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pazzispizookies · 3 days ago

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Pairing: Paige x Azzi

Paige could’ve guessed a few people that could walk onto her team but Azzi fucking Fudd was not one of them.

I mean she was from the DMV why would she be in Minnesota? At Hopkins?

She was viral to say the least, videos of her shifty skills and her perfect copy of Steph curry’s shooting form were everywhere. She had tons of awards and championships and was on multiple USA teams at the age of 16. Not to mention she had dabbled in some modeling for Nike and other sports brands, which Paige may or may not have looked at the photos a few (hundred) times.

But the worst thing about it was that her worries were right, Azzi Fudd was a threat, she was a star, maybe even bigger than Paige.

The crowd was still roaring as Azzi walked in, she placed one foot in front of the other smoothly, she looked pretty smooth too; she had her full, long curly hair down-the front braided back, with a small touch of makeup on. She shined in the elertic blue color of the uniform, a perfect contrast against her tan skin.

She was effortlessly beautiful, her smile would make anyone fall in love and propose on the spot.

As she neared the group of baksetball players- her soon to be teammates, her eyes fell on one person in particular.

Paige Beuckers.

She had known about Paige, She was everywhere.

Gatorade’s Athlete of the year, overtime’s star player, viral highlights of her shooting and passing skills.

She was going to be fun to play with, great to play with.

But the look on her face told another story.

It was filled with something cold, unlike the rest of the teams eyes all filled with joy and recognition, they weren’t inviting, even if they were pretty.

Azzi finally took her place in line, she was on the oppisite side of Paige, but she couldn’t figure out why Page wasn’t excited. They were both guards yes, but that didn’t mean they had to fight? They had some plays where two guards were on the court, its not like Azzi being there would cut back on her playing time.

her new coach came to stand next to he whispering something under his breath, “Seems like the people already know you, huh?”

Azzi chuckled lightly as she looked around at the screaming fans, well I guess not fans, but her classmates.

She wasn’t a stranger to people fawning over her, but she didn’t let it get to her. Her parents reminded her everyday that if she’s not a good person, her skills won’t matter in the end.

And that was something she listened too, she was humble and proud of that.

But that didn’t mean sometimes seeing people go crazy over you didn’t feel insanely good.

***

The pep rally continued, starting with men’s soccer and going on women’s. The crowd was still excited but it was clear they cared most about basketball. No one was a national star on the other teams.

But as the football team came to an end, after what felt like 40 years, the crowd started to die out.

There was only 10 minutes of school left so teachers and staff were packing it up, the girls stood there, only now Azzi realized all of them were taking in a huddle, without her.

It stung but it was going to happen, she was new and-

“Azzi? Come over here!” A voice called out from the huddle waving her over.

Relived but still weary Azzi walked over, she always carried herself with confidence even though 90% of the time it was fake.

She walked up to the girls with a smile, “Hi guys, I’m Azzi, its nice to meet you all”

“Girl….we know. I think everyone in the state knows. No wait, everyone who’s heard of basketball knows.” A tall tanned girl said,

Azzi bushed slightly, still keeping her confidence, “Yeah, I guess, but I didn’t have time to go over the roaster…. So I still don’t know most of you..” She trailed off looking around at the girls,

“Oh girl-I gotchu, “ a girl, she’s pretty sure is named Kk says coming up and holding her shoulder, she starts pointing at teammates naming them and giving a silly side fact about them.

Azzi takes it seriously to focus and learn all her teammates, she’s good at reading people so she can almost immediately tell who is a possible friend on the team and whose gonna take some warming up too.

But then Kk points at the very last person, Paige;

“And this is well, I’m sure you know”

“Paige Beuckers, sophomore right?” Azzi cuts in making eye contact with Paige,

Paige wasn’t like anyone on the team, she glowed with confidence, so much so that it almost seemed cocky. But the way she played wasn’t selfish at all, she had the top number of assits every game, so maybe she just didn’t the same mindset as her.

“Yeah, nice to meet you or whatever.” Paige said crossing her arms around her chest,

Well that was rude.

“Paige, stop it right now.” A girl Azzi had learned was named Nika said, she had a heavy accent and only came to the states a year ago, but apparently she was close to Paige by the was the blonde immediately listened.

“Sooooo um anyways girl boo, are you any good? We got practice after this so I guess we finally find out right!” Kk said in a way that made her whole team forget about Paiges comment and focus back on Azzi,

Hopeful that the conversation was changing she turned around to reply when she felt a tap on her shoulder,

“Umm Azzi? Sorry this is weird but we’re such big fans! We watch your highlights with Steph like at least 20 times a day, do you think we could get a picture?” A girl said, speaking for the other 2 along with herself.

This wasn’t uncommon; getting asked for a picture with fans. But she didn’t think it would happen at her school.

Despite this she didn’t wanna be rude, “Yeah sure!”

Azzi leaned in and flashed her dimpled smile, and the girls looked back up and said there thanks as they left,

But as this was happpenig she had heard a scoff from behind her, one she knew could only belong to a certain person on the team,

She turned back around to Kk, “sorry what were you saying?” Azzi asked trying to focus back into the conversation,

As Kk was going to speak again another voice; Nikas, came through from the other side of the group.

“Paige stop it! She was being nice,”

“I just didn’t know she was that famous” Paige sneered, eyeing Azzi to make sure she heard it.

Azzi just pushed down her wave of sadness at this comment, she knew Paige had some anger issues from a few of her viral videos, but this was more, she didn’t even know Azzi and already hated her,

“Just ignore her, she’s cool I promise just yknow, territorial.” Ice said blocking Paige from Azzis view,

“Uh yeah, I get it. Maybe she’ll warm up to me later,” She replied smiling once again no matter how bad she wanted to run away and call her mom,

“Your like…..really nice for yknow-a person like you.” Caroline said looking at Azzi.

“What do you mean?”

“Yknow….like your the number one recruit in your class, just thought you’d be more, ‘im a star!’ But your not, your really sweet from the looks of it,” the tall burnette added sincerely,

Azzis heart skipped a beat at the compliment, feeling like maybe she was going to make some friends on the team,

“Thank you, that’s really kind of you to say.” She said giving a warm smile from her heart.

“See that’s what I mean!! She’s like a freaking princess.” Caroline said gesturing towards Azzi,

“Ohhh your right, Wait!! We should totally call her that! ‘Azzi Fudd; the princess!’” Kk said bouncing yet again, it seemed to be something she did quite often.

“Noooo ‘The People’s Princess!” Yknow cuz the people clearly love her!” Jana interrupted,

The other girls all agreed, making her heart swell,

She felt in place, she felt loved by these girls she had only known for a few minutes.

***

Paige had enough of Azzi already, she didn’t know why she hated her but she just did.

And when people came up to her asking for a picture, she could feel her blood boil. It was so stupid! She was just a basketball player, yeah maybe a good one… but she wasn’t Lebron James.

“Paige…” Nika warned knowlingly,

Nika always knew how to get to Paige, and even though the blonde knew she was being unreasonable, she was too mad to fix it.

“still just annoying, I mean shes a freshman! We haven’t even seen her play yet, what if she sucks.”

“Paige. She’s the Azzi Fudd, you know damn well that girl is going pro.” Nika scoffed.

she was right, and Paige hated it. Azzi was going to be good. But Paige was also good, great even. She didn’t have to worry.

“We’ll see at practice.” She said before turning away walking into the parking lot.

***

Paige sat in her car, she had a good 15 mintues before practice started to be by herself.

She closed the door and plugged in her phone to the aux. Sounds of Frank Ocean’s voice filled the car.

She let out a breath and closed her eyes, but her peace was interrupted by a the sound of a car door opening next to her.

She looks over and saw a jeep, looked like it just came from the dealers. It was black and sleek and expensive.

But she had never seen this car before, and the reason became clear once the door opened again,

Out walked Azzi, her hair now pulled up and her jersey traded for a pair of Nike shorts and a team USA shirt.

Of course Azzi had a perfect car, Paige let out a groan.

A little too loud apparently, because Azzi glanced up at her car. She caught a glimpse of Paige before awkwardly walking away.

“Oh my god kill me” Paige said throwing her head in her hands, embarrassed of being caught starring,

But cmon, Azzi just turned 16 like a week ago, which Paige hated that she knew. And she already had a great new car. She just seemed to have every fucking thing. Talent, fame, scholarships, looks. She was the worst.

Paiges alarm ringed telling her to go back into the gym, she threw off her jersey top, leaving her dark blue Nike compression shirt on and her uniform shorts, she really didn’t care to change, she just wanted this practice over with.

She started to stroll into the gym and sat down on the bleachers to put her shoes on.

“You better now? Azzi’s hitting it off with the team, you should really go talk to her.” Nika said sliding next her, putting her shoes on as well.

“I’d rather not, I come here to practice, not socialize.” Paige said tying her laces a little tighter then normal.

She stood up and walked over to get a ball for some shots before practice started,

“Hey Paige, can you hand me a ball?” a sweet voice said from behind her, one that could only belong to azzi,

Rolling her eyes Paige tossed a ball rough at her, not making eye contact,

“Um thanks,” She said walking away,

Paige let herself watch Azzi walk away for some reason, but she caught a glimpse of something that made her mad all over again.

Azzi was wearing team issued UConn Kobe’s, the ones you find on the players, they probably were only gifted to the players by the coaches.

Paige should have those shoes on, not her.

“your starring bueckers.” Caroline said appearing next to her,

Paige felt a slight blush creep up her neck, “I am not!”

“Mhm sure, just don’t be too much a bitch, the rest of the team wants her here.” She said picking up a ball and dribbling away.

It seemed like everyone loves stupid Fudd already. Great.

“ladies, ladies, Huddle up!” Their coach shouted blowing the whistle.

The girls all pulled towards her, balls in hand.

“So today as we all know is the first day of practice. You’ve all made the team, but that doesn’t mean we have our starters yet, play hard and play like you want to be here. Hit the line!”

The girls all groaned at the last few words, jogging over to the line.

“All right girls! We’re gonna start out with some running, I know you a want to play some basketball, but for now we wanna see whos in shape and ready to be apart of the starting 5. You’ll be running back and forth at the whistle in pairs, the last pair standing…well let’s just say they don’t have to worry about fighting for a spot in the 5. You all want this bad, so give it your all. if your partner falls behind; stay with them. Teamwork wins games. Let’s get started!”

Paige put her hands on her hips, she was ready for this. she was an all around athlete.

she ran almost everyday in the summer, she had worked her ass off with full court layups and sucideds.

But she wasn’t worried about herself, what if she got paired with some kid who couldn’t run half a mile?

She knew teamwork was important, but sometimes it held her back.

Her coach started pairing people up from the varsity roster, kk and ice, Caroline and Aubrey, Jana and Kaitlyn, Sarah and Morgan, and Nika with Allie,

Paige was too busy laughing at Nika getting paired up with the freshman who looked scared shitless to realize who there was left,

her coaches voice rang through, “Paige and Azzi!” Before moving on to the jv girls.

……..Really?

She had to get paired with the one person she didn’t even want to look at?

Azzi started to walk towards her and then she caught Paige off guard by speaking. “listen I know you hate me for no reason, i’m not stupid. But I want to be here, and i’m not gonna let you bitch me out. So can you please suck it up and work with me?”

Paiges breath caught, she was expecting Azzi to just be kind of a pushover, but I guess not.

“I’m not being bitchy, just making sure your good enough for my team Princess”

“Oh i’m good enough, and you know that Bueckers.”

Maybe Paige had read her wrong, but that wasn’t even the worst thing.

Now that she looked at Azzi right next to her, she was fucking beautiful.

She was nothing like the girls Paige had dated, and there had been a lot. She kinda had a reputation at the school, but that was expected with her fame.

But Azzi was tall, athletic, toned and tanned. She had her hair up in a messy bun with strands of curls falling out of it, and her smile could kill an army.

Maybe Paige should have some fun.

Azzi seemed to be straight, thinking back; there was a few rumors about her and this one D1 commit dating when they did a shoot for Adidas.

Paige had looked at that shoot a little less then the ones Azzi did before, she didn’t know why.

But with this, she pushed those thoughts down, she still had to prove she was better than this stupid, perfect person.

��All right girls, link arms with your partner and get ready!” Their coach shouted, clipboard and stop-watch in hand.

Paige was ready, she was prepared to run a freaking mile in the gym, and Azzi was locked in.

She knew Paige was intimated by her, it was kind of cute. But that doesn’t mean she gets to be bitchy, Azzi earned her spot here, hell—she was offered by IMG academy, she belonged anywhere basketball was.

so she knew she had to give it her all. she eyed Paige and stepped closer,

Fuck she smells good.

But whatever, she was still a bitch for no reason, no mater how intoxicating her presence was.

“I don’t bite, what are you waiting for Paige?” Azzi said holding her arm out,

“Really you don’t? I’m surprised. But I guess that wouldn’t be very princess like huh?”

“Shut up, I didn’t chose that nickname,” She didn’t, but she didn’t mind Paige saying it.

Paige scoffs and took Azzis arm into her own, linked by the elbows.

“This too close for you? Maybe I might bite Bueckers,” Azzi teased, her voice droppping slightly and meeting Paiges eyes,

“nah, just don’t fall in love with me, I know its a lot to handle being this close.” Paige said back, her eye contact unwavering.

There was an unspoken energy flowing between them, like they had just started a battle.

Azzi wasn’t used to teasing, but something about Paige made her want to push her buttons, but Paige did it right back.

The teasing was charged though, something else happening deep down,

A whistle blew hard and loud, “All right ladies, let’s see what you got!”

All the girls linked in pairs stepped up to the line, all ready to run. No one was going to back down, everyone had fought for there spots during tryouts, the group going from 80 girls down to just 2 teams of 12.

The whistle blew.

The girls jogged to the other side of the court, easy. They waited for the next whistle which came a second later,

The jogged back down, the whistle came again. A little faster this time, they ran once again.

“How about we speed it up?” Paige asked to Azzi, arms still linked,

Azzi scoffed, “Are you stupid, why would we burn energy?”

“what? You cant run a little?”

The whistle blew again 4th time down the court,

But this time Azzi took off sprinting, Paige didn’t expect this so she stumbled a little at first before catching up with Azzi who was basically pulling her,

“You could’ve warned me!” Paige said throwing her free hand up.

“I like to surprise, what can I say?” Azzi slid back, flashing her dimpled smile.

Paiges heart skipped a beat at the sight, she was stupidly pretty, and know she started to realize maybe not as sweet she presented.

The whistle blew again, this time Paige took off, fully sprinting as hard as she could, but Azzi expected this, causally keeping up with her,

Because they were sprinting and the other girls were jogging to the lines, they had an extra second to watch and wait for the rest of them to hit the line.

They were on their 6th stretch of the court, which was nothing to the varsity girls, but down the line it seemed that 2 pairs of JV girls had already dropped out, getting some bad stares from the coaches,

Paige nudged Azzi “Hey, looks like there’s only 10 more groups to beat.”

Azzi looked over and huffed, “we’ve run for maybe a total of 60 seconds, how did they make the team?”

The whistle blew for the 7th time,

Paige and Azzi took off sprinting once more,

a little out of breath Paige responded, “i don’t know, but I’m gonna tell you right now; I can do this all day.”

“oh really? Lets see when your the one begging me to stop, once I had to run 100 lines.” Azzi said, not out of breath unlike Paige,

Paige felt some anger creep back in, she had to last longer then stupid Azzi who didn’t even look like she had run one time.

The whistle blew for the 8th time, they sprinted in silence,

After a few seconds it blew again, they sprinted yet again.

“All right girls! I’m glad to see there’s 10 pairs still left, but we’re gonna speed it up. Get ready.” The coach yelled, and blew his whistle again.

Paige glanced at Azzi as their coach talked, silently asking a question which Azzi seemed to understand, because this time they didn’t sprint, they just jogged with the rest of the girls to the line, then the whistle blew again almost immediately.

After the 18th whistle blow, the time in between the lines was getting less and less. 3 more groups had dropped out, leaving one JV pair and Varisty.

Paige was out of breath, it getting a little harder to run, but the worst thing was that Azzi was still fucking fine.

she wasn’t showing any signs of breathlessness, looking as causal as ever.

The whistle blew for the 19th time, they ran to the other end barley touching it before the 20th blow came through, they ran back to the line,

“You okay there Bueckers?” Azzi said glancing over before the next whistle, which came right after she spoke,

Once they hit the other side the blonde responded, “just fine Princess, like I said; all day”

after the 30th whistle, it was hard to breathe, the JV pair had dropped out, lasting longer then anyone expected them to.

But it seemed like Azzi only gained energy with every step, which was the most annoying thing ever.

40th whistle came though. The first Varisty pair dropped out; Sarah and Morgan who sat on the floor panting.

50th whistle, KK and Ice dropped out,

“You hanging in there?” Azzi said, only now starting to pant.

“All day.” Paige responded simply, not even looking at her.

55th whistle, Jana and Kaitlyn.

60th whistle, Allie and Nika.

By the 70th whistle Caroline and Aubrey were barely making it to line in time.

There was only 2 pairs left, the rest of the girls were watching intently along with the coaches, who clearly didn’t expect them to last this long.

Paige was barley breathing, hair ponytail slicked to her neck in sweat,

Azzi on the other hand was still standing straight up, breathing heavily but she was focused, not letting her exhaustion get to her.

82nd whistle. They had run the court 82 times.

Aubrey and Caroline both collapsed onto the floor, barely breathing.

Paige and Azzi looked at each other, both extremely done with running, they had done it.

“all right very good ladies, but Azzi and Paige, separate and stay on the line, the two guards need to see whos gonna start.”

Paige groaned, everything hurt.

Her and Azzi unlinked arms, slick with sweat, Azzi whispered under her breath, “good luck Bueckers, and don’t get distracted.”

distracted? By what?

The whole blew, Azzi jogged with perfect posture down the other side, where Paige met her quickly.

Paige wasn’t gonna just let her win, she’d rather die then loose, especially to Azzi.

The rest of the team was chanting for different girls, taking bets on who would win,

The whistle blew: number 90.

There was a stabbing pain under Paiges chest, she couldn’t think or breathe. Only powered by her competitive nature.

100.

They had run the court 100 times.

Paige whipped her sweat with her shirt, the sheen glinting on her abs,

Azzi looked over just as she doing this, too be honest, Paige was attractive. She wasn’t afraid to admit it. But she was a bitch, but a hot one.

And Azzi was smart, and self aware, knowing she was attractive too, and that Paige sure wasn’t hiding her flirting very well.

With the 110th whistle she decided to push her luck. Seeing if she was right about her suspicions.

she leaning against the wall and pulled her sweat soaked shirt over her head. Leaving her in a sports bra.

a few of the girls clapped at this, Nika loudly whislted.

She had defined abs from the years of hard workouts, she knew they only looked more impressive in the light of the gym while sweat was dripping off them, her messy bun had dropped slightly, and more curls came out framing her face.

Paige looked over, her eyes dragged over her frame, not even hiding it, she mouthed “Not gonna work” before the whistle blew again.

The 115th whistle blew, they had officially run a little over 2 miles straight.

But with the constant changing of directions and the heat from the gym, it felt a lot more like a marathon.

Azzi looked over at Paige, she wasn’t looking like she could last much longer, but she was way too stubborn to give up. Azzi mouthed “you done?”

Paige responded by sprinting down the court at the whistle.

By the 120th whistle Azzi was done, she could barley keep her head up,

Paige was even more done, seemingly running on stubbornness.

As the 130th blew, Azzi legs started giving out, almost at the same time she could see Paige stumble slightly before running again.

Azzi didn’t know why. But she didn’t want to beat Paige.

Hell-one of the reasons she came here was to play with Paige.

So with that, when the 131st whistle blew and Paige didn’t move, Azzi didn’t either, instead she stumbled onto the ground.

Paige collapsed next to her, out of breath and barley alive,

The girls on the beach all burst out in cheers,

“Well I guess its a tie- good job both of you… that was unexpected. Girls on the bench! I expect more, a lot more running will be coming your way, grab a ball and start shooting. Bueckers, Fudd, Just hit the showers, and don’t throw up on anything important.”

Azzi hummed in acknowledgment, Paige just groaned.

After a few more seconds, Paige stood up slowly, wobbling walking towards Azzi extending a hand out.

Azzi looked up confused, but she quickly masked it with a smirk, “A real gentlewomen huh?”

Paige rolled her eyes, “Just shut up and take my hand,”

Azzi reached out and grabbed Paiges hand.

she was forcefully pulled onto her ground catching a glimpse of Paiges toned Biceps flexing, clearly she lifted. A lot.

Paige smirked catching what Azzi was looking at, “You starring at something you like Princess?”

“shut up, don’t flatter yourself, there’s barley anything there, noodle arms,” Azzi responded, a little flustered from getting caught.

“Really hm? What’s this then?” Paige said flexing her arm fully looking down at Azzi with a cocky smile,

Azzi scoffed and pushed past her,

Paige called out as Azzi walked past, “You can feel it if you want!”

Azzi didn’t turn around because if she did, Paige would fully be able to her stupidly big smile.

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gayestsimp · 1 month ago

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DadZawa! (Batdad Aizawa reader)

How it all started.

This will be kinda another series, but ask and request relating to this is completely fine! And some can be apart of the story! No word count, laziness lol

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In this world, eighty percentage of the population had a superpower known as a quirk. Each of these people typically had unique powers, some having the ability to shoot lasers from any part of their bodies, transform into large lizards or a permanent transformation into a being made of rocks. One of those people were (Name). He had a quirk call ‘Erasure’ and as long as he kept his eyes open and on someone, they wouldn’t be able to use their own quirks- well except for mutant type quirks.

When (Name) was four, he met a six year old boy named Bruce Wayne. Both quickly becoming friends and close. Bruce was a kind and friendly person, and he didn’t seem to care about what quirk anyone had, he didn’t even have one. But instead of crying or hating that, he was fine with it- loved it even, always blabbering on how he could be like his mom and dad- neither having quirks- and still do amazing things, such as charities, and work through their company. It made (Name) happy that his best friend wants to do his best to help others even without a quirk.

Though suddenly, two years go by, and Bruce was now eight, and one night, his entire life changes, his parents being shot in front of him in an alleyway- once (Name) was made aware of what happened? Well the young boy bawled his own eyes out. He had met Thomas and Martha Wayne quite a bit in those two years- having his own birthdays with his friends, including Bruce, so the billionaire’s parents alway arrived- and he spent a couple sleepovers in Bruce’s manor- so he grew to see them a second set of parents. His own mother and father took the boy to the Manor, growing concerned for the young male as well, hoping the two best friends can stick together and help one another. They would be greeted by Alfred, all three going inside as (Name) made his way to Bruce’s room, leaving the adults to talk amongst themselves. Then he would finally see Bruce after slowly opening the boy’s door, seeing him weeping, slowly (Name) approached Bruce, looking at the older boy and sitting next to him on his bed, slowly hugging the older boy- causing Bruce to jolt for a second, eyes widening as quickly hugged back- allowing them both to cry at the passing of the Wayne’s Patriarch and Matriarch. (Name) would spend the night with Bruce, both eventually becoming exhausted and falling asleep on the bed.

Over the next couple years, just before Bruce turned fourteen, (Name) would spend a lot more time around the manor, helping his friend out with his grief as best he could, both even training a little- as (Name) planned to enter one of the greatest hero schools. Yuuei, or as as it sounds- U.A. Which was once only in Japan, before the school was transferred to the USA after more quirks started appearing the States than over Japan. The boy only had to wait three years, but he would soon be entering the entrance exam as soon as he could… though he knows the possibility that his quirk and skills may not let him pass the exam- he may have some issues, so he also planned to apply for the General Ed as backup course- he could always use the sports festival to show his talent off and enter the Hero course- if he passes it that is.

And soon enough, Bruce was fourteen and (Name) was twelve- with Bruce planning on leaving and explore the world, to gain as much skill and knowledge as he could, in order to “Protect this city and help it.” As he put it- or how (Name) remembers Bruce saying it- the boy had been practicing with his quirk a lot lately, causing bags to appear under his eyes and a little slower in processing everything with a change to his sleep schedule. But over the next ten years, both boys started to yearn for one another… at first they were confused- they both thought they just missed one another, but than a year passed- and that feeling didn’t disappear, with both eventually concluding that they were in love with one another- or at least crushing on each other. (Name) would often visit and sleep at the manor, helping Alfred and keeping the butler company- as they both awaited for Bruce’s return, and Alfred has even been teaching (Name) all sorts of skill from the butler’s older times in service, such as his combat medic training, hand to hand combat and quite a few other important skills, even cooking. On the third year that Bruce was gone, (Name) became fifteen and took the exam, both of the hero course entrance exam and than the general education exam. Than he had to wait for his letter of acceptance into either course or a complete rejection. It caused the teen some stress to wait, his parents having to comfort him. Than his letter arrived- and after opening it? He was actually happy. He was accepted for the hero course, just scraping up enough points to be accepted, immediately rushing to his parents to show them, and than calling up Alfred and telling him the news as well.

Than he had his first days in the hero course at U.A and it was fine- (Name) was truly more introverted than most, often preferring the quiet- it didn’t help that he was now constantly tired due to his quirk. But he did make a group of friend. Hizashi Yamada, Nemuri Kayama and Oboro Shirakumo. They were all loud and acted dumb at times- well Hizashi and Oboro mostly- but (Name) loved them all. They were friends and his new extended family in a way… though he won’t admit that.

And after his third year, (Name) finally graduated and was now a full blown hero, becoming the pro hero, Eraser Head- becoming an underground hero, to better use his quirk by keeping it more secretive and deploying the various stealth skills and combat skills that Alfred had taught him. And than, a few more years would pass until (Name) was twenty two, and finally Bruce would return when he was twenty four. Both friends reuniting finally, tears were shed, and spilt all over as the two finally reconnected after ten years. Though those tears weren’t many from either male.

Now they both say in the living room, talking as (Name) was drinking coffee, effectively his lifeline now, but there was an odd tension in the air- the cause of it was their unspoken feelings for one another. Soon enough it would be brought up. Both quickly realising the other felt the same, and so- they started dating. And they would continue to say like that for a while, though two years after they started to date, a vigilante would start appearing on the streets of Gotham, in a bat themed costume, with many people starting to call him ‘Batman’ and (Name) would quickly find out who he was- his boyfriend, Bruce , having eventually telling him- revealing his plans to help Gotham as best he could. They both knew that it would be difficult for a quirkless individual to become a hero, and Bruce didn’t want to go through all of that to just be a hero, and he can’t face any issues for using a quirk… but it was still illegal. But (Name) knowing Bruce and the hood he wants to do, and their relationship… he would have to turn a blind eye… the assistance in the dark would also be helpful. So they both just continued on, with (Name) often helping cover up Bruce’s presence in the area and allow the Bat to escape. Than another year passed, (Name) was now twenty five and Bruce was twenty seven. With the older man taking his boyfriend out on a date to a nice restaurant- something that the underground hero wasn’t entirely fond of, preferring a minimalist lifestyle himself, but still went to since Bruce wanted to treat him tonight, and for a good reason, as around half an hour in, Bruce would end up getting into one knee and asking for (Name) to marry him. (Name) said yes. (Name) had also started to take up a teaching role in U.A, alongside his friends to teach the next generation of Heroes, wanting to ensure they had what it would take, if they could handle life or death situations like himself and Bruce. Than (Name) was twenty seven, and his now husband had returned home with a twelve year old boy- his name was Dick Grayson, leaving (Name) to softly sigh and drink his coffee. “My at home problem child, huh?” Was all he asked before introducing himself to the boy. His son. His problem child.

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discokicks · 2 years ago

Text

BOLT FROM THE BLUE - ROY KENT.

PART ONE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (series playlist!) (AO3!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: with the departure of afc richmond’s wonderkid, the club is desperately on the hunt for a new coach. luckily for them, you’ve just been wrongfully terminated from your position over at west ham. however, with your outlook on the football world tainted and massive hesitation due to your past with a particular member of their coaching staff, you’re less than convinced about the job. but, that same member may just be the one to convince you.

word count & rating: 8.7k, R (too many roy kent 'fucks' to be pg-13)

chapter warnings: whole lotta swearing (it’s a roy kent fic, do i even have to say it?), talk of workplace misconduct, allusions to (no descriptions of) sexual harassment, roy and the reader are long-lost bickering, angsty enemies with a past, reader is a former team usa player and present coach, author is american (sorry </3)

author’s note! hello hello. so happy to have you here. welcome to my first tumblr fic. certainly not my first fic ever, but first fic on here! hooray! for the sake of this fic, we’re going to pretend like the coaching career of the reader is actually possible in the current misogynistic world football climate. it’ll be fun to fantasize. also, this takes place in s3, and reader is earlyish/midish thirties. also also, i know next to nothing about football/soccer and haven’t played since i was 10, but i’m doing my research! hope you enjoy and love u all tons. -mags

PRESENT DAY. (AUGUST 2023)

Your ex-boss's ex-wife is currently standing outside of your apartment and somehow, that’s not the most surprising thing to happen this week.

While yes, of course, seeing Rebecca Welton on your front steps at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning is shocking, the numbness that’s been coursing through your body since Monday takes some of the edge off.

She’s right before you, clutching her purse tightly, dressed in a fitted trench coat and aggressively expensive heels. Everything about her contrasts the four-sizes-too-big sweatshirt you’re sporting with the age-old pajama shorts with embroidered soccer balls that you’ve been rotting away in for the last three days. When your eyes finally meet once more and you see she’s been sizing you up just as you’ve been doing to her, she plasters on a wide, practiced smile.

“Hello,” Rebecca says. Her smile doesn’t falter.

You blink at her. “Hi.”

She motions to your door and you feel your hand tighten on the knob. “May I come in?”

Your lips part in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a moron. “Like, into my house?” you ask, head whipping to look at the current warzone state of your living room.

Rebecca’s smile gets slightly more genuine. “If that’s alright?”

The shock of her standing before you seems to have worn off, because you find yourself shutting the door slightly. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Look, if you’re here to get me to talk to that Independent journalist who’s called me like, three times asking for a perspective on Rupert for his book or whatever, I’m really not interested.” Your frustration is clearly peaking through your typically reserved manner, and frankly, you’re not in any mood to mask it.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Who? Trent?” You nod at Rebecca’s furrowed brows. “Oh God, no. We barely want him writing that thing anyway.”

Well, okay. “Then why—”

Rebecca motions to the door again. “May I?”

You suppose if she’s being so insistent about entering your home, it’s her funeral. You step back to allow her in, and the second she sees your living room, she seems to regret it. When she turns to face you, you can’t help the way your brows shoot up, everything about your demeanor saying I told you so. “The kitchen’s cleaner,” you tell her, nodding in its direction.

“Wonderful,” she says as she follows you through the hall. Her next question is hesitant. “So, is all this—”

“The result of getting fired on Monday?” you finish for her, turning to meet her gaze as you stand at your counter. Her eyes read pity and part of you already wants to kick her out. The other part of you wants to hug her. “Yeah. Things, uh…”

As you trail off, you realize something. That thing in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s empathy. Rebecca, more than anyone, knows Rupert. She knows how much of an asshole he is. She knows how special he can make you feel, only to have the rug ripped out from under you moments later. She knows what it feels like to be wronged by him. She knows.

Through your silence, you think she recognizes the sudden shift in tension as your expression morphs into something less hard, and you allow yourself a moment of vulnerability. “Things haven’t been great over here.”

Any sort of practice in Rebecca’s smile completely fades and is replaced with something more compassionate. “I can only imagine.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. While the initial discomfort has passed, the awkwardness still lingers and you realize that you have literally no idea why she’s in your apartment. “Can I… offer you coffee? Or, uh, tea?” you ask.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Thank you though.”

“You sure?” you try again. “I taught myself how to make an insane shaken espresso during my ACL recovery. Mastered it over the years.”

“Mastered it?”

You shrug. “It was either that or alcoholism. Chose the path less traveled by most washed-up athletes.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch upward. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”

“Great,” you say, turning to your cabinet to grab your bag of coffee beans. Now for the moment of truth. “And while I get that together…” You stand on your tiptoes to reach the bag. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing here.”

For a moment, you think she’s going to feed you some joke or some bullshit answer. You glance over your shoulder to watch her mouth even open to do so. But she suddenly decides against it.

And you drop the bag of coffee beans and have to stabilize yourself against the counter as she says, “I’m here to offer you a job.”

A job? She wants to give you a job at Richmond? She can’t be serious. Out of all the things that floated through your mind when you opened the door, this was the last thing you thought possible. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

It has to be a pity offer. That’s where the pity of it all went. But no one knows about what actually happened, you remind yourself. She just knows you were suddenly let go. Well, then it’s just a revenge offer. Some petty thing to get back at Rupert. As much as you want to think that you’d be on board with that, you had no interest in being some sort of piece in the game.

You’re staring blankly at Rebecca as your mind goes to war, certain that you look like even more of an idiot than you did when you let her in. There’s a small pool of coffee beans sitting on your counter. But you can’t find it in you to care. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

Rebecca suddenly clears her throat. “Is everything alri—”

“Why the fuck do you want to give me a job?” Is what comes out of your mouth, head too far gone to consider a filter. A smirk appears on her face at your words. “Sorry, I just… I don’t get it.”

She looks at you for a moment, taking a solemn pause to evaluate exactly what it is she wants to say. Her eyes flash to your embroidered soccer shorts peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, then to the plethora of sport-themed mugs hanging beneath the cabinets in your kitchen, then to the framed photo you keep on the wall of your team’s 2015 World Cup win.

“Because,” she finally lands on, “when I see that the new, passionate, wildly qualified West Ham coach is suddenly fired less than two months after she begins, seemingly out of nowhere…” It’s her turn to trail off, and she shrugs. “Something tells me it wasn’t just leadership differences.”

You look away from her as she drops the famous press-release line. Discomfort floods your body as you remember Rupert’s smarmy smile when he asked for your badge. “No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

Rebecca nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “Now, I don’t know what happened,” she tells you, “and I don’t expect to know. But as I said, you’re wildly qualified. You were a remarkable talent on the field and more so as a coach. Four Uni championships in a six-year career isn’t just impressive, it’s unheard of.”

You pause your coffee bean cleanup at that. Your brows shoot up and a wry smile crosses your lips. “You know my college coaching stats?”

Rebecca stares at you for a moment. Then, “Not until this week,” she admits quickly, forcing you to bite back a laugh. “But my coaching staff knew. Sang your praises.”

A pit forms in your stomach as you realize exactly who’s a part of that staff. Bull-fucking-shit he sang your praises. You think you’d despise him more if he had.

Attempting to brush off your sudden uneasiness, you try your hand at a joke while measuring out the beans. “Well, two-thirds of them are American, so I guess that makes sense.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Well, Roy Kent doesn’t say much of anything, but you did get a—’” She cuts herself off to make an affirmative-sounding grunt. You’re so thrown off by this that you almost forget to smile at her impression of him. “Which, you know, is about as close to singing as he gets.”

That it is. Because you do know. And that’s Roy code for ‘trying to be normal about this, but dear God, never speak about her to me again.’ You hope the mere mention of your name made him run out of the room. That the idea of you potentially joining the team keeps him up at night.

(The last three days haven’t been good for your dramatics either.)

A sigh escapes your lips and you avert your eyes. There’s an air of embarrassment as you shift uncomfortably. “This is going to be loud, sorry,” you apologize, turning the grinder on. You make a general estimation that this is what your brain would currently sound like if someone decided to listen in. After a moment, the machine turns off, but you don’t turn back to Rebecca. “Would this be a coaching offer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else,” Rebecca responds. Her tone shifts slightly as she looks at you. “Unless there’s—”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s nothing else I’d want.” You shift again. “I just…”

Rebecca watches as you trail off. You still haven’t looked at her, focused solely on your espresso task at hand. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she arrived at your home, but it certainly wasn’t this. Every time she’d seen you, whether it was on the field, blowing past defenders with impossible efficiency, or coaching your college girls in a way that commanded respect despite the seemingly ever-present smile on your face, there’d always been this confidence about you.

An admirable sense of ego. A love and passion for the game that made every young girl want to wear the number 14. A spirit that made everyone look upon you fondly. A pleasure to be around, and an honor to work with.

Rebecca was now staring at what she presumed to be the shell of the woman she’d heard about. A woman distracting herself from the discomfort of this conversation with coffee-making, afraid of her own shadow. And as you spoke, she knew her assumptions were correct.

“Listen,” you manage to get out. You’ve already tamped the grounds and had returned to the big, fancy espresso machine bought for you long ago by a former friend. “I appreciate you coming over here, but…”

“But?” Rebecca questions.

The words feel dry in your mouth and you have to push them out. “I think I’m done with it.”

It’s Rebecca’s turn to blink at you dumbly. “Done with what?” she asks. “With coaching?”

Shame floods your body. “With soccer,” you reply weakly. That look remained on Rebecca’s face. “Football. Whatever. Whatever you want to call it, I’m done with it.” You turn to stable yourself on the countertop once more as the coffee begins to brew. “It’s just— I’ve spent the majority of my life doing this one thing. I’ve done the Olympic gold thing, I’ve won a World Cup, I’ve won college championships, I’ve been…” Your eyes shut, shoulders sagging. “I’ve just been. And I thought I could go a step further. Break a ceiling or whatever. I thought I was ready for it. And then everything I’ve worked for is fucking destroyed by some douchebag, diva athlete who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his—”

You raise your hand to your mouth as if that’ll keep it all in, and you realize you’re shaking. You don’t have to turn around to know how Rebecca’s looking at you. “So, yeah,” you finish lamely. “I’m done. It was ruined for me. And I don’t want to go back.”

Rebecca says nothing for a long while. Taking everything you said in, drawing her conclusions, whatever. You grip the granite countertop and it feels cool beneath your fingers. Your eyes open when you finally hear her respond.

“You’re letting him win,” she tells you, voice soft. Slightly broken. Like she knows the feeling.

When you do turn back to her, Rebecca’s sitting at your breakfast bar with her hands folded together, anger poorly concealed. But it’s not anger at you, it’s just anger.

But then you start to feel angry. “I’m not letting him win,” you insist.

“You are,” she replies. Before you can let your temper get the best of you, she continues. “They’re calling you emotional, you know? They’re saying that the ’leadership problems’ were you just being abrasive. Joking that they should have never let a woman into the league because of the drama. Apparently, women can’t handle AFC-level coaching.”

You swallow. “I know,” you say. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who do you think’s pushing that narrative?” she asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, but you still feel like giving an answer. “Basement-dwelling losers who barely made their intramural leagues?”

It’s then that Rebecca smiles for real. It’s like she’s seen a flash of the woman she’s heard about and she couldn’t be more pleased. She makes a noise of agreement, then continues. “This is what he wants. He wants you to feel like this. He wants you to quit.” Her gaze bores into yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to look away. “If you give it all up, he wins. He beats you and he’s got another name under his belt. He doesn’t deserve your name.” Rebecca’s index finger jabs in your direction. “Don’t allow him to fucking win.”

The passion in her words is what gets you. Your throat clenches as you feel your eyes start to burn, knowing that everything she said had some amount of truth in it. There’s a frustration that rises in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

You were letting him win. He took away your career and then threatened your reputation. He made you take the blame for everything. He allowed this to be ruined for you and played an active part in ensuring it. And here you were, cowering in fear at the notion of this small man.

She’s right, and the espresso has finished brewing.

You know she’s right. Rebecca knows she’s right. So, as you stand in your kitchen, fighting an inward battle that’s got you on the verge of tears, your scared, stupid, frustrated little brain can only think of one more thing to say as you pour the coffee over ice.

“Even if you were right—” you begin, not ready to admit that just yet, “—even if you were, and even if I did want to join Richmond, I refuse to work with Roy Kent.”

This takes Rebecca completely by surprise. She shifts back in her chair, eyes wide despite the drawing of her brows. “R-Roy?” she sputters. “Our Roy Kent?”

The word our tells you that he’s been embraced by the club and isn’t going anywhere. Not that you had expected him to. He’d clearly nested well into the team and had taken his coaching position in stride. Just like you said he would years ago.

“Yeah,” you say shortly. “That one.”

Rebecca’s expression remains the same. ”But he’s… I—” She cuts herself off with a question. “—but why?”

A mirthless grin crosses your lips, head shaking like you don’t have the energy to get into it all. “That’s an answer you should probably hear from him.”

Rebecca looks as though she’s trying to make sense of all of this. You want to wish her luck. Because you’ve been doing the same thing for eight years. “I understand he can be a bit… coarse. And intimidating. And hot-headed. But he really is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” you tell her with the most polite, tight-lipped smile you can muster up. “I know who he was. And I’m not interested in working with him.” The words leave your mouth with a bit more venom than anticipated and guilt floods your body. “But thank you for the offer.”

The Richmond owner continues to stare at you while you shake the coffee, still puzzled, but slowly coming to the realization that she’s not going to change your mind. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

She figures that trying to convince you to do anything would be pointless. Your stubbornness had made you a star on the field and had clearly transferred off of it. She supposed it made sense that you and Roy had apparently butted heads.

So, reading the room, Rebecca nods at you and stands from the stool behind your breakfast bar. “Alright,” she says, a somber, apologetic smile on her face. “Message received. Loud and clear.” You watched as she turned and began to fumble inside her purse, placing a white card on the bar when she’d found it. “But… please. Consider it. The offer’s good for the next couple of days. And I… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that you’d be an asset to our team. I truly mean that.”

There’s a genuine lilt in her voice that makes you believe her. Whether or not this was a pity offer, or if she just want to scoop you up to get back at Rupert, she really did want you with the team. You’re rational enough to know that there’s some merit in that.

“Thank you,” you say again, offering a truer smile this time around. You hold up the espresso. “Now, do you have a milk preference? Because I’ve got them all.”

Rebecca Walton left your apartment with the best fucking shaken espresso she’s ever had in her life and a phone held up to her ear.

“Hi, babes,” greeted the voice on the other line, cheery as ever. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this early. Not that I’m complain—”

Rebecca abruptly cut off her friend’s rambling by saying your name. “How the fuck does she know Roy and why the fuck is he the reason she won’t work for Richmond?”

Uncharacteristically, Keeley Jones went silent. Rebecca heard the static from the other end. And then, very quiet, and wildly serious, Keeley said, “Oh, fuck.”

The words made Rebecca stop in her tracks in the middle of the street. “What?”

“You want her to be the new Richmond coach?” Keeley asked, sounding a whole lot like she just scrambled to sit up in bed.

“I just left her apartment. She rejected the offer and sent me on my way with the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “I want to be bitter about it, but it’s too fucking good.”

“Yeah, got it, she’s a fucking barista on top of being an Ace.” Rebecca wanted to ask about how frantic her best friend is right now, but didn’t get the chance. “Did Roy know you were doing this? Asking her, I mean?”

“He did. I asked him about her,” Rebecca answered. “And he grunted at me. Generally, that’s Roy Kent for ‘go on with it.’”

“Oh, that stupid, fucking self-sabotaging prick,” Keeley muttered. “Of-fucking-course he did. Put yourself in this kind of situation instead of dealing with your emotions like a normal fucking human, good on you, Roy—”

“Keeley.” The rambling stopped once more. “What happened?”

The other line was momentarily silent. Then Keeley sighed, long and heavy. “Well, I don’t know it all,” she began. Her voice was soft. “But I know they knew each other a while back. Like ten years ago, when they were both still playing.” Keeley sighed once more. “But he said he, uh… apparently fucked her over somehow. Didn’t get into it or say what he did, but I think it was pretty bad. And then she got back at him for it and fucked him over. And it… really messed him up. Like, totally broke his heart.”

Rebecca stepped out of the way of someone passing by. “Broke his heart?” she asked, eyes closing at the implication of that. “Were they—”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He wasn’t exactly open about it. Which I thought was weird because he became pretty open about everything else,” Keeley said. “All I know is that whatever it was, it ended ugly. And that they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

Whatever Rebecca had been expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Oh,” she said lightly.

Keeley hummed in uncomfortable agreement. “Maybe I’m reading too far into it,” she continued. “Maybe it wasn’t like that. But, he… never talked about anyone like that. Or, y’know, refused to talk about anyone like that. And you know Roy.” Rebecca said nothing, leaving Keeley to ask the million-dollar question. “Are you sure you want to follow through with this?”

“I want her. She’s the only feasible prospect I’ve liked who hasn’t been a fucking twat so far.” Rebecca’s voice was sure. Final. “And I won’t allow for another woman to be quietly taken down because of Rupert. Especially not if what I think happened actually did happen.”

“Well, then babe,” Keeley said, “I think you might need to have a chat with your coaches.”

Then, as Rebecca stood on the edge of the sidewalk, picturing the look on her coaches’ faces as she prepared to integrate Roy Kent, the gravity of the situation hit her like a freight train. “Oh, fuck.”

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

The entire locker room froze at the voice of Rebecca Walton echoing down the hall, each click of her heels sounding as dangerous as the next. Immediately, all eyes are were on Roy. From Kitman Will to Coach Ted Lasso himself. Not a word was said and Rebecca’s stomping started to sound like a death march.

But when she rounded the corner into the Coaches’ Office with a fire in her eyes that screamed run; that’s when Roy started to sweat.

Immediately, a million things ran through his mind. He wondered if this was about his break-up with Keeley, then realized that she was the one who wanted a break from him, so Rebecca’s got no reason to be mad about that. Had he said something stupid to a reporter? Been photographed poorly? Did something come up in a tabloid from his past? Roy wished he could identify one singular thing he’d done back then in poor taste, but he had a fucking laundry list.

Beard quickly jumped up from his chair to shut the door to the locker room so that the team couldn’t hear whatever was about to unfold in this godforsaken office, and pulled the blinds too. He heard the beginnings of an objection from the boys as they began to race to the window, and sent them all a look before the shade fell.

Rebecca walked further into the office, eyes never leaving Roy’s. If she weren’t so fucking mad, she figured she’d bask in the fact that she was able to make the great, big, scary Roy Kent nervous, but she was currently seeing red. She decided she’d reflect on that later.

“I had a fascinating conversation this morning with a prospective coach,” she finally said, voice eerily calm. “Your name came up. A lot.”

Roy didn’t dare say a word. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Thankfully, Ted chimed in. “Well, Boss, we’ve got a lot of those. Would you mind narrowing down which one you talked to?”

But Roy doesn’t need it to be narrowed down. There’s only one name that’s been floated around that could possibly have garnered this reaction and level of anger. But his stomach sank further as a wild smile crossed Rebecca’s lips.

“Oh, just our Ace Olympic gold-medalist, World Cup-winning, four-time college coaching champion, West-Ham-hating top prospect,” she said, gaze pinning Roy to the wall. “Who apparently has not only been fucked over by Rupert but has also been fucked over by our own Roy Kent.”

All eyes flashed to Roy in surprise. Rebecca hadn’t been lying. Roy hadn’t objected to her name being considered as seriously as it was, and had given absolutely no indication to anyone in the room that there could potentially be conflict with this hire.

“Oh,” Ted said. “Well, that’s a bit of an issue.”

Roy looked at Rebecca evenly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replied, knowing that that was the very issue. “She just said she refused to work with you. Told me to ask you for the details.”

Roy nearly scoffed. God, that was really fucking like you, wasn’t it? Somehow making his life harder without scorching him alive, leaving him to be the one to burn himself down. Because you could if you wanted to. You could burn him to the ground if you chose.

(And you had. But he wasn’t sure what was stopping you from doing it again.)

He eyed Rebecca, knowing his boss and the way she thinks. There was a piece of him that was curious as to whether or not she’d drop the bomb in front of Beard and Lasso. “And what did Keeley tell you?”

That seemed to take his boss by surprise for a moment. But, as she caught on, it was made clear that she had the intention of saving his ass. For now. “Nothing that you didn’t tell her yourself,” Rebecca said. “Which was pretty much nothing.”

That was true too. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told Keeley, but he drew the line at you. Not only would Keeley look at him differently if she knew the truth, but you were just… too hard to talk about. Way too hard for him.

Which is why when Rebecca threw her hands up in question, desperation in her eyes as she asks, “So, what the fuck did you do to our prospective coach?”, Roy had to calm himself for a moment.

Between his rapidly increasing heartbeat and freshly clammy hands, Roy knew he had to figure out a way to not appear one hundred percent, completely freaked out about this. Besides his vague talks with Keeley, he can’t remember the last time he spoke about you. In fact, he’s not sure he’d ever spoken about you. And he certainly wasn’t in any headspace to do it now.

So, Roy being who he was, looked at the expectant expressions of his coaching staff (and Trent fucking Crimm, who he still couldn’t believe had managed to weasel his way into the club) and sighed. He knew he couldn’t be as intentionally vague with his explanation, especially now that the careers of those he knew and respected were in the mix, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“We—” Roy’s voice came out gruff and he cleared his throat with the roll of his eyes. “We knew each other a while back. I met her at the London Olympics. We were… fucking friends. For a while. And then we weren’t.” Roy shrugged, as if that would get rid of the discomfort he felt. He still hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. “I did some shit I’m not proud of. I hurt her and then she fucking hurt me. We haven’t talked since.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how long haven’t you spoken for?”

Exactly? Roy knows exactly how long. He could tell her the exact fucking day. But that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t know,” he chose to answer. He’d never faked indifference well. “Couple of years? Eight, nine?”

Beard pursed his lips in confusion. “And you didn’t think to… mention this conflict of interest?”

He’d taken the words right out of Rebecca’s mouth. “Or tell me there was an issue so I didn’t look like an idiot?”

“There’s no fucking conflict of interest!” Roy shouted. Rebecca’s brows rose dangerously at the tone and volume of his voice, forcing him to take a moment to collect himself. His voice was more even as he said, “I didn’t fucking say anything because I didn’t think it was important because we’re fucking adults and I didn’t want to be the fucking reason she didn’t—”

Roy’s words died in his throat, chest heaving as he forced himself to stop short. He finally looked up, glancing between his colleagues. He tilted his head back as he realized that each of them were trying to figure out whether or not to believe him.

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t said one lie. They just didn��t get it. And he wouldn’t allow them to get it. Not yet, at least.

“Well,” Rebecca said after a beat, “inadvertently or not, you are the reason she’s not joining the team.”

(Those words alone sting Roy in a way he wasn’t prepared for.)

Rebecca wasn’t done. “But I want her, Roy. More than anyone we’ve seen. She’s the best we’ve had a chance with so far. And if I have to go with another coach or one of those pricks we interviewed because of that?” She shook her head as if the idea repulsed her, then pointed squarely at Roy. “Fix this.”

His jaw went slack. “Fix— How the fuck am I supposed to fix it?”

Roy was shocked to find that Ted had his back. “I’m with Roy on this one, boss,” he said hesitantly. Rebecca blinked at him in surprise. “I want her too. I’m all for having this Ace up our sleeve. But this all seems like a lot to be fixed overnight.”

“Send her flowers, send her a singing telegram, get on your fucking hands and knees and beg— I don’t care how you do it! Just try!” Rebecca’s gaze had turned back to Roy, this time a bit more pleading. “Please. Fix it.”

And with that, Rebecca left the office, leaving two coaches and a journalist staring at Roy Kent.

This was the worst day of his life. It had to be. He’d never prepared himself to see you again because he was convinced that there was no probability it would happen. Selfishly, he’d figured that you coaching here wasn’t a true possibility, not because of any sort of lack of skill, but because some other team would scoop you up. But it was happening. This was a reality and Roy was sure he’d died and finally gone to hell.

And now he was expected to fix this? To interact with you? To potentially see and speak to you again? He was going to fucking throw up.

With this settling in, Roy released a deep, shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Fuuuuuck,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from his desk and storming out of the room.

And then there were three. Ted broke the silence with a question directed at Trent. “Y'all have singing telegrams over here?”

Trent nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure they’re just as awful as American ones.”

As Ted hummed in agreement, Beard narrowed his eyes at how his best friend’s attention was back on the open laptop in front of him. “You looking up where to get one?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied, eyes glued to the screen.

Beard got up from his chair. “Move over.”

Roy Kent is standing on your doorstep, and somehow that’s not the most surprising thing to happen to you all week.

However, you are surprised. So much so that the second you see him, a mix of red-hot anger and panic run through your veins, making you instantly slam the door in his face. Tragically, he’s quick enough to slip his foot between the door and the frame, not allowing you to keep him out. You see him grimace through the slit.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That’s a fucking heavy door.”

“Yeah?” you ask, continuing to push on the door like a five-year-old. “Surprised your reflexes were fast enough to pull that one off, Grandpa.” You glance down and do the math. “With your bad leg, too. Impressive.”

You see him wince at the pressure. “If you keep pushing on that door, we’re going to have an actual fucking problem.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” you reply. “Do I get a headstart when you have to pop the knee back in?”

Roy grunts. “I think it’s fair game with that ACL.”

You push harder on the door.

Roy’s had enough. His weird, Superman strength peaks through as he holds out an arm to push back, making you stumble slightly. “Can you fucking… stop?” His voice strains on that last word, finally opening the door enough to free his foot and keep it open. You know him well enough to know that trying to push back is useless. However, as you hide yourself behind it, your hand remains on the door, just in case.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“I frequent the West Ham directory,” he answers dryly. You move to push on the door once more, but he speaks before you can. “I fucking texted Rebecca. She somehow knew.”

While you were also weirded out about how Rebecca knew your address, her presence was much less off putting than the man’s before you. If he’d texted Rebecca about you, that meant you’d been talked about. Which meant that Rebecca had confronted Roy about your conflict. Which meant that he was here to…

The implication of it unnerves you. But still, you ask, “Why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

You scoff. “Well, we talked. I’m good for another ten years.”

It’s then that he says your name. Your actual name. Not your last name, or your number, or the stupid nickname he used to call you. And it’s said so softly. So much more gentle than you ever remember his voice being. It straight-up ambushes you, and the remainder of the grip you have on the door fades.

“Please,” he says in that same way. “Give me five minutes.” You rest your forehead on the door, wanting nothing more than to shut it in his face again and walk away. “Five minutes, and then you can tell me to fuck off.”

You’re not sure what makes you do it. You’re not sure why your resolve suddenly crumbles and you start to consider his words. Maybe it’s because you’re still surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted from this last week. Or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last four hours mulling over Rebecca’s offer and have realized you may actually want this.

Whatever it is, you groan dramatically, say something that sounds a whole lot like fine, fucking fine to Roy, and open your door all the way to really look at him for the first time in eight years.

The sight of you seems to catch him as off guard as he does for you. He looks older, years more mature than the last time you saw him. But it’s not just in the face. His entire presence seems matured. Healed. It’s jarring.

He’s well-groomed, a vast contrast to the guy you met back in 2012, but similar to the man you left in 2015. It’s just more so. Everything about him is… more. More well-polished. More striking. The TV spots you’ve seen don’t do him justice.

(You mentally kick yourself for even thinking that and immediately feel like you need to wash your hands.)

The dark Richmond Coaching shirt he wears nearly blends in with his eyes, but you swear they’ve gotten lighter. However, the intensity of his stare hasn’t changed. And that’s the first thing you notice as you realize he’s been doing the same sort of evaluation to you.

However, that stare stays on the stupid embroidered soccer ball shorts you now really wish you’d changed out of after Rebecca had left. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he says, “I can’t believe you still have those fucking shorts.”

A sudden, overwhelming feeling of… something washes over you and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. Because you don’t know what to say to that, and because you’re not sure you can respond to that in any sort of way, you cross your arms over your chest. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze on him. “Five minutes,” you tell him.

Roy seems to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, any trace of humor disappearing. Instead, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and clears his throat. He’s standing as if he’s about to make a grand speech, and it leads you to believe he’s rehearsed this. You may have laughed at him if you weren’t anticipating whatever the hell was about to come.

So, as Roy opens his mouth, you brace yourself for impact and wait.

And wait.

But nothing seems to come out. He’s stuck there, like he’s frozen in time, as if he’s some sort of animatronic that’s glitching out. You glance around to double-check that the trees on your street are still blowing in the wind.

Your head tilts, and you awkwardly press your lips together. “I think you’ve got four minutes now.”

Roy glares at you. “Can you just fucking—” He cuts himself off, pointing to his G-Wagon that’s parked outside of your apartment. “I spent two fucking hours in that car figuring out how I was going to fucking do this and then another hour outside of your fucking flat trying to work up the nerve to knock on your fucking door, so can you just shut the fuck up?”

Your hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” you say lightly. Then, you mutter, “You just like, gave yourself a time limit and—”

When he grits out your name, you raise your hands higher and shut your mouth.

A good thirty seconds go by before he finally says, “You played for how many years?”

You blink at him. That’s his big opening line? He knows how long you played— “Seven?”

“Yeah, I fucking know you played professionally for seven. How long overall?”

You have to think about it for a moment. “Since I was three,” you answer. “So, twenty-five years.”

“And how long did you coach?”

He knows this too, but you assume he’s doing it to prove a point. “Six,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Six,” he repeats. “That’s over thirty years you’ve devoted your life to football. Three fucking decades. That’s your entire fucking life.”

That same frustration you felt when Rebecca was talking to you this morning rears its ugly head. “What’s your point?”

Roy doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder. “My point is,” he says, “you’ve been in this game for three decades. Why?”

“W-why?” you stammer, staring at him like he’s insane. Nobody’s ever asked you that before. “What do you mean why?”

Roy returns the look. “There’s gotta be a reason you’ve been doing this shit for thirty years. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, shaking your head. “Because I’m good at it? Because it’s literally all that I’m good at? Because it’s all that I’ve ever known? I don’t—”

“No,” he says firmly, and for a moment, as he steps forward, you think he’s going to grab you by the shoulders in the way he used to. To get you out of your head and focus on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Fucking nobody does anything for that long just because they’re good at it. That can’t be the only reason.”

As he stares at you expectantly, you start to understand his train of thought. What he’s trying to get you to admit. What all of this has been about since you first kicked a ball at three years old. What allowed you to sport the number 14 for twenty-five years. Because it’s only ever been about one thing, and he, more than anyone, gets it.

So, as your shoulders slouch and your head bows slightly in an annoyed sort of surrender, he knows he’s got you. Roy fucking Kent, anger-management case study and hothead of the millennium, has got you. And he’s showcasing the type of speech and traits and breakthrough abilities that told you eight years ago that he’d be a fantastic coach. Not that he believed you. Or took it very well, for that matter.

Then, you hear his voice again. And this time, it’s a bit softer. As if there’s a fraction of a smile on his face. “So, why the fuck have you been playing this game for thirty years, you stupid fucking Yank?”

The nostalgia of the name hits you like a bus, and you’re thankful you’re leaning on the doorframe because you truly may have stumbled over. However, there’s no time to dwell on that. You’ve got an answer ready and it takes everything in you not to smile.

A heavy, labored, dramatic sigh escapes you, and you open your eyes to look at him. “Because I love it.”

“Because you fucking love it,” he echoes, and that fraction of a smile you heard in his voice happens to be hidden amongst his perpetual scowl. He takes a step closer to you, pointing at you and tapping on your shoulder. “Don’t you dare let that prick take that away from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look away from him. He’s right. Just like Rebecca, he’s right. You hate that he’s right, but he’s right. It’s been years since you’ve seen him be right, but it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.

You think back to what Rebecca said this morning. Don’t let him win. You didn’t want to. There was actually nothing less that you wanted than to allow him to have that sort of power over you.

But still, the fear lingers. It sits in your stomach and churns it. He said he’d ruin you. Turn the world against you. It’d be your word against the club’s and more importantly, your word against football darling and West Ham star, Tom MacDonald’s.

(“Sure, you can go public with it,” Rupert had told you, basking in the anger written in your expression. “But to be completely honest, love, I’m not sure anyone’s going to believe you.” He shrugged. “Only female coach in the league suddenly crying sexual harassment after she’s been fired? Seems a bit convenient to me, don’t you think?”)

You don’t mean for your voice to be as small as it is when you say, “But what if I’m actually done?”

Vulnerability’s never been something you’ve embraced, especially with your career path, and you hate the way you sound. Weak. Timid. Afraid. As you meet his gaze once again, you realize that you hate the way that Roy’s looking at you even more.

“You’re the furthest thing from done. Done hasn’t ever been a word in your fucking vocabulary,” he tells you. There’s no room for argument. “You wanna know why?” You shrug at him in response, cueing him to continue. “Because unfortunately, I fucking know you. And I know the only time you’d ever be done with this sport is when you’re fucking dead.”

This time, you do allow yourself to smile. It’s small and humorous— a tight-lipped agreement, but it’s enough for Roy to know he’s gotten through. You want to laugh, partly because you know he’s right, partly because you can’t fucking believe that you’re smiling at him, but you’re strong enough to keep that in.

“So, yeah. Don’t let that prick kill you. Don’t let any prick keep you out of this game. Especially coaching.” Roy shakes his head, pausing for a beat, as if he’s making an effort to say, “You’re too… fucking good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Took a lot to get that one out, huh?”

Roy’s quick with a response. “You’re lucky you got it at all.”

You scowl, but there’s not much in it. You’re used to that type of compliment from him. If you can even call it that. Still, the familiarity of it makes you the most uncomfortable you’ve been all day.

However, you’re distracted by one thing. Don’t let any prick keep you out of the game. He’s said it so casually, like he’d actually meant it. As if he had no sense of irony about it. It boils your blood and stirs something ugly in you.

That feeling prompts you to meet his gaze. “What if one of those pricks is right in front of me?”

For the first time all night, his stoic expression falters, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expected you to say. It was only a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.

But you hadn’t missed it. You’d seen the Tin Man facade crumble, even for just a second. You’d seen the hurt in his eyes, the regret. You’d celebrate it if it didn’t make you feel so unexpectedly awful.

He abruptly clears his throat with a solemn nod. “Well,” he says gruffly. ”Then don’t let me take that away either."

You look away from him, because you know that’s all you can do right now. Your mind’s racing a million miles an hour, thinking about him, about Rupert and West Ham and Tom MacDonald, and about the Richmond job. There’s a piece of you that wants to believe that everything that had happened this week was leading to this. To seeing him again, to being offered to work with him, to gain an opportunity for redemption in more ways than one.

But the more logical piece of you knows that’s all bullshit. And it’s that thought that puts you back in a more comfortable headspace.

“You know I can’t forgive you for what you did,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more. The weight of your words is heavy on your shoulders and you lean against your doorframe again. “I won’t forgive you.”

Roy nods stiffly. “I know,” he says. “And I can’t forgive you.”

You return his nod in understanding. “I know.”

His gaze leaves yours for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say next. How to work up the courage to do so.

“But if—” Roy’s voice comes out strained and he clears his throat. “If this is something you want, this coaching thing at Richmond, then I…” He looks at you and all you can see is sincerity. You hate it. “It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues or… fucking whatever.”

He appears to be just as bad at this as he was when you last saw him. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold in your laughter. By the way his face becomes instantaneously annoyed, you can tell he’s noticed.

You’re already talking before he can retract his statement. “How’s the team?”

If he’s offended by you not thanking him for doing the bare fucking minimum, he doesn’t show it, and takes your change in topic in stride. “Good,” he replies. “Pretty fucking good. We’re still trying to figure some shit out when it comes to—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’ve seen you guys play. I know you’re good. I mean—” Your throat suddenly gets tight, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach completely out of nowhere. A shaky breath leaves your lips. “The team. The guys. Are they…?”

Roy catches on. “They’re good lads,” he says, his voice telling you that it’s not a statement, but a fact. “Some of the best I’ve ever played with. Easy to coach too.”

Your brow quirks up. “Easy?”

“If two fucking clowns from Oklahoma and fucking… me are saying they’re easy,” he says, looking at you with intent as he trails off.

That same pit of anxiety bubbles up once more. “And, uh… Jamie Tartt? Is he—?” Roy’s brow furrows. “I’ve just heard some less-than-great things. Him being the star and all. Football darling or whatever. Are they true?”

Your over-explanation of the Richmond striker makes Roy narrow his eyes in suspicion. He opens his mouth to question it, but then realizes it’s you. There had to be some personal reason for you to bring it up. Whatever issue it was, he knew he was no longer personal enough with you to ask.

“He was a prick,” Roy finally settles on. “Now he’s less of a prick.”

The fond look in Roy’s eyes tells you that he’s warmed up to Jamie more than he’s letting on, and it puts you at ease. You nod in acknowledgment. Silence fills the air between you two, neither of you knowing what else to say.

You think about the team you’ve watched quietly on TV, studying up for your rivalry games with them when you were preparing to coach at West Ham. You think about your prospective coaching staff and the vitriol you heard in Nathan Shelley’s voice when you asked him about Ted Lasso. You think about the job and what evidently comes with it.

But most importantly, you think about the potential of this new position and the potential of this new beginning.

And while you’ve got questions, you realize they’re all for yourself. Not for Roy.

You’re out of questions and he’s out of time. Way out of time.

You remember this as you rock back on your heels. “I think you’ve gone over your five minutes.”

Roy looks at you expectantly. “Are you going to tell me to fuck off?”

“You? Absolutely,” you tell him, earning yet another eye roll. “But Richmond?” You pause, trying to ignore just how quietly hopeful he now looks. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Tell Rebecca I’ll consider it.”

Roy releases a relieved, thankful breath, nodding at you. “Good,” he says.

You nod back at him. “Wouldn’t want you to spend another three hours in your car trying to figure out how you’re gonna break the bad news to her.”

That eye roll returns, but there’s a bit of levity in it. He looks at you for a moment longer, biting the inside of his cheek like he's contemplating saying something else. Your brows furrow in interest, and as soon as they do, he seems to decide against it.

Roy turns to go down your steps with a shake of his head. “Get out of those fucking shorts and stop your wallowing, Fourteen,” he throws behind him as he walks away. “And clean your fucking flat!”

Glancing behind you, your jaw drops in outrage as you realize there’s no way in hell he saw your warzone living room from where he was standing. “You can’t even see into my apartment!”

He doesn’t turn around when he says, “I don’t need to see! I just fucking know you.”

You manage to suppress the urge to actually yell at him to fuck off at that, and instead choose to live with the wildly strange and undefinable feeling that overtakes your body, one that doesn’t dissolve until you watch him speed off down your street.

This fucking week, man.

You shut your door and turn to face your living room, a newfound disgust for the vile state that it’s in. Your lips curls up and you sigh, walking into your kitchen to grab a trash bag, making a plan of action for the night as you shake it out.

You replay your first conversation with Roy in eight years as you tidy up your apartment. You make a mental pros and cons list of the Richmond job as you take the longest, most necessary shower of your life. You chuckle to yourself at the idea of Rupert and Tom’s faces if they were to see that you’d been picked up by Richmond.

You sleep well for the first night in three days, on clean sheets, in clean pajamas, embroidered soccer ball shorts joining your dirty laundry.

You’re bounding into your kitchen at nine the next morning to grab Rebecca’s card that you left on your counter, brewing an espresso as you call her.

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