

Jamie cocked his head, eyebrows furrowed. “The fuck does that mean?”

Roy rolled his eyes. “He’s not asking about football,” he muttered. “He wants to know if she likes men.”

“Oh.” I turned to Jamie. “Yeah, Kira’s into men.”

The beaming smile on Jamie’s face was infectious. “Mint. Thanks, Coaches.” He planted a sweet kiss on my cheek, then turned to Roy, eyebrow quirked teasingly.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Roy growled.

With a “Right, right,” Jamie practically skipped back table six, where he scooted his chair a smidge closer to Kira Malone’s; the pleasure on her face was visible even from where we sat.

“What the hell was with the Denver Broncos crap?” I asked Roy.

He shrugged. “Lasso shit,” he mumbled. “You’re better off not knowing, trust me.”

Surprisingly, I did trust him. “Alright, I know who you’re dancing with.”

Roy grimaced. “It’s the pervy old woman, innit?”

“Nope.” I pointed to table six. “Jamie Tartt.”

His laughter brought a deep blush to my cheeks. “You’re fucking vile.”

~

This had to be Roy’s favorite thing about being a coach. Sure, it was a gift to get to still be close to the game he loved so much. And yeah, helping players grow and become their best selves was fulfilling and shit.

But fuck, he loved getting to watch the auction and not be one of the prizes.

He whooped and hollered along with everyone else as each Greyhound took the stage, enjoying the alternating horror and delight on their faces when they saw the people who’d won them. There was something very sweet about witnessing Colin’s surprised expression when Michael won him, and he couldn’t resist adding to the particularly flirtatious hollers when Kira Malone placed an unsuccessful bid on Jamie Tartt.

Once Rebecca declared the auction a success and reminded everyone about the silent auction that would be continuing throughout the evening, people began moving to the dance floor. Good on his promise, and without prompting, Roy grabbed Jamie Tartt by the back of his shirt and dragged him away from Kira Malone, determined to get this over with.

Even above the music, Roy could hear a familiar laugh as he swayed to a fast song with Jamie, who, after his initial confusion, danced with genuine enthusiasm. Even Roy couldn’t resist cracking a smile when his former teammate asked Roy to give him a twirl- which, to everyone’s surprise, Roy obliged.

Once the song ended, the two men shook hands warmly, and Roy sent Jamie on his way to go ask Kira Malone for a dance.

Roy found Coach Bucky at the bar, sipping a drink. “Satisfied?” he asked.

“Extremely.” He tried not to focus too much on the way her lips looked wrapped around the little black straw.

“Good.” He stood next to her, leaning against the bar. “Can’t believe your team got out of the live auction. Such a double standard.” He hoped she could hear the teasing in his voice.

Her chuckle told him she did. “Well, when my girls make as much money as your boys, then we can talk about double standards.”

Roy shrugged. “That’s fair.” The two of them stood there, side-by-side, watching their players mingle and drink and dance. Roy wondered if she was also remembering that night at the club, the night that set the tone for all of their interactions. He felt kind of stupid when he remembered it; he should have been polite and asked her to dance. Things could be so different.

“Babes, come dance with us!” Before Roy could get the courage to do it himself, Keeley had come over and grabbed the American by the hand.

She turned and placed her empty glass in Roy’s hand. “That better be full when I get back,” she called over her shoulder as Keeley dragged her off.

She was coming back.

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, but Roy found himself unable to keep his eyes off of her. The way she smiled, the way her hips moved, the way she looked in that dress. He let his mind wander to places he’d been avoiding since that first day in the changing room. Wondering what it’d be like to kiss those red lips, to have her arms wrapped around him, to see her in his bed. He liked those thoughts, despite what he’d spent months telling himself. He really liked them.

Not sure what to do with those thoughts, Roy distracted himself by pulling Beard over and chatting about nothing in particular, not really caring that his assistant coach could see his wandering eyes.

As the night wore on, she did eventually return, a few times actually, and Roy had a fresh drink ready for her each time. She’d stand by him and sip her drink, they’d talk about mundane things like the songs that played or the Greyhounds and Whippets that danced together, and they’d both wonder if the other could feel the tension between them that grew with each round of drinks they shared.

Late into the night, Keeley approached the managers, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Hey, you two,” she greeted carefully. “I’ve got a killer idea.”

Roy eyed her warily. “What?”

“Rebecca and I thought it’d be cute if our two managers shared a dance. Nice little photo op.” When she saw their faces sour, her voice turned stern. “Especially since they completely and totally owe me one.”

Right. They’d ruined her photoshoot.

“Fucking fine,” Roy muttered, as if the idea didn’t make his heartrate quicken. He downed his drink and slammed the glass on the bar, almost hard enough to break it. He held out his hand to the manager, whose sudden doe-eyes made his mouth go dry. “Let’s go.”

To his surprise, she didn’t protest or make a snarky comment. Not even a playful one. Instead, she took his hand and followed him to the dance floor; he wondered if her fingers also tingled the moment their hands touched.

Roy wasn’t sure if the fact that it was a slow song made things better or worse. But he did kind of like the way her hands rested at the nape of his neck, and he didn’t entirely hate the way her lower back felt under his hesitant grip. And he didn’t mind too much when she took his left hand in her right, holding them close to his hammering heart.

Three minutes. It was three minutes of her body pressed close to his, of letting himself stare at her and not caring that she or anyone else could see, three minutes of wondering what was going through her mind and hoping it was the same kinds of things he was thinking.

And those three minutes ended entirely too soon.

“What time is it?” she murmured absently. Seemingly without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist and held it up so she could see his watch.

“Scared your carriage’ll turn back into a pumpkin?” he teased, his mind begging her to stay so Keeley could force them to continue dancing.

She shrugged, eyebrows raised. “Dunno. Was kind of thinking of calling it a night.” After the longest three seconds of Roy’s life, she added, “What about you?”

He nodded. “I mean, the guys call me grandad for a reason,” he joked. “It’s way past my bedtime.” He gulped. “Should we share a taxi?”

~

The ride to Roy’s house was surprisingly short. He probably didn’t even need to take a cab and most likely could have walked home. But part of me- probably the drunk part- felt glad he did.

When the car pulled up to his house, he gripped the door, then hesitated. His eyes bore into mine as he said the last thing I ever thought Roy Kent would say to me: “Want to come in for a drink?”

I was pretty sure I surprised both of us when I offered up a small “Yeah.”

He paid the driver, helped me out of the car, and laid his hand on my back as we walked up to his front door. It dawned on me that, aside from our silent after-work runs in the weight room, this was the first time we’d ever been alone together.

Not a big deal, I told myself. Just two colleagues sharing a drink. Late at night. Looking really fucking attractive.

A few months ago, I would have expected his house to have a bunch of upside-down crosses and a few coffins and skulls lying about. Instead, I found his house to be almost… cozy? There were photos of his sister and niece, a couple of plants, even a record player in one corner with vinyls stacked next to it.

Maybe he really deserved the “grandad” nickname.

I settled myself on the couch, placing my clutch on the coffee table that held far too many books to be tidy, but not enough to look cluttered. Roy disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen and immediately popped his head back in.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he said softly, an embarrassed grin on his lips. “I invited you for a drink, but all I’ve got is a fridge full of beer, half a bottle of tequila, and a brand-new bottle of scotch. Apparently, I am a shit host.”

“Scotch sounds good,” I assured him, for some reason unwilling to give him any excuse to send me home.

His smile told me he wasn’t going to. “Scotch then.” He nodded towards the record player. “You could put something on if you want,” he offered before disappearing again.

Feeling amused and curious, I went over and began perusing his record collection. It was a mix of old and new albums, all kinds of genres, some pretty surprising. I was looking at the back of one when Roy returned, holding two glasses.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Sam Cooke?”

He nodded as he sat down. “My grandad was a fan,” he explained. “That one was his, actually.”

With a small hum, I put the record on, the music immediately reminding me of my own grandparents. “Were you and your grandfather close?” I asked as I joined him on the couch, taking the glass he offered me.

“Very.” He took a sip of his drink. “You were close to yours, right? You mentioned him in your first press conference. Gave you your nickname.”

He remembered. “He was my best friend,” I murmured, leaning back into the couch. “Loved soccer and wanted me to love it too.” I let my finger trace the rim of my glass. “Saw me go to the Olympics. Didn’t see me become a coach.”

Roy studied me carefully as I took a drink. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

He hesitated, as if trying to figure out how to phrase it. “Why the fuck are you retired? You don’t have my excuse of being old as shit. Fucking Rapinoe’s barely retiring, and I know for a fact she’s older than you.”

A dry chuckle escaped my lips, amused at his less than gentle phrasing. “I love soccer more than breathing. What d’you think would keep me from playing until I die?”

“You got hurt.” Not a question.

“I got hurt,” I confirmed. “Took a really bad tackle in an international friendly. Fucked my ankle.” I stuck out my chin, refusing to look pitiful in front of anyone, let alone Roy Kent. “They told me that with surgery and rehab and a lot of work I could play again, but I would never be the same. Eventually playing would destroy me, and I’d make it worse and fall into that ugly cycle of injury and rehab and becoming more and more useless on the field. And I refused to keep playing and keep getting hurt and becoming an easy target for commentators. So, I retired and became a coach. Stayed useful. Did it on my terms.”

Roy let out a sharp breath. “Fuck. Well, you’re less stubborn than me, I guess. I fell into that fucking cycle and kept playing and let myself become a fucking joke because I was too fucking proud to retire with dignity.”

I shook my head. “I was just a different kind of stubborn. Refused to play if I wasn’t at my best. Gave up the one thing I ever truly loved because I couldn’t do it my way.”

“We’re just a couple of stubborn pricks then,” Roy declared, lifting his drink.

I tapped my glass to his with a clink. “I don’t think anyone at Richmond would fight us on that.”

“Even if they did, we’d argue with them.”

“Definitely.”

We sat in silence, staring at our drinks, clearly not sure how to speak to one another for this long without shouting.

He finally opened his mouth. “D’you ever miss it?” His voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.

I nodded solemnly. “More than anything. You?”

“More than I miss being able to walk up the stairs without having to take a break,” he joked, clearly trying to avoid the heavy direction we were heading in. Noticing our now empty glasses, he silently picked them up and carried them to the kitchen. “Oi,” he called. “I have a fucking awful question for you. Whatever we say doesn’t leave this house, alright?”

“Can’t have anyone figure out we’re capable of getting along,” I teased. “We couldn’t get away with our screaming matches anymore.”

His smirk was wide when he returned. “Exactly.” He handed over my drink and resumed his seat, his serious expression returning. “D’you… ever hate your players? Because they get to keep playing and you… don’t?”

Fuck. I’d never heard anyone voice the bitterness I silently felt so perfectly before. “It’s awful,” I admitted. “Because I adore them. And I’m so fucking proud of them. But sometimes I feel so envious, y’know?” I blinked, refusing to cry in front of Roy Kent. “It’s like time keeps moving and I’m just frozen. It’s so damn hard to go from the top of the world, being the fucking champion of the world, to sitting on the sideline, watching other people live your dream. Faking smiles when all you want to do is fade into oblivion.”

“But you just can’t fucking stay away from the game,” Roy murmured, reading my mind. “It’s like a first love. You can never quite get over it.” He sighed heavily. “So, we linger, we stick around, and we figure out some way to be useful, even if it kills us.”

“And when it does kill us,” I added, “they’ll just keep dribbling around us.”

His dark laugh eased the pain this conversation held. “Oi, I promise to move you out of the way. Give you some fucking dignity. Promise you’ll do the same for me?”

I smirked at him, determined to help him lighten things up. “Dunno if you’ll be able to move my body. I hear your knees are shit.”

“Fuck you,” he replied, the expression on his face telling me that, for once, he didn’t really mean it. “Alright, another question.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Do you miss, I dunno, being the hot young thing?”

Doing my best Roy Kent impression, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Fuck you,” I repeated. “I’m younger than you, Kent. And I have it on good authority that I’m still pretty hot.” My expression naturally softened when I saw the laughter in his eyes. “But I know what you mean. Everyone wants the cute young athlete, no one wants the exhausted manager. A lot less options when you’re not the shiny new thing anymore.”

“Well,” he started slowly, “you are the shiny new thing at Richmond.”

I gave a little hum. “Not with the other Whippets around,” I pointed out. “I noticed Jamie Tartt and Dani Rojas started poking around my office a lot less once my girls arrived.”

Roy studied me carefully for a moment. “Do you… want their attention?”

I nearly choked on my drink. “Fuck no,” I laughed. “I might still be young, but I’m old enough to not want to date guys like that. Not that I don’t think they’re sweet,” I quickly added. “That’s just… not what I’m looking for anymore.”

The silence returned. Something in the way he looked at me had me blurting out the first thing that popped into my head.

“Keeley mentioned that, um, the two of you used to date?”

After a moment of shock, he nodded. “Oh. Yeah. For a bit.” He took a long drink. “That’s all completely over. We’re good friends now, but neither of us want to go down that road again.” He paused before continuing. “Not that it was a bad relationship. It was great, actually. We just grew apart. And we’re honestly much better as friends.”

“Oh.” Just like when Keeley talked about it, I couldn’t figure out what to say. Or why I was so interested.

“And we’ve both moved on,” he continued, as if he was trying to convince me. “She’s had a couple of relationships since, and I…” He looked at me carefully, watching me take a drink of my scotch. “I’ve moved on,” he repeated.

I crossed my legs, not sure if it was me or the alcohol that purposely did so in a way that took full advantage of the slit in my dress. “Well, that’s nice. That you two remained friends, I mean.”

“Yeah.” His eyes were on my exposed leg. “Friends.”

“I would say we’re on our way to almost being friends, wouldn’t you?”

He grunted in response. “Maybe.” He turned his body to face me, something heated in his eyes. “D’you need some more scotch?”

I smiled at him and mirrored his posture, reveling in the closeness it provided. “Not sure I should keep you up any longer. Bedtime, remember?”

“I don’t really have a bedtime,” he admitted with a laugh. “Just wanted to get the fuck out of there.” He paused, letting his hand drop down onto the back of the couch so his fingers ghosted over my bare shoulder. “Getting a little sick of everyone watching us all the time.”

My heart skipped a beat at his touch. “I take it you’ve been getting some teasing?”

“They don’t fucking stop, do they?” He finished his drink and put down his glass with a thud. “All this ‘shag it out of your system’ shit. It’s fucking sexual harassment.”

“That’s what I told Lucas!” I set down my glass, ignoring the last couple of sips left in it. “Even Keeley was going on and on about how you were going to love this dress on me.”

His lips curved upwards. “I do love that dress on you.”

My words got caught in my throat. Hell, I didn’t even know what those words were going to be. All I knew was that Roy Kent was staring at my lips and his fingers were grazing my shoulder and that he was still wearing his jacket and that I suddenly wanted to see it on the floor.

His eyes reflecting the same uncertainty and heat that I felt, Roy leaned forward and captured my lips in a forceful kiss. The hand on my shoulder moved to the back of my neck as his other hand gripped my thigh where the dress split open to reveal most of my leg, as if the dress was conspiring along with everyone else at Nelson Road. My own hands tugged at his suit jacket, shoving it off his shoulders and tossing it aside, before returning to his shoulders to pull him closer to me.

There was a surprising gentleness to the way he pushed me back until I was horizontal on the couch, Roy propping himself up to keep his full weight off of me. My hands moved to his face, amused to find that his beard was much softer than I’d expected it to be. Somewhere in my mind- the part still capable of coherent thought- I scolded myself for expecting anything about how his beard would feel.

As his tongue skimmed against mine, the record came to a halt; neither of us seemed to care, instead choosing to fill the living room with the sounds of our heavy breathing and soft moans. Kissing Roy Kent was delicious- he tasted like scotch and smelled like expensive, spicy cologne and felt like everything I never knew I needed.

His mouth moved away from mine to find every bit of bare skin and planting rough, wet kisses on every inch he could reach, giving me butterflies in more places than just my tummy. When he finally decided to take advantage of the neckline of my dress and bring his lips there, I mumbled, “Will you argue with me if I ask you where your bedroom is?”

He looked up, grinning like a devil, eyes darker and more intense than their usual soft brown. “Only if you slow me down.”

He managed to get us both to our feet without breaking the embrace, albeit with a bit of a stumble. He kept his mouth on mine as he tugged me through the house and down the hall, where I relieved him of his tie and began fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, while his hands roamed the back of my dress, searching for the zipper.

As we crashed through his bedroom door, he managed to rasp against my lips, “Are you too drunk for this?”

Feeling just short of desperation as I squeezed him impossibly closer, I shook my head. “Just drunk enough. You?”

“Just drunk enough.”

That was all either of us needed to hear. His shirt was suddenly unbuttoned, and my dress was on the floor. We had enough sense to carelessly remove our shoes and kick them to some corner of the room before tumbling onto his bed. When his shirt was tossed aside, I gave an involuntary gulp. This wasn’t a new sight; I watched Roy run without a shirt regularly. But tonight? Tonight, I got to reach out and let my fingers run through that dark curly hair, giving a little tug that had Roy hissing against my neck and grinding his hips into mine.

“Take your pants off, Kent,” I groaned before smashing my mouth into his again.

“I think you can call me Roy now,” he mumbled, for once doing as he was told.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, desperate for more, more, more of him. His skin was blazing hot against mine as his hands explored here, there, everywhere. I marveled at how good it felt to have this man pressed so close to me, amazed that we’d lasted this long without falling into bed together.

His mind must’ve been in the same place, because he mumbled, “Wish I’d known this is what you meant all those times you told me to get fucked.”

“Fuck you, Roy,” I whispered jokingly as my hand slowly travelled lower, towards the place I knew would be the hottest to the touch.

“Thought that was the plan,” he replied, hips bucking slightly when I began toying with the waistband of his boxers.

I buried my giggles against his lips. In the back of my head, behind my usual contempt for this man and his snark, behind my ever-growing need for him, some little voice whispered, He’s funny. Roy Kent is FUNNY.

There wasn’t much time for me to focus on that, however, as Roy’s hand found my own underwear, giving a playful little tug. “This alright?” he breathed, as if we weren’t both on fire with wanting each other.

“Just do me one favor,” I murmured, bumping my nose to his, an impossibly chaste gesture compared to what we were about to do.

“Fucking anything,” he groaned. The- was I really seeing this?- affection in his eyes told me he truly meant it.

I pressed a heated kiss to his lips, where I mumbled, “Don’t fucking call me Bucky.”

He laughed, and, for the first time, he whispered my name.

And he whispered it in my ear for the rest of the night.

All you do know is that you and Molly's little arms are wrapped tightly around each other and you feel like it's never going to be enough to fill the hole of Roy's absence.

It's a cool September morning and Roy knows that December 19th - the day he gets to come back home for Christmas - is exactly 107 days away, but not even the last dregs of summers warmth can make this moment something he's going to look back fondly on.

He's got blankie folded perfectly at the bottom of his backpack and your favourite teddy bear wrapped up in it. Even though he wouldn't discover it until he'd arrived at Sunderland, you knew it was there and that Roy would look after it, and it made everything feel just a little bit better.

When Roy's Grandad announces that it's time to go, he gives you and Molly one last hug, pressing a kiss to both of your heads and promising to write and call whenever he can. You and Molly chase the car until the end of the street, where it turns a corner and Molly's mum calls you back to the house; you linger long enough to watch Roy turn from one of your best friends into a blurry figure in the back of a car.

Ms Kent gives you and Molly ice lolly's from the freezer and puts on 'Cinderella' while you eat them. She then sits through 'Sleeping Beauty,’ ‘The Little Mermaid', and 'Beauty and the Beast' with the two of you until your tears have long since stopped and you've fallen asleep in each others arms.

The following morning, Ms Kent nearly has a heart attack when she doesn't find you in Molly's bed, but her worry is soon ended when she realises the door to Roy's room is half opened and you're quietly curled up in tear stained sheets. Slowly, she wakes you up, and when fresh tears spring to your eyes she's quick to pull you into her arms. As she rocks you gently in her hold, she promises you that the prince always returns to the princess; even if it takes breaking a curse or waiting for 100 years.

They always find each-other in the end and live happily ever after.

And 107 days is nothing when you're 4 years old, it's the blink of an eye and sticky melted ice lolly on your hands, it's your first ever school uniform and glitter from Christmas crafts that you cant get off you no matter how many showers you take, and it goes by even quicker when Roy comes home 10 days sooner then expected.

You don't see him for the first 5 days. Roy locked himself away in his room and refused to come out or speak to anyone. But when the sixth day, and the weekend, finally rolls around, you decide to do something about it.

For a 9 year old, Roy sure had a lot to think about. He never got to say goodbye to his grandad, and he wasn't going to teach him how to ride a bike, or see him score his first professional goal, or get married, and he didn't know how to explain that when he went back to Sunderland come new year, he wasn't going away in the same capacity granddad had.

No 9 year old should've been thinking of all that.

Roy hadn't been expecting any visitors, not that he wanted any, but when you barged your way into his bedroom, he couldn't bring himself to send you away.

"Go away." Roy had growled, hidden beneath blankie and curled tightly into himself. "I want to be alone." Roy hadn't meant a lick of it and you hadn't believed any of it either.

"No, you don't." Though you had to wriggle your little self into his arms, you did it, and beamed proudly against his pyjama clad chest when he let you cuddle up to him. Roy had hugged you tightly, pulling you closer to him and wrapping blankie tightly around you both. "I missed you, Royo."

"You packed Dave in my bag." Roy stated, not asking why, or whether you wanted the teddy bear back, or telling you that he'd actually left it in Sunderland for when he went back in a few weeks time.

"You need him more then I do." Roy just nodded his head at your words, willing himself not to cry at the guilt he felt over leaving you and Molly behind and thinking about something other then his grandad. "And, if you have Dave, and Dave is mine, then you have to come and give him back to me. You have to come back from sundayland."

"Sunderland."

"What's that?" You tilted your head up to look at Roy, and found him already looking at you, half a smile on his lips.

"It's nothing."

Both you and Roy fell asleep in his room, under the safety of blankie, talking about 'sundayland' and everything good about his time there. It wasn't until tea time that his mum found the two of you and dragged you down stairs for dinner, teasing Roy once you'd gone home that you definitely had a little crush on him.

~*~

Roy's transfer to Chelsea once the season is over is announced just before your 16th birthday and you swear it's the best birthday present you've ever gotten. He's newly 21 and he's got this shaggy mullet thing going on that really shouldn't be working for him, but it is. You can't keep your eyes off of him, and Roy pretends not to notice for what he tells himself is your sake. He knows it isn't.

When his car pulls up in the drive for the first time since the weekend he came down for Mollys birthday, you and Molly run out of the house hand in hand to greet him, crying his name. He lets the two of you crash into him and wrap your arms tightly around him, almost squeezing him to death when he finds himself sandwiched between the two of you.

Roy's barely been on home soil for 10 seconds when Molly pulls away from the hug to look up at her big brother with the best puppy dog eyes she can muster up at 16. "Will you buy us drinks to take to leavers?”

"Fuck off, buy your own." You don't unwrap your arms from around Roy while they bicker, quite enjoying the familiarity of the scene before you. It was almost too long ago to fathom the last time Roy had been home long enough to start a fight with Molly, and though you never thought you'd say it, it was really nice to see.

"Incase you lost some brain cells this season, you have to be 18 to buy alcohol, fuckhead." Roy just stared blankly at Molly, and ran his fingers up and down the length of your arm as you stayed curled in his side, thinking about how similar Roy and Molly really are when it comes down to it. "So, I need you to buy it for us."

"Ask mum to buy it for you."

Molly immediately scoffs, throwing her hands in the air and muttering under her breath that she was genuinely concerned that Roy had lost some brain cells from all the headers he'd done this season. "Don't you think I tried that, dumbass? Mum said no to both of us."

Roy's gaze turned to meet yours, surprised to find you already looking at him. "Please Royo, everyone else will be drinking at leavers." Roy could never say no to you, and he was convinced both you and Molly knew that and had concocted this scheme to get him to buy it for you. He didn't mind saying yes, at least not this time, at least not when it was you asking.

Molly ran back into the house with an excited cry, promising to return with all the money she'd owe Roy for the drinks plus some as a charitable donation for his kindness.

For the first time in almost a year, you and Roy where completely alone together. He spared a moment to look at you, really look at you; notice how your hair had gotten longer and that your sense of style had completely changed, that the early summer sun was already tanning your skin and that you still had your arms around him. Roy only tightened his grip on you, dragging you into and around the house with him until you made it to the living room.

His mum had repainted since he'd last been down to visit from Sunderland and there were new photos on the wall behind the settee; mainly of you and Molly on your last day of school and one of Roy at his last match playing for Sunderland.

"You look like a proper footballer now, Royo." Despite every other seat in the living room being free, you took purchase on the arm of the chair right beside Roy and pray no one thinks it's a sign of the bubbling feelings you have for him. You may only be 16 but you're sure you've been in love with Roy for the better part of your life. It's one thing for everyone to tease you about you and Roy having little crushes on each other as kids, it's a whole other thing for people to tease you for having a crush on him when you actually did.

Roy scoffed, taking a long swig from the beer he'd grabbed from the kitchen when he first got to the house, swallowing down his smile. "But not enough for you to stop calling me 'Royo,' apparently."

"You could be the most famous footballer on the planet and I'd still call you Royo." You reached up for his hair and ruffled it, laughing at the way he pulled away from your touch and went to flatten his hair back out almost immediately. "But I mean it, you look like the kind of footballer kids have posters of up on their walls, that they want to be when they grow up."

And you're entirely right. Somewhere up in Manchester, a 6 year old Jamie Tartt is pinning a poster of your Roy up on his wall and promising himself, and his dad, that all of his time and money spent on football practice will one day pay off  - that he's going to be one of the greats, just like Roy Kent.

"You'll always be my Royo, Roy. Even when you're super famous and don't remember me anymore." Your hand had somehow found it's way back into Roy's hair and he couldn't bring himself to move away from your touch. Since his sudden rise to fame, in which it seemed like he'd become an overnight sensation, he couldn't remember when he was last touched so gently. Touching only to touch, not because they wanted something from him or his name.

Roy couldn't keep in the smile that pulled at his lips. It faltered slightly at the fact he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled, let alone genuinely, but it quickly returned and warmed his face when he meet your eyes. "And how could I ever forget the likes of you, yeah?"

Somewhere between shared words and glances, his hand had found yours and the two of you couldn't tear your eyes away from the other. "Dinners ready, guys." Molly was well known for her perfect timing, and despite some initial upset at the moment being taken from you, you knew it was for the better. Roy was Molly's brother, your best friends brother, who had 5 years on you yet.  Though you knew it was unlikely anything would ever happen between the two of you, moments like this made you think there was a small possibility something one day would. The thought wasn't one worth seriously entertaining. "Did I... interrupt something?"

"What? No way." You and Molly ran from the room hand in hand, giggles bubbling past your lips and exchanged, in hushed whispers, the conversation that Molly had just walked in on.

It was like Roy had never left as he followed the two of you into the dining room. He took his seat across the table from you like he always did and knocked his foot against yours every time he wanted your attention. Dinner was good and before he knew it you were half on top of him on the sofa, sneaking bites from his plate of dessert as everyone else partook in the worlds most heated game of Pictionary.

He gave a sharp nudge to your ribs when you stole the last bite but quickly soothed it over with the gentle drumming of his fingers against your skin. The pair of you talked in hushed tones for the rest of the evening about his transfer to Chelsea and everything he was looking forward to now that he was back in London, as well as all your plans for your super long summer before you started college in September.

It was only when Roy's mum turned to ask if you were going home or staying over that anyone had noticed the two of you cuddled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, both fast asleep. She didn't dare wake you, thankful to see her son at peace for the first time in what felt like years, instead placing a blanket over the two of you and ushering Molly up to bed despite her insistence that you come with her.

One day, she thought, the two of you would finally see yourselves in other people, realise that if love looks like that then the two of you must be in it, and with any luck she'd still be alive to see it. She knew Roy was stubborn enough to keep that from happening. Maybe he would't be this time; at least, not when it came to you.

~*~

When the rumours of Roy's relationship with Britanny Brett are confirmed by a quote she gives in an interview, he finds himself typing out an apology to you. He stares at his phone for 3 hours and the most he can type out is 'I didn't want you to find out like this, I'm sorry,' but he still doesn't send it. Roy's not entirely sure what he's apologising for.

It's the night before his 27th birthday and he's debating whether or not he should show up to the birthday dinner his mum has planned for him tomorrow. You'll be there. He knows it. But only because he knows that Molly dragged you back from uni with her just for the occasion. And for some reason that he can't quite place, or just doesn't want to yet, he feels bad about having to see your face and hear you talk about his girlfriend.

Although Brittany Brett is smoking hot, and they have really great sex, he's not sure he wants to take her home to meet his family. To meet you. Sure, she's a great footballers girlfriend, but he's a little worried about what the people who know him as just Roy will think of her.

When she appears on the other side of his door the morning of his 27th birthday, the first thing he says to her is 'you can't come to my birthday party' and he feels like he's 8 years old again and making mortal enemies in the playground at school. She doesn't acknowledge his comment, instead inviting herself in and making herself at home in Roy's living room, and he's never been more thankful for her 'too good for everyone' demeanour.

He drops her off at her house on the way over to his mums house later that evening. Roy decides he hates the way her perfume lingers in his car and has buried itself under his skin. He wants nothing more then for it to get away from him but there's still 20 minutes left of the drive and he knows the second you hear the car pull up you'll come running out the door and he won't have anytime to get the smell off of him.

When he pulls up on the doorstep of his childhood home 20 minutes later, only Molly comes running from the house to greet him. For a minute he thinks you haven't shown up to celebrate his birthday with him and he feels his heart break in two. He tells himself he doesn't know why. However, when he walks into the house and heads straight to the kitchen in search of a beer to calm his nerves, and help him forget about you, he finds you there, helping his mum with making his favourite dinner and a wide smile on your face.

You notice him lingering, shocked, in the doorway and pull him into your arms. There's less strength to your hold then he's used to but he feels grateful that you even want him in your arms after everything he's done. Now Roy really isn't sure why he's talking like that; like you've been hard done by from his relationship with Brittany Brett. To a degree he feels like he's cheated on you, but he can't have done because the two of you were never together. However, he doesn't let the thought linger, instead pulling you tighter against him and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. Of course you'd be here, of course you would, but he finds himself holding onto you for a little longer then he probably should just to make sure you're really here and really staying.

Dinner is nice. It's a piece of simplicity he's missed every night since he was 9 years old and heading away to Sunderland for the first time. It's not often nowadays that he gets to eat dinner at a dining table surrounded by people he loves and who love him, so he relishes in every moment of it. He lets his hand brush against yours when he asks for the salt and he nudges your foot with his every-time he wants your attention. Being in this room, in this seat, with you, is like being 8 years old again and everything bad is yet to happen to him. Roy realises he likes the feeling of it more then he ever remembers.

No one brings up Brittany Brett, the way Roy smelt like her when you hugged him, the apology he never sent, or the way you cried in Molly and Ms Kent's arms when you found out he had a girlfriend. Dinner is peaceful and you and Roy share a slice of birthday cake on his Grandad's armchair, then fall asleep together there like he doesn't have a girlfriend and you don't have a broken heart.

His mum feels like she's got two children in her house and she wishes it would stay like this forever, as long as that meant Roy couldn't hurt your heart more then he already had. But Roy is stubborn, and she knows that. When she comes downstairs in the morning it's just you on the armchair with Roy's jacket over your shoulders like a blanket. You're hugging the material tightly against you as if it could ever replace Roy's presence, and even though you're still asleep, both of you know it won't.

When Roy sneaks out at 4am, the first thing he does is drive to Brittany Brett's house and breaks up with her. After all, there's no point being with someone when you know for a fact that you're in love with someone else.

~*~

Molly's dating this guy who doesn't let her speak to you, or Roy, or her own mum and you're scared for her life. In the two times you've managed to get a hold of her, you begged and pleaded with her to leave him. She's only 25 and so are you, you could run away together and start it all over and no one would know any different. Both times she said she wanted to be with him, that she loved him. All you want is your best friend back and for her to be safe, and rather selfishly, because you need her more then you've ever needed anyone.

Despite trying all day, you can't reach her, or her boyfriend, and you don't know who else to call. Ms Kent was the only real parental figure you'd had growing up, but it was pushing midnight and you didn't want to wake her up for the sake of your own comfort. Roy's number is below hers on your favourite contacts and you don't hesitate to ring it. You know he's got a match this weekend and practice tomorrow but you need someone and you have no one else to keep you from your own mind.

Roy's in some club in north London when his phone rings and his screen illuminates with your name and a picture of the two of you from last Christmas. It's one of the newcomers 21st birthday and he remembers being 21 and moving to Chelsea, moving back home, like it was yesterday. He's got 10 years on the kid who's just starting his career while he's going on aging out of it. It's almost enough to make him feel old.

He's quick to answer the phone, practically running out of the club to make sure he can hear you and he's already walking back to his car when he hears the suppressed sniffle to your voice. Roy can't see 100% past 9pm anymore so he doesn't drink when he goes out with the team, he knows it'll only make it worse, and for the first time ever, it's actually come in use.

It takes him 37 minutes exactly to drive from the club to your childhood home that's pressed brick by brick against his, and that's only because he made a pit stop to his own house on the way over. Every time he comes back here lately, it feels like some cruel trick of fate, that he can't have you but can have his entire life shaped by you.

He's banging his fist loudly against the door before he can take into consideration that your neighbours, one of which is his own mother, are likely asleep and wouldn't take too kindly to being woken up at this hour. When you open the door to a friendly face, you all but collapse into Roy's arms, already sobbing and heaving and trying to get the words out but not being able to do so. He scoops you up into his arms, years of intense football training allowing him to do it without second though, and carries you to your bedroom.

He placed you against the pillows and then kicks off his shoes, he definitely scuffed them up in the process but Roy couldn't seem to find the time to mind. Before you've managed to get a single word out Roy's stripped off the bulk of his suit, leaving him in just a shirt, boxers and socks. The image is kind of funny and if you weren't so devastated, you were sure you'd be laughing.

"What's wrong?" When Roy's hands gently wrap around your wrists to try and pull them away from your face and get a glance at you, you just start crying harder. "C'mon sweetheart, talk to me."

When he's met with more silence he pulls out his surprise weapon, a raggedy, old teddy bear, with matted fur that smells surprisingly like Roy. "Would it be easier to talk to Dave?" Finally your hands move away from your face to get a look at the teddy bear, not believing it's right in front of you when you know you haven't seen it since you were five yours old. It took a couple of minutes, lots of sniffling, and really willing yourself to say it, but eventually you did. Roy's arms around your and the soft touch of Dave's fur against your skin settling your nerves.

"My dad died this morning." Roy didn't hesitate to pull you into his lap, settling himself against your pillows as he brought you closer to him. "And I have no one to tell. Molly's boyfriend won't let her speak to me anymore, and I didn't want to burden your mum with it, and I just... I didn't know who to call or talk to and I know you were probably busy-"

"Hey, hey, don't. You did the right thing calling me. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, yeah?" Both of Roy's hands are cradling your face, forcing you to look at him and really listen to what he wants to say. "I'm here, okay? I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

You shuffle in his lap, turning enough that you can bury your head in the crook of his neck and wrap your arms around his shoulders. Roy's warm and surprisingly comfy, but you reckon that's more so because the skin of his thighs are pressing into the skin of yours and you're sure it's the closest you've ever been to him. You try not to think about how you wouldn't mind being this close to him more often.

The rest of the night is spent with you in Roy's arms, his hand running up and down your back, his other hand cradling your face and wiping away each tear that spills over. He lets you ramble and ramble about everything on your mind with no regard for the fact he's got practice at 8am tomorrow. Even when you fall asleep in his arms, tears staining his brand new shirt, practice is the furthest thing from his mind, so much so that he doesn't even remember sending  Di Matteo the text saying he wasn't well and wouldn't be able to make practice in the morning.

Roy wakes up a long time before you, and he finds he has to practically drag himself away from you and the bed. When his eyes blink open he sees the sight he's spent the better part of his life waiting to see: you're in his arms, fast asleep, looking entirely peaceful and for a minute he can pretend that this is his life. While the haze of sleep has yet to fade, he can act like he wakes up to you every morning, that you love him like he loves you, and that, if he wanted to, he could press kisses all over your face until you woke up and flashed him that bright beautiful smile of yours.

If he wanted to, he could press kisses all over your face until you woke up and you would greet him with a soft smile, pressing a kiss to his face in return and not caring if it landed against his lips, cheek, or jaw, because you know you'll be able to kiss the other places whenever you like.

Roy pulls himself out of bed and drags his feet all the way to your kitchen where he cooks the two of you breakfast. Nothing about it is rushed - he knows that he has nowhere to be but here, with you. He knows you've woken up when he can hear the gentle padding of your feet against your bedroom floor. Roy hears you walk down the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where you then cross the room to him, and wrap your arms around his waist. Dave is clutched in on of your hands and your head is pressed against the dimples of his shoulder blades, your other hand fiddling with the hem of the front of his T-shirt, so casually that any passer by would think this was routine. And even though it isn't, Roy takes the risk of placing his hand atop your own and lacing his fingers through yours. When he can feel you smile into his back, he thinks maybe he should've kissed you in the bedroom, that maybe you'd have liked it just as much as he would've.

~*~

It's another year after your dad died before Molly finds out. She doesn't show up to Christmas, or Easter, but she comes by one late spring afternoon when Ms Kent had invited you and Roy over for picky bits in the garden, with a bin bag full of her belongings and a black eye. If your hand wasn't holding Roy's so tightly you were sure he would've been right out of the door, driving off to find the prick and give him an even worse beating then he'd given his sister.

You pull Roy with you when you cross the garden to engulf Molly in a hug, both of you breaking down at the contact and apologies tumbling from both of your lips. Molly apologises for not being there when your dad died, and not attending the funeral, you force her to take back her apology while also shoving your own down her throat, apologising for not finding her, for not being there. The two of you only cry harder when Roy pulls the two of you, still hugging, into his embrace. It's warm and his hands are big and it makes you feel like you're a child again, and you suppose that in some ways you still are.

It takes almost half an hour for the two of you to calm down enough for any coherent words to get out, and the first ones that do is that Molly's pregnant and she needs somewhere to stay. Immediately you ask her to move in with you. It's perfect really, you're next door to her mum and you've got a room for her and for the baby (when it comes) now that your dads passed. Roy likes the idea even more; something about his three, soon to be four, favourite people being in one place taking his fancy.

The eight months between Molly showing back up and beautiful baby Phoebe being born seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. The soft, warm, yellow paint of phoebes nursery smears your memories of those months; everything about it is caked in the glow of the summer you have when you're 5 years old and have no care in the world.

You and Molly are best friends again and it's like you never missed two years of each others lives; everything just falls right back into place. The two of you do everything together and you wouldn't have it any other way, even when everything includes being in the room with her and Ms Kent when she's giving birth.

Roy, unluckily, is the only one not invited into the room, and he spends almost 6 hours pacing back and forth and back and forth and back and forth in the waiting room, waiting for some kind of an update on his sister and his niece. It's you that comes to give it to him. You're in blue scrubs that you pull off further with every step you take into the waiting room, running right into Roy's arms with the widest smile he's ever seen cross your face.

"She's beautiful, Roy. She's so beautiful." He just nods his head and allows you to take his hand and pull him in the direction of the room Molly and his mum are in. "I love her so much already and she's only been here for 5 minutes."

Roy understood what you meant as soon as he walked into the room. Molly was absolutely glowing, and cradling this tiny, tiny baby in her arms like she was terrified any movement at all might hurt her - she didn't even look like she was breathing less it hurt the baby.

"Do you want to hold her?" You whispered, nudging his foot with yours to gain his attention. "You won't break her, promise." You didn't give Roy the opportunity to answer, instead eagerly taking the baby off of Molly and walking over to Roy. His mum all but pushed him into one of the chairs they had in the room and lectured him on how to hold the baby correctly. Slowly, you lowered her into his arms, making sure he had a comfortable and safe grip on her before you removed your arms from the little Phoebe completely. "Isn't she amazing?"

Roy can already picture it and it's breaking his heart. You, and him, and a little baby wrapped in a blanket with eyes that don't yet know how to open. But, in the daydream he doesn't tell anyone about, you're holding the baby and his arms are around you, whispering how much he loves you into your ear and promising to do everything for that baby. Your baby. He doesn't yet know if a day like that is ever going to come; he'd have to get over himself first, and he doesn't see that happening anytime soon. For you, however, he just might try.

"Yeah, yeah she is."

Molly and little baby Phoebe have to stay in the hospital overnight, but can be discharged in the morning, and Molly doesn't let any of you stay with her. In fact, she demands the three of you head home and come back tomorrow, well rested to drive her and newborn Phoebe home.

The three of you pick up some chinese takeout on your way home and eat it around Ms Kent's dinner table. Molly's absence is so heavily felt that part of you feels thrust back in time to a year ago, when you didn't have any contact with her and didn't know if she was even alive, let alone okay. It shakes you to your core and you leave your dinner half eaten as you excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe. When you return to the table, you find that dinner has been cleared away, but Ms Kent is holding out a spoon for you, pointing you in the direction of the living room.

Roy's sat in his grandads armchair with the biggest bowl of ice cream you've ever seen and he opens up his arms to you when he feels you staring at him from the doorway. You didn't hesitate to sit with him, squished up in the seat that fit the both of you slightly better when you were kids, with Roy's arm around your shoulders. When you didn't take a large helping of ice cream for yourself, he nudged the bowl in your direction.

"When Molly came home, I'd get in bed with her each night." You whispered, only loud enough that Roy would be able to hear you. It felt embarrassing, to try and explain why you felt Molly's absence for one night so vastly, but you knew that if anyone would get it, it would be Roy. "For the first month or so, she'd ask me to stay with her, so she knew she wasn't alone and she was safe. So I did. And then one night she was like 'I don't need you in bed with me anymore, I think I'm okay now,' and I didn't know what to do." You stuck your spoon inside the ice-cream, stirring it around the bowl but never bringing the build up of vanilla on the spoon to your lips. "I got in bed that night and I couldn't sleep at all, so I went and knocked on her door and she was still awake. Told me she couldn't sleep either, and I got right back into bed with her." Tears pricked at your eyes and your spoon fell against the bowl. "I don't know what to do without Molly, Royo, I don't want to have to do without her again."

Roy quickly moved the half eaten bowl of ice cream to the coffee table, pulling you into him and cradling your head against his shoulder. "Molly's not going anywhere, babe, she'll be home in the morning. Everything's going to be okay."

Neither of you brought up how he called you babe, and his mum didn't bring up how you fell asleep cuddled up in the armchair like you did when you were kids. But when Roy brought Phoebe and Molly home the following morning, and Molly and Ms Kent had taken Phoebe upstairs to get her settled into her new home, he pulled you in for a hug.

"Told you so." He whispered in your ear, pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple. Then Roy grabbed your hand, interlocking your fingers with his and pulling you up the stairs to join Phoebe in her new room. Dave was in his other hand and he continued to stand by you as you placed it in the crib with her, knowing that she needed Dave more then you or Roy did now.

All of you couldn't wait to watch this little girl grow up surrounded by people who loved her so, so much.

~*~

Roy gets transferred to Richmond just before Phoebe's 4th birthday and you tease him that he has a penchant for getting the best kinds of birthday present. He asks why you remember so clearly that his transfer to Chelsea 15 years ago was just before your 16th birthday, and you answer honestly that it was the only thing you'd wanted for your birthday that year - for Roy to be closer to home. You immediately get to tease him again as a blush coats his cheeks.

On his first day at Richmond, he gets you, Molly and Phoebe seats in the family box, says that they'll always be there if you ever want to come and watch him play, and you reply that you always watch him play.

"I've been playing professionally for half my life. Sunderland, Chelsea, and now Richmond. I've never seen you even glimpse at a football match."

You scoff immediately and Roy's slightly taken aback, you almost look angry at what he's saying and he doesn't know why because he's right. Not that it matters to him, but you just don't like football that much; he doesn't blame you or anything, each to their own, but he wishes you'd like it for him. "I've seen every game you've ever played."

"Yeah, right."

"Yeah, right." You turned to Roy, putting down the bag filled with Phoebe's first ever school uniform inside now that you'd made it back home. "I'm serious. I've watched every match you've ever played in. All of your games with Sunderland and Chelsea, and I'll watch all your games now that you're at Richmond." You turn to Roy with a tense crease in your brow and he's wishing he never brought it up. "You're important to me Roy, of course I'd watch every time you play."

"What's sundayland, babe?" Phoebe had ran into the living room when she'd heard the door go, excited that you and Roy returned home. Molly and you had called each other babe since you were teenagers, and Phoebe had taken to calling you babe over your actual name. It didn't help that Roy had let it slip a few time too, only reassuring her that she was calling you by the correct thing.

"It's nothing, pheeb's." You scooped the little blonde into your arms, resting her against your jutted out hip and beginning to wander through the house. "Where your mum? You need to try on your uniform."

"Can I give you a fashion show?" She asked, leaning her head against your shoulder in a way that had Roy thinking about the two of you with a kid again. He'd have to ask you out first, and with each year that passed, the possibility of him actually doing that seemed to get slimmer and slimmer.

"Of course you can, Pheeb's. Go get dressed. Me and your uncle Roy will wait in the living room."

You stuck to your word, watching every single match that Roy played in. Sometimes at Nelson road, sometimes with Molly and Phoebe, sometimes in Ms Kent's living room - but you always watched him play.

The first time Molly let you take Phoebe to Nelson road was as your birthday present the same year Phoebe turned 6. You'd been pleading all year for Molly to let you bring Phoebe along to a home game, and she finally caved - on the condition you kept her ear defenders on all night and left if it got too much for her. Phoebe loved every minute of the match, screamed her little heart out just for the sake of joining in, even if she didn't know what people were saying; You were certain her cry of 'uncle Roy' every time she saw him with the ball was the loudest in the stadium.

When the match was over, a man with glasses found you in the stands, introduced himself as 'Higgins,' handed you two family lanyards with Kent plastered all over them, and asked you to follow him. You're barely in the changing rooms when Phoebe lets go of your hand, crying Roy's name and interrupting a speak from that new, American coach that Roy had complained about.

"Phoebe!" The blonde didn't wait up for you, running right at Roy and knowing he'd catch her when she flung herself the remaining foot into his arms. "What did I tell you?"

"I didn't know grandad fancied himself a cradle robber." You'd heard enough complaints to know the dig at Roy was from Jamie Tartt, the season loan from Manchester City. "Surely, someone like you isn't married to someone like Roy."

The twinge of disgust that slipped from the mans mouth when he said Roy's name had your blood boiling. "Why? Would you rather me with the likes of you instead?"

Jamie stood in dumbfounded silence as you turned back to Roy, your face entirely brightening, and his presence being totally ignored for the rest of your stay in the lock room. He wasn't used to that. He was trying to compliment you, say you were way out of Roy's league - maybe even ask for your number - but you didn't even spare him a second glance. In fact, now that your eyes were back on him, he wasn't entirely sure you were ever going to look away from Roy again. It made sense when he thought about it in bed later that night, even though he teased the fuck out of Roy and sometimes plainly treated him like shit, Roy Kent was one of the greats. Even Jamie Tartt knew that, and had known it since he was 6 years old - of course he'd managed to score someone like you.

Murmurs of Roy Kent having a secret spouse and daughter had filled Nelson Road before you'd even left the building.

It wasn't that Roy didn't want to talk about you. If he had the opportunity, he'd scream about you from rooftops, but being a footballer was a very public affair and he loved his privacy. Almost as much as he loved you.

The dog track didn't think they'd ever see your face again, not when Roy had growled at them after he'd guided you and Phoebe out of the changing room. Unfortunately for them, they would, under the worst possible circumstances.

You'd been on the edge of your seat the whole match. Roy's been benched for the first time in what you're sure is his entire career and doesn't come on until the 60th minute and when he does, you swear he's on fire. He's playing better then he'd ever played before, running faster then he's ever ran in the past few years, and he's slide tackling Jamie Tartt and getting the ball away from the goal. People are screaming his name and so are you.

And then he's not getting up.

And then he's still not getting up.

And then he's still not getting up, the cheers have died down, and everyone's waiting with baited breath while it's determined if they've just seen the end of Roy Kent's 30 year long career with their own eyes.

And then Roy gets up, and for a fleeting moment you think that maybe everything's okay, that Roy's okay, and he's going to carry on playing.

And then he's walking from the pitch, limping, and your sprinting from your seat in the family box and running up to the owners box. You don't have to say a word because Rebecca calls a member of security over to you, and asks with a kind smile for him to guide you down to the changing rooms.

You linger outside the door for about 5 seconds before you push it open. If you were anyone else, you'd were certain he would've yelled at you to get out, even though he didn't mean it, just for the sake of his image. But you weren't anyone else, you were you.

"I'm fine." You hadn't even made it fully into the room and Roy was already trying to make his pain seem less bad then it was. "I'm fine. Go watch the rest of the match. You might have to drive us back to yours though."

"Roy." He doesn't say anything as you cross the room and sit beside him on the bench. You slowly wrap your arm around his shoulders and tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling his head down to rest against your shoulder. "Don't. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, yeah? You're important to me, let me be here for you."

Roy kisses you and you instantly realise you'd have waited 33 more years for it, if that meant it would happen.

His lips are chapped, and his beard is slightly scratchy, and he's already breathless before he even leans into it but you don't mind. You find that his lips slant against yours perfectly and he slides you closer against him on the bench, using the hand he'd placed on your hip to give it a squeeze, eliciting an gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth but he pulls away before it can escalate.

You hope to anything listening that he wants to kiss you again, because you're sure he's ruined the touch of everyone else's lips against your skin for you.

"I've been in love with you since I was 5 years old." Roy pressed his lips back to yours in a quick succession of kisses and you're sure that thats a good sign.

"Since you were 5 years old?" He asks, nudging his nose against yours, pressing his lips firmly to yours when they brush slightly as he speaks. "Fuck, did we waste a lot of time."

~*~

Roy's been the manager of Richmond for the last 4 months and you're thankful that there's no football on over Christmas. You get Roy practically all to yourself for three weeks and it's the best feeling ever.

Phoebes still in school until the 22nd, and you live together at Roy's house, so there's no chance Molly will walk in on the two of you or his mum will hear you through the walls - meaning 90% of his first week off work is spent having sex on every surface in the house, in every position imaginable.

The second week off is the main bulk of Christmas. You pick Phoebe up from school on the 22nd and she has a sleep over at your house. The 23rd is spent curled up on your couch, with Phoebe sandwiched between the two of you, watching Christmas movies all day and stuffing your faces with popcorn and hot chocolate. Phoebe spends the night again, and then the three of you drive down to Ms Kent's house at lunchtime on the 24th. Molly comes home from work around 6pm and the 5 of spend the rest of the evening in the living room, watching 'love actually' and 'the polar express,' until it's time for bed. Even though you and Roy have been together for nearly 3 years now, you sleep in Molly's bed with her and Phoebe, reminiscing on the christmas's of your childhood and giggling over them until you fall asleep.

When christmas morning finally comes, you and Molly are the last awake, Phoebe jumping all over the two of you and demanding you get downstairs as soon as possible to see what Father Christmas has left for her. You let Phoebe drag you down stairs even though you're barely awake and you crawl into Roy's lap, in his grandads armchair, at the first opportunity. He's already got a coffee made for you, just the way you like it, and a warm hand that he slips up the back of your tshirt to scratch gently against your skin as you watch Phoebe begin to open her mountain of presents.

"How many of these are from you?" You whisper, feeling Roy smile against your temple as you sip on your coffee, slowly waking up in his arms.

"Enough. They're not all for Pheeb's anyway." Roy picks you up enough to adjust your position in his lap, making it more comfortable for the both of you to sit and talk and watch presents getting opened. "Some for my mum, some for Molly, some for you."

"You're too kind to me, baby." You lean up enough to press a kiss to Roy's lips, ignoring the loud screech Phoebe lets out at the display of affection. "I got some stuff for you under there too, handsome."

"I don't see you under that tree, Father Christmas clearly mustn't have got my list." Even though you're not looking directly at Roy you can feel the smirk that is pulling at his lips.

Before you could comment on what that could possibly mean Phoebe was calling your name, sticking her hand out with a tiny, paper-wrapped box in her palm. "This one's for you, it says it's from uncle Roy!"

"For me, huh? Lets have a look then, shall we Pheeb's?" Phoebe abandoned her half opened pile of gifts to stand beside you, leaning over the arm of the arm chair and over your shoulder to get a prime look at the gift as you opened it. "Thank you, baby."

Roy pinched your hip teasingly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he intently watched you carefully unfold the wrapping paper. "Open it first, you might not like it. I kept the receipt so... just say the word and we'll get it changed."

"It's from you, Royo, I'm sure I'll love it." You punctuated your words with a kiss to his lips, not realising just how much your words would ring true until you'd fully unwrapped the box; finding a navy blue, velvet ring box and tears in Ms Kent's eyes. "Roy..."

"I spent 36 years of my life not knowing you felt the same way about me as I felt about you." Roy took the box gently from your hold and opened it, taking the dainty and elegant ring from it and holding it between the two of you. "And I don't plan to waste another moment of my life without you by my side."

"Yes."

"Oi, you're supposed to let me fucking ask you first." A laugh bubbled past your lips despite the tears building in your eyes. "Will you make me the happiest man alive, and marry me?"

"Yes." Your hands found Roy's face before his could place the ring on your finger, pulling him into a hot and forceful kiss, tilting his head back with how much you leaned into it, into him. "Yes. Yes. Yes, please."

"You owe me £1, Uncle Roy."

Tears are shed and the rest of the gifts are opened. Christmas dinner goes by without a hitch, and before you know it the days nearly over and you find yourself in Roy's lap, in his grandads armchair, with one bowl of dessert between the two of you, like so many times before. Ms Kent is sat across from the two of you with her own bowl of dessert and she looks like she wants to say something about it. She doesn't, but only because she knows, and she knows that you and Roy know. This day was a long time coming and she's over the moon that it's come in her lifetime.

Roy's love for you was stronger then any will he had to remain stubborn, and after a life time of waiting, he'd finally found his way to you, and she was sure he would find his way to you in every lifetime; even if it took 100 years or breaking a curse. Like she'd told you on that cool September morning, the prince always comes back, and they always live happily ever after. And she was sure the two of you were going to as well.

“So, will I be seeing you at Sam’s party tonight after the game then?”

Keely asks, playing with a strand of your hair affectionately. The two of you are standing in the hallway outside of your office at Nelson Road. You lean against the wall beside you, giving her a noncommittal shrug.

“I don’t know. I was thinking of just staying in tonight.” 

She frowns at this. “Oh, come on, babes! We have to support Sam’s new restaurant and besides,” she leans in and whispers as if she’s about to tell a salacious secret, “I was gonna invite a client of mine who is proper fit and I think you two would just hit it right off!” 

You groan. “Oh, Keely, no! I told you no more match ups.” 

You cringed at the thought of the last bloke she tried to set you up with. He cared more about your footballer brother than anything to do with you and the night eventually ended with you telling him to ‘fuck off and go date my brother if you love him so much’.

Keely’s frown deepens, puppy dog eyes staring straight into your soul. “Will you come if I don’t invite him?” 

You sigh, looking down at your paperwork on the clipboard in your hands, chewing the inside of your cheek. You glance back over to her, those big puppy eyes still working their magic and you give her a weak smile. “Okay, fine.”

She squeals, pulling you into a hug and you smile into her shoulder. You pull away, about to make a comment about how you have nothing to wear to the party tonight, but you’re interrupted by an annoying voice emerging from behind. 

“Good morning, Keely!” Jamie Tartt strolls down the hallway, a sports bag slung over his shoulder. He pauses in front of the two of you, giving Keely a cheeky grin before turning to you with a less than enthusiastic face and a curt nod, muttering your name as a greeting. You grunt in response. 

You’ve known Jamie ever since you started as AFC Richmond’s physiotherapist just a few months before he left for Man City, and you have never gotten along since - though your dislike for him goes even further back than that. Jamie and your brother have a rather public and long-going distaste for each other, and as a loyal sister, you have a distaste for anybody that is a prick to your family. And so, you and Jamie are constantly at each other’s necks, doing whatever to get under the other’s skin. 

“Hi, Jamie!” Keely greets, chipper as ever. 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, and instead look him up and down, keying in on his regular clothes and bag. “Are you just now getting here? It’s a game day.” 

He scoffs, holding his hands up. “Chill. The star player just needed a couple more minutes of beauty sleep, is all.”

You feign confusion, “But Zava’s already here, and he looks plenty rested.”

 Keely jumps to change the subject.  “Jamie, you know my client, the one who runs that sock company! Don’t you think they'd hit it off?” She motioned towards you and you mentally curse at her. 

He looks you up and down and you start to scowl at the smirk taking form on his face. You already know he’s going to say something stupid. He looks at Keely and shakes his head, looking so smug. “Nah, I don’t think he’s into nagging know-it-alls.” 

Keely jumps between you two before you can open your mouth to fight back. “Okay, Jamie, good luck today! Bye!” 

She turns to face you as Jamie walks away. “I take it you two still hate each other?” 

She started her own PR firm recently and hasn’t been around the office much. She hoped the two of you would have magically worked through this shit by now, but that clearly wasn’t the case. She knew Jamie had grown so much lately, but for some reason, he was still the same old prick to you. 

You scoff. “I’m a professional, Keely. I don’t hate any of my patients.”

She gives a knowing look. You feel like you’re being scolded or something. 

“He’s gotten so much better lately, though.” Keely reasons.

You hum, uninterested. “I’ve yet to see all these ‘improvements’ everyone speaks of.” 

“Come on, just give him a chance. You two might surprise each other.” She sighs, giving you a squeeze on the shoulder. “I should go meet Rebecca upstairs. We’ll see you after the game, yeah?” 

You give her a reassuring smile before returning to your office. Game days meant you had to be ready at the drop of a hat in case an injury happened on the pitch. Putting your headphones in, you focused on getting all of your supplies in order for the big day. 

-

It was no surprise that Richmond won. With Zava joining Richmond as their true knight in shining armour, the team had been victorious once again, continuing their win streak. And while you were very pleased for your team, especially since nobody came out of the game with any serious injuries, you knew this meant there was no way you could bail on the party tonight. With everybody in the mood to celebrate, it would be impossible to stay under the radar and not attend, not if Keely had anything to say about it. 

So that’s why you were at Ola’s, nursing your second glass of champagne in a black slip dress that felt all too uncomfortable compared to the sweatpants you wish you were in on your couch. Keely and Rebecca babbled on next to you about one of Keely’s recent photo shoots for a client of hers, and you offered a chuckle or a gasp when necessary, otherwise remaining silent beside your friends. 

“Alright, that’s it.” Rebecca sat her drink down, pointing a beautifully manicured finger at you, “What on earth has gotten into you lately? You’ve been loafing around for weeks.” 

“I have not been loafing,” You had definitely been loafing. “I’ve just been feeling… a little uninspired with life lately, I suppose.” 

“That break up really got to you, eh?” Keely inquires, a sympathetic smile on her face. You shake your head. 

“No, it’s not that.” You pause, looking down at your drink. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s not like we were together long or anything, but now I’m just in such a funk and I can’t get out of it.” 

Rebecca nods, “I totally understand. But that guy was a twat, and you, my dear, are a bad bitch.” She turns to Keely with a sly grin. “Keely, do you know the best way to get out of a funk?”

Your two friends turn to you after sharing a glance, suspicious gleams in their eyes. Keely wiggles her eyebrows as she declares, “The best way to get out of a funk is to have absolutely mind-blowing sex!” 

You snicker. “Eh, I think I’m going to take a break from dating for a little bit.” 

Rebecca laughs, grabbing your hand from across the table. “My dear, you don’t need to be dating to have mind-blowing sex.” 

You roll your eyes, standing from the table and out of Rebecca’s grasp. “I know, I know. I’m going to get another drink, I need a break from you filthy lot.” You chuckle to yourself as they gasp, but escape to the bar before they can argue with you. 

With a fresh drink in hand, you glanced around the restaurant. The entire team and their friends were scattered throughout the restaurant, the sounds of laughter filling the area. Your brother sat in a booth adjacent to you, and when you met eyes with him, he raised his glass to you with a smile (well, as much of a smile as Roy Kent can give). You raise your glass back before taking a large swig of your drink. Turning, your gaze fell on a table off in the corner, with a miserable looking Jamie Tartt sitting by himself. 

You sauntered over. If anything could make you feel better, giving Jamie some shit would certainly do it. When you sit beside him, he barely looks up from his plate, too busy scooting around a piece of meat with his fork. 

“It’s not polite to play with your food.” You tease. 

He pauses before dropping his fork with a loud clatter against the plate. “Piss off.”

You reach over to poke at his grumpy face and he swats you away. You frown. “Didn’t you guys just win? Shouldn’t you be happy?” 

Jamie shakes his head, leaning back into his chair with an exasperated sigh. His eyes narrowed, looking past you. “Not much to be happy about right now, eh? I ain’t done nothin’ to help ‘em win.” 

You followed his gaze and your mouth made an ‘o’ when you saw the target of Jamie’s glares. Zava, Richmond’s new star player, had undeniably been stealing Jamie’s thunder since he joined the team and was largely responsible for Richmond’s uptick in victories. You know Jamie was jealous of this, you’d heard your brother mention it here and there, but you had no idea it was getting to Jamie this badly.  

You turned to face Jamie, still slumped in his seat. On a normal day, you would have helped dig him deeper into this hole with a snide comment or two about how much better Zava was than him, but as you watched him sit there looking so sad, so pathetic, so absolutely miserable, your best friend's words rang in your ears. Just give him a chance. 

You took another big sip of your drink. Liquid courage. You sigh. “You’re a great footballer, Jamie. I think you can be better than him. And besides, he’s a moron.”

His eyes softened, staring at you in disbelief. Maybe the alcohol was tricking your brain, but you could have sworn there was a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. He started to grin, “Wow, two Kent siblings nice to me in one night? ‘M I being punked right now?” 

You reach over and hit his shoulder. It wasn’t hard by any means, but he still rubs at the spot with a feigned hurt. “What did Roy say?” 

“He offered to train me.” He sits a little straighter in his chair. You could tell he was trying to hide his smile.

You gasp, “Is hell freezing over?” 

He lets out a laugh, probably the first genuine laugh he’s had all day. It makes you smile. “That’s what I’m saying!” He exclaims. 

The two of you stay like that for a while. Off at the corner table in what felt like your own little world, joking about your sour puss of a brother, or how much of a self-righteous twat Zava is. You felt a pang in your chest as you began to realize that Keely was right, maybe Jamie really has changed. For the better. And you were just constantly tearing him down, never giving him a real chance to show you he was different now. 

Jamie noticed your face falter, his eyebrows scrunching in concern. “You okay? You look like someone just pissed in ‘ya wheaties all ‘a sudden.”

You shake your head, taking the final sip of your drink and setting the glass down. “No, no. I just.. I think I'm gonna head home. I’m pretty tired.” 

“Do you like ice cream?” 

His question catches you off guard and you think it must be the beginning of a bad joke or something. You search his face, but when you don’t see any signs of humour, you realize he’s serious. 

“I love ice cream.” 

“Me too, and your cunt of a brother says my diet starts tonight but what he doesn’t know won’t kill ‘em, right? ‘Cuz I am absolutely craving ice cream right now.” He’s still looking at you intently. You feel like it’s starting to get too hot in the restaurant. 

You nod. 

“So what I'm thinkin’ is we go grab some ice cream at that shop around the corner and then I can walk you home.” 

He says it so matter of fact, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. Like the two of you have been friends all along. You smile, “You don’t have to walk me home.”

Jamie waves you off. “Nah, it’s on me way so there’s no reason for me not to.” 

“How do you know where I live?”  

He laughs. “Don’t act all panicked or nothin’, I just remember havin’ to pick up Keely from your place one time, is all.”

Your eyes narrow. “Sure, Jamie. But if you’re gonna murder me, the least you can do is buy my ice cream first.” 

He stands, looking down at you. “I was already planning on doin’ that, love.”

You ignore the way that pet name makes you feel, the way it spreads heat all through your body. The champagne was definitely getting to you. You stand too, tilting your head up at him with a sly smile. “Oh, you’re pannin’ on murdering me?” 

He shoves at you playfully and you shove back. “Meet me out front. I gotta go say bye to Sam.” He says.

You nod, going your separate ways in the restaurant. You walk up to Roy and give him a hug, telling him no, you don’t need him to walk you home and yes, you will let him know when you get home safe. After quick hugs and kisses with Keely and Rebecca, you were standing outside Ola’s and beginning to feel incredibly stupid as you waited for Jamie. 

Were you really about to go get ice cream with Jamie fucking Tartt? Were you trying to pretend you were suddenly best of friends or some shit, when just this morning you despised him? Looking around, you wondered how bad it would be to just start walking home without him. 

“‘M so fuckin’ excited for some ice cream.” 

He shoots you a wide grin as he walks out of the restaurant, starting off towards the ice cream shop. When he realizes you aren’t walking with him, he spins on his heel, lips pursed. “You comin’?” 

You shake yourself from your thoughts, moving fast to catch up with him. “Y-yeah, I’m comin!” 

As he said he would, Jamie pays for your ice cream. He gets two scoops of rocky road, his favorite he says, and he calls you “diabolical” when you pick mint chocolate chip. You walk in step with him towards your apartment, enjoying your dessert and to your surprise, the company. It was amazing how well you got on with Jamie when you weren’t busy pissing eachother off. The whole thing still gave you a nasty feeling in the pit of your stomach and you knew you had to apologize for your shitty behavior. 

After a while, your conversation enters a lull but you feel comfortable in the silence, happily eating away at your ice cream. He draws your attention back with the clearing of his throat, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Er, can I ask you somethin’?” He asks. 

“Sure, what’s up?” 

You can tell whatever he’s about to ask, he’s thinking of the best way to say it, chewing on the inside of his lip for a moment. “What’s had ‘ya feelin’ so down lately?”

It catches you off guard and it must have shown on your face. He continues, “Oh, c’mon. Everyone has been noticin’ how down in the dumps ‘ye are.” 

You sigh and take a bite of ice cream. “I suppose I just haven’t been feeling like myself these days. It’s just a funk, I’ll get out of it.” 

“It’s ‘cuz of your break-up, yeah?” 

You snap your head towards him. “How do you know about that?”

Jamie scratches the back of his head sheepishly, “I overheard Roy and Keely talkin’ about it the other day - about how he was an asshole to ‘ya.” 

You couldn’t disagree. Your ex might be the biggest asshole you know, and that’s saying a lot coming from someone related to Roy Kent. Nodding, you say, “He was an asshole.” 

He hums in agreement, not pressing you any further, taking another bite of his dessert. The two of you are silent again until you finally speak up. “I guess, yeah, I have been a bit sad lately.” You stop walking, gathering your thoughts and he stops too, turning to face you. “I’m not so much sad that we broke up because everyone’s right, he was an asshole, but he was so good at making me feel like shit and now I don’t know how…” you pause. “I don’t know how to not feel like shit anymore. And that makes me sad.” 

Finally getting that off your chest feels nice, and your amazed at how much better you feel just telling someone, anyone, even Jamie fucking Tartt. His gaze is soft and you can tell he feels bad for you. You look away. You can feel your body folding in on itself, arms crossing your chest. 

“You know, someone told me once that the only thing worse than being sad is being sad and alone.” Jamie says, and you peel your eyes off your shoes to look back up at him. “And I guess I just wanna say that ‘ya not alone, ‘ya get what I mean? You have Roy, and Keely, and Rebecca, and uh.. I’m here too.” 

You smile, beginning to walk again. You reach over, giving his shoulder a light push. “You know what, Jamie? You’re not so bad.”

“Oh, why thank you!” He flashes you a big, cheeky grin as he pops you on the nose. “I actually pride meself on being the ‘not so bad’-est.” 

When you reach your front door, you turn to face him, swallowing hard as you go over the apology you had been writing in your head the whole walk home. He beats you to speak though, nervously scratching the back of his head. 

“Listen, I, uh, I wanted to say I’m sorry for being such a prick to ‘ya. I’ve been trying so hard to be a better person lately but I dug meself in such a deep hole with you that I didn’t know what to even do, so I just kept bein’ an asshole and it was shitty and you don’t deserve that and-” 

“Jamie,” you try to interrupt him but he doesn’t let you, continuing his rambles.

“And I didn’t mean what I said this mornin’ neither. You’re not naggy or a know-it-all. You’re smart and good at your job and-” 

“Jamie,” you say again, louder. You step closer to get his attention, grabbing him by the sleeve on his wrist. You can smell his cologne, cedarwood and citrus. “I’m sorry, too. I’m always a dick to you, I never even gave you a chance to show me you’ve changed. And you have, by the way. You’ve changed.” 

His eyes soften. You can see on his face he’s relieved, happy that you’ve acknowledged how hard he’s worked to be a different person, a better person. He speaks quietly, just barely above a whisper and you wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he wasn’t so close to you right now. “Thank you.” 

The two of you stay like that for a moment too long, eyes boring into each other. You’ve always known he was handsome, but right now on your doorstep, the moonlight shining on him, he was breathtaking. You hadn’t realized he took a step closer until you could feel his breath on your face, the smell of his cologne becoming even stronger. You watched his gaze go to your lips for a split second before looking back into your eyes and you knew right then you were fucked. 

In an instant, you close the gap between you two. He wastes no time kissing you back, his hands grabbing your waist, yours wrapping around his neck. The kiss doesn’t last nearly as long as it should, and you don’t miss the small noise he makes when you pull away, your hands pushing gently on his chest. “I’m-i’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” 

Jamie cups your face, forcing you to look up at him. “No more apologies, yeah?.” 

And his lips were on yours once again. This time your hands were scrambling all over each other, desperate to touch as much as you can. His hands are everywhere, the nape of your neck, your hips, sliding down to cup your ass through the fabric of your dress. When you gasp, his tongue enters your mouth and you’re overwhelmed by the taste of him, the smell of him, the feeling of him. 

Jamie feels like shit which is weird, because he doesn’t usually feel this way after hookups. He can tell you don’t notice because you just plop down on the locker room bench next to him and ask, “Did ya call your mum yet?” while grinning far too brightly. 

Jamie is going to throw up. You’re smiling at him and he’s going to throw up so he gets up and rushes out of the room without a word. He pretends that he left so fast that he didn’t see your grin fade. 

He’s headed to the pitch because that’s where he’s supposed to be anyway, but all he can think about is the fact that it should have been you in his bed last night. After all, it was your name that had been on the tip of his tongue all night. It was your face he kept thinking of, and your body he was imagining. 

The girl had left satisfied, knowing exactly what she had signed up for, but he still feels like he used her. It’s not her fault that he’s in love with you but took her home, and yet it feels bad anyway. He wonders why no one ever talks about the shitty side of one-night stands. He has a vague recollection of Roy saying something to that effect one time, but other than that, he’s in completely unfamiliar territory.

He throws himself into training with more vigor than usual, purposely running himself ragged. 

Meanwhile, you’re still on the bench looking stupefied. Isaac slides next to you in the spot Jamie vacated. 

He says, “You should probably check on him,” with his usual solemn gravitas so you nod and decide to do just that.

—

You don’t have time check on Jamie until after training. Ted has you running all around Nelson Road so you just barely catch Jamie in the parking lot. 

“Hey!” you call. “You alright?”

Jamie spins around, icon hat atop damp hair. “Yeah, sure, good, yeah!” he says, and now you’re absolutely positive that something’s wrong. You raise an eyebrow. 

“That totally sounds like something a completely alright person would say, but for some reason I don’t believe you. Is something wrong with your mum? Is that why you got all weird when I asked?”

“What?” Jamie says. “Oh. No. She’s good, yeah. She’s good. I did call her. Talked for a while, which was nice. Talked about this girl I like, actually.” 

The words are barely out of his mouth when Jamie wishes he could sink into the ground. Fuck his stupid rambling. 

“Oh?” you say, eyebrow still quirked. “That’s new.”

Jamie shrugs. “Yeah, it is,” he says and then his mouth betrays him once again as he continues, “I’m actually really nervous about talking to her.”

You laugh. That is utterly ridiculous, and you tell him so. “You’re Jamie fucking Tartt, Premier League footballer. People throw themselves at you every day and you eat all that attention up. Why is she so different? Hold on, are you blushing?” 

You laugh. He totally is, but he denies it. 

“Look,” he says. “She ain’t like a lot of people. She’s fucking…smart or some shit. Not that other people aren’t!” he continues, “But she’s just… different, like. She’s one of fucking… four people who are immune to my natural sexy glow.” 

The way Jamie says the word sexy is always interesting because he never used it comedically. It’s always inserted in some serious declaration of himself, as if that and football are the only points of value he believes he has. You wrinkle your nose. “How is that possible? No one is immune. Except maybe Roy. I heard he got his anti-Tartt vaccine boosted last week. Maybe it worked a little too well,” you say worriedly. 

“I dunno,” Jamie says. “She said she’s looking for someone smart and I don’t really think I fall in that category. All brawn on me, innit?”

He quirks a smile to mask this strange discomfort he has. You’re not used to seeing him anything less than confident. 

“Well Jaim,” you say after a beat, “as someone who is also looking for someone ‘smart,’ it really isn’t about IQ. It’s like… it’s like someone who actually talks to you and has interesting things to say. And is interested in learning, not just from me but from whoever and whatever. And someone who doesn’t talk down. Because, god,” you laugh, “I’ve been on so many dates that are just exhausting because all these smart people want to flex their knowledge instead of sharing it. It’s like a fucked-up power struggle. I never feel that way with you, y’know?”

Jamie tilts his head in a cocky go on type of way. 

There he is. 

You roll your eyes. “What I mean is, you actually listen to what I say and ask questions, and aren’t rude when I don’t understand something that comes easy to you. My corner kicks are getting better, by the way,” you interject. “Sunday evening practice is paying off.” Jamie comes over every Sunday evening to kick a ball around with you on the Richmond Green.

“Of course they are,” he grins. “Learning from the best, aren’t you?” You flip his hat off his head and catch it, returning his smile. 

“Just ask her out, Jaim. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And,” you add, “bring her round! Not enough footballer girlfriends around here.”

Jamie looks at you a moment, taking in the picture of you in Nelson Road’s parking lot, his cap on you head and a smile on your face that he made. 

“Right,” he says, then turns to walk to his car. He’s at the door when he turns and walks back. 

“Forgot something,” he says to your bemused expression. You point to his hat still on your head. 

“Nope,” he shakes his head. “That ain’t it. It’s you. You’re the girl. I talked to me mum about you because I think you’re fucking great. If I’m not your type, that’s alright, but fuck it, I just really fucking like you.”

He takes a step closer. “I’m going to kiss you, so now’s your chance to walk away.”

You don’t. 

You let him flip the icon hat backwards and cup your face in his hands, far more gently than you thought him capable of as he tips your head up to his. 

His lips are soft on yours, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact that Trent Crimm is walking by you, shooting furtive looks your way but you don’t care. 

“I think you’re fucking great too,” you reply when you finally come up for air. 

Jamie grins. “Wanna go on a proper date tonight? Been thinking about where I’d take you for ages. I can pick you up in an hour thirty.”

You smile.