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sogoodtoheritsvicious · 2 years ago

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“i hope this chapter makes you feel uneasy” it DID. i was grinning through almost all of it then she said she wanted roy to read it before she sent it off and all i felt after that was DREAD

Take Care: Chapter Four

Fic Masterpost | AO3 | Chapter List

Warnings: swearing, eventual smut, emotional themes.

A/N: Hello and welcome to HELL. This is your angst warning. Angst is coming very soon. I hope this chapter makes you feel uneasy. Hahahah

Word count: 9k

Chapter Four

During the next week, you started planning. This article was all you could think about, alongside the craziness that was happening at the club. Within his first few days at Richmond, Dani Rojas was injured. It should have been simple, should have been something easily fixed– if the rumours hadn’t started. For some reason, the prospect of a ghost, of a curse, cropped up. Dani said he could feel a presence in the treatment room… something sinister.

While he recovered, the team was on edge. You stayed in your office a lot that week, choosing to stay out of the ghost stories. But, those stories didn’t stop the guys coming to you, either. One afternoon, Isaac and Colin knocked on the door of your office. You sat up at your desk, shooting them a smile.

“Hey, guys. You okay?” you asked.

Both of them looked worried beyond belief. “We just wanted your guidance on something,” Colin said.

“Yeah, bruv. We need to borrow your smarts,” Isaac added.

“My smarts?” you let out, utterly confused.

“What’s the first thing you’d sacrifice if you were on a football team?” Colin burst, and your face dropped. You had no fucking clue what they were talking about, nor did you want any part of it.

“Sorry… what?” you asked.

Isaac leaned on your desk “Like your football boots, or your shirt, or–”

“The keys to your Lambo…” Colin trailed off, zoning out as he looked at the wall behind you. It was oddly unsettling seeing the guys like this. Overly scared, zoning out, getting lost in thought. You didn’t think it was possible for any of them to be like this. Colin snapped his gaze on you quickly, and you flinched. “I’ve got it. Thank you!” he said, before he bound out of your office as fast as he’d arrived.

Isaac stayed where he was, still thinking about his own… sacrifice?

“Isaac, what is this about?” you asked smally.

He didn’t say anything, but instead focused on the pen you held in your hand. You played tennis as you flashed your gaze back and forth between the pen and him, suddenly feeling self conscious of your fucking fingers. Gently, you reached out your other hand to him, and gave him a soft prod on his shoulder.

“Isaac–?”

“I’ve got it,” he cut over you, and you let out a sigh of relief.

“I– okay. Great. Was that… all you needed?” you asked timidly.

Isaac nodded, standing up straight. “We owe you,” he said, and you would have been flattered if you knew what the fuck they were talking about. You hadn’t done anything, other than be deeply concerned about them for the duration of their visit. “See you about, yeah?” Isaac said, making his way to your door before you could even respond fully.

“I– yeah,” you stuttered, but he was already storming down the corridor to the locker room. You leaned back in your chair and let out a huge breath. Everyday at Richmond brought something new, something strange. You were certain these guys would give you a heart attack one day, if they kept up all this shit.

You raked your fingers through your hair softly, trying to reset after the madness of the past few days. It wasn’t that things were too much, or too stacked on your plate, it was mostly from the shock of what came next that got to you. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if you arrived at the club tomorrow to see that everyone had switched places, or that the walls had been painted pink, or that the guys had decided to flood the pitch, purely because they ‘wanted to see what the Dogtrack would be like as a swimming pool’.

Innately, they were almost like toddlers. You’d never been good with kids, never liked children, especially when they screamed and cried and had sticky fingers, but you were confident you’d make an excellent nanny after your year at Richmond. You shut your eyes gently, and breathed through the remainder of your disturbed peace. In through your nose, out through your mouth, and over again.

A knock sounded from the door, and you jumped so hard that you almost fell back in your chair. “Jesus fuck–!” You sat up straight and opened your eyes immediately. Roy strolled into your office, knuckles still raised where he’d knocked on your door. “Oh, God, it’s just you.” You clutched your heart, trying to slow your sudden accelerated breathing.

“Am I really that scary?” he asked.

You scoffed. “No, of course not,” you said, but as his question fully sunk in, you realised that Roy Kent was scary, sometimes. “Actually, yeah. You are a little bit.”

Roy growled in agreement. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“Anyway,” you breathed out. “What’s up?” You leaned forward and smacked your hands together, peering up at where he stood opposite you.

“Just wondering when we were going to get this interview done. The one for your article,” he said. You didn’t notice the subtle way his fists balled together until his knuckles went white.

“Oh, right,” you said. “Well, how about tonight?”

“I can’t tonight. I’ve gotta be here for a fucking cleansing,” Roy explained.

“A cleansing? Is this about the treatment room ghosts?” you asked. Roy nodded, obviously annoyed as fuck about the entire ordeal. “What the fuck is a cleansing, anyway?”

“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” Roy said, you could understand why.

You raised your hands in understanding. “My lips are sealed, sorry. What about tomorrow, then? I just thought we’d go to the pub, or something. It’s not a formal interview, Roy.”

“I can do tomorrow, just not at the fucking pub,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Do I really have to fucking spell out why going to a Richmond pub, as a Richmond player, is a bad fucking idea?” he said.

You winced. “You’re right, I didn’t think of that. Is there somewhere that would work better?”

Roy clenched his jaw. You saw the way the muscles tensed, matching the intense posture he constantly upheld. You were certain that Roy would be able to walk through a concrete wall if he tried. The constant puff-out of his chest, the strength in his stance, the bluntness of his stares. For someone so hard on the outside, both in how he looked and acted, you felt almost special when you thought about all the good that he’d done for you.

Roy Kent was soft around the edges, but he didn’t show it often.

“We could go to my gaff?” he offered, and your heart jolted in your chest.

At work, you often had one on one conversations with Roy, but the prospect of being alone outside of work was something that made your walls erect again. The same ones that had after the charity ball, the same ones that stopped you from having a drink with him last time.

In your mind, you told yourself to get the fuck over it. You were only human, and God forbid, you had a little crush. No one would blame you, especially with it being Roy. Crushes didn’t hurt anyone, or anything. Crushes existed to you as a bit of fun. That was all. Nothing would come of this.

“That works, too,” you agreed, finally. “Like I said, I don’t want it to be a formal thing.”

“Great, ‘cause I’ve got a fridge full of beer that needs to be fucking drank.”

You huffed, amused. “It’ll be hard, but I’m willing to help make a dent in that,” you said, dropping your expression in a false display of hardship.

Roy hummed lowly. “Your sacrifice won’t go unnoticed.”

You bowed your head at him jokingly. “Thank you, Sir.”

A small smile curled onto Roy’s face, one that you kept a secret tally of in your head. Whenever you got him to laugh, to smile, to do anything that deviated from his typical stoicism, you made a note of it. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, the hint of that smile still on his face.

You smiled back, fiddling with your pen nervously. “See you tomorrow, Roy.”

He nodded, then he was gone. With his leave, your heart did the exact same thing– it launched itself into your throat, its incessant dump-dump getting more erratic by the second. It took you a little over two months, but you were finally going to see the inside of Roy Kent’s big, fuck off house. And, as much as you felt silly and childish, you actually couldn’t fucking wait.

At the end of the following day, Roy stuck his head around your door again. You were half expecting it, though, as you assumed Roy would put two and two together about it being efficient to drive you both to his that evening.

“Ready to go?” he asked, and you stood up from your chair.

“Yeah,” you nodded, slinging your bag over your shoulder and switching off the lights when you both left.

The drive felt familiar. It was equal levels of comfortable silence and awkward glances— mostly on Roy’s part. Occasionally, he sent you a side-eyed glance from the driver’s seat, tapping his fingers on the wheel to break apart the tension that rattled behind the windshield.

Even Roy had no idea why things felt more intimate all of a sudden, so you definitely weren’t suffering alone. You were determined to stay cool; it was just a small crush after all. Nothing earth shattering, nothing life changing. In fact, putting it that way had actually eased you slightly. You weren’t focusing on it as being something deep, it was just something fun— and something that would never come to fruition, anyway.

Roy was a professional footballer, and he boiled your blood far too often. You were nothing more than an annoying, MA student who had the means to push his buttons. Sure, you gelled well, and had great conversations sometimes, and were able to make the other laugh, but that didn’t mean anything. Not really. Right?

You frowned a little, looking out the window as Roy turned down your street. You thought about his jacket, still on the peg by your front door.

“Wait,” you said abruptly. “Would you mind dropping me home first? There’s something I need to pick up.”

Roy perked a brow at you slyly, but nodded in agreement. “Sure.”

He pulled up his Jeep to the curb and you jumped out. You held the door open for a moment. “I’ll walk to yours. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Roy nodded, and you slammed the car door shut. He drove off before you entered your building, shooting you a subtle glance before he put his foot on the accelerator. When you got inside, you fumbled with your belongings. You’d written down questions on your laptop and knew what you wanted to ask him, but you knew that actually asking them in person would be the hard part.

You took a few moments to freshen up, running a brush through your tangled hair and checking your face after a long day at the Dogtrack, before you repacked your bag and headed for the door. On the peg just before it was Roy’s jacket. You picked it up and draped it over your arm, before you finally set off for Roy’s house around the corner.

Roy knew he had ten minutes, max, before you arrived. Due to the cleansing last night, he hadn’t had time to tidy at all. He didn’t live like an animal by any means, but the piles of fresh laundry on the dining table, the resistance bands on his sofa and the three empty beer bottles from earlier in the week on the counter, were not up to his standard for you. Quickly, he waltzed around his house and cleared up his messes. He didn’t know what was going to come from tonight, or what questions you’d ask him, but he had to admit— he was glad that another time was finally happening.

Having you around constantly at work after the charity ball had him going through the motions. He often flashed back to when he’d abruptly asked you in for a drink, and cringed at your response far too many times. He was a grown man, but things like that still made him feel like a teenager, getting rejected at school. It was stupid, and he knew it, but that didn’t stop his mind from reeling about it all still.

But, at the end of the day, both of you knew one thing— neither of you had fucking expected to like the other, or get along at all, in fact. That was enough to bring out the question— what if? Both of you had thought about it enough to want to see where it could go.

You knocked on Roy’s front door abruptly, and he sauntered through his hallway towards you. Upon entering his house, you tried to keep your giddiness to a minimum. He already knew what you thought of his place, from your drunken honesty and shocked reaction after the charity ball.

Now that you were up close, you saw more of what made Roy… well, Roy. There were clippings from newspapers, dating back as far as 2002, in a huge photo album on the bottom shelf of his dining room bookshelf. Awards and trophies adorned the other levels, alongside homemade cards from someone called Phoebe.

Roy let you silently take it all in. You clutched your bag on your shoulder with white knuckles, his jacket flush to your side, overwhelmed by all that you were seeing. He cleared his throat from the kitchen, peering over at you. “Drink?”

“Oh,” you let out, startled. “Yes, please.” You turned back to the shelf, amazed. “Roy, this is— this is all—”

“It’s all crap,” Roy cut over you, opening the fridge. You turned around to see it full of green beer bottles. He hadn’t been wrong when he said fridge full of beers. He placed two on the kitchen counter and popped the tops off both.

“It’s not crap. They’re lovely memories,” you protested. “I mean, you displayed them here for a reason, didn’t you?”

Roy strolled over to where you stood and casually handed you a beer. You took it gratefully, taking a gulp, as the two of you scanned his full-to-bursting shelves together.

You pointed to the abundance of homemade cards. “Who’s Phoebe?”

“My niece,” Roy said.

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” you said.

Roy hummed. “Got a little sister.”

Somewhere within you, it all made sense. You were amongst the population that knew it was a green flag when a man had sisters, it was just plain true. Roy was no exception to that rule, and his behaviour slotted into place as a man who understood what it took to be an older brother to a sister.

“How old is Phoebe?”

Roy sent you a softened look. “She’s six.”

You hated to admit it, but your heart melted ever so slightly. You smiled at him genuinely. “How sweet.”

“She is sweet,” Roy said, with a distinct genteness to his tone that you’d never heard before. “But, she’s also fucking insane. In the best way.”

“I bet she loves you,” you said, as the two of you took another gulp of beer together.

Roy let out a refreshing ahhh afterwards, to which he followed with “Yeah, she does. I don’t get it.”

“I do,” you let out abruptly. When Roy caught your eye, you panicked. You sent him a hastily sweet smile, before you turned to the rest of the open-plan room.

“So… shall we start?” Roy asked, trying to diffuse the tension.

“We already have,” you said. You prodded a finger to your temple. “It’s being recorded up here.”

Roy growled. “What happens when you run out of room?”

“That’s what the laptop is for,” you said, shrugging your bag off your arm and placing it on the dining table. You slotted his jacket beneath it, leaving it there like an afterthought.

Roy pulled out the chair opposite you and sat down, sipping on his beer as you got yourself sorted. You opened up your laptop and sorted through your notes, until you found the questions you’d written previously.

You cleared your throat, placing your palms down on the table. “Ready?”

“I thought we’d already fucking started,” Roy said, and you huffed to yourself.

“Tell me your superhero origin story, go on,” you said, before you shifted and placed your chin in your hand. You leaned casually on the tabletop, peering at Roy with your full attention.

Roy cleared his throat awkwardly, tapping his short-cut nails against his beer bottle. “I was scouted for Sunderland when I was nine years old…” he began.

He didn’t stop until all daylight disappeared from outside. An hour into his story, you had to start typing on your laptop. It didn’t detract from the mood at all, not when you and Roy bounced off each other so effortlessly. He’d say something specific about football, something that you had no fucking clue about, and you’d say something like Oh, yeah. I know exactly what that is. It made the air shift comfortably, and gave Roy a moment to catch his breath and smile before he continued on.

It didn’t feel like an interview, and that’s exactly what you wanted. You weren’t a journalist, weren’t looking to join this writing sector, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to write about Roy Kent. You’d meant what you’d said to Keeley before, about his illustrious career, about how heart-warming his full story really was. Every word he said you ate up, joining in with the laughter, staying silent during the sensitive topics, and listening intently all the way through.

When he was done, he let out a deep sigh. You both sat back in your chairs, finishing your beers. You’d lost count of how many times you’d gone to the fridge for more– maybe three or four times– but the buzz was pleasant for both of you. A golden glow was cast over Roy’s house, coming from a few lamps placed throughout the living and dining room. It felt warm. It felt safe. That’s exactly what you’d wanted him to feel when he opened up to you fully.

This time, Roy travelled to the kitchen for refills, but he didn’t go to the fridge. He opened one of his kitchen cabinets, and grabbed two glasses that clinked together melodiously. From a cart in the dining room, he picked up a half full bottle of single malt whiskey. He placed the glasses on the table between you, popped the cork from the whiskey, and poured a little in each glass. When he sat again, he picked up the glass nearest him. You followed suit, picking up your own.

You clinked your glasses together, both taking a small sip afterwards, before an even more comfortable silence settled over the room around you. You peered at him then, as he swallowed back his whiskey. The liquid slinked down your own throat hotly, warming you from the inside, out.

“Why?” you asked quietly, and Roy caught your eye gently.

“Why what?”

“Why football?” you said, shrugging. “You could have done anything, but you did this. Why?”

Roy exhaled through his nose, before he leaned forward on his elbows. The gap between you closed gently, until both of you were leaning on the smooth wood of his dining table, close enough that you could reach out and touch his face if you wanted to.

“Tell me in a way that my fickle, anti-football brain will understand,” you added, and Roy huffed softly.

“From your perspective, you think football is just a game,” Roy started softly. You’d never heard his voice this clear, this gentle. “But, it’s not for me. It’s my whole life. It’s all I’ve ever done.” He tapped his glass with his fingertips, letting out a soft clink across the table at you. “Do you know why I didn’t fill out your worksheet, the one from when you first started at the club?”

You shook your head gently, not taking your eyes off the thoughtful look that graced Roy’s face. You felt then just how vulnerable he was being– this wasn’t what Roy Kent did. He was stoic, he was blunt, but that didn’t stop him from having his own secrets, his own insecurities.

Roy sucked in a breath. “The last question on it– What do you want from your career in the future? I couldn’t answer it, because the future for me is different to the other lads. I’m coming to the inevitable end of my career, slowing down, and they’re just getting started.” You sucked in a breath, going to protest, but Roy shook his head before you could. “Don’t tell me I’m talking rubbish. This is how it fucking goes, you know? I’m not the same player I used to be, and… it’s all going to end soon. One day I’ll wake up, and without knowing, it’ll be the last day I ever play football.”

You let his words settle over you. You didn’t know what he was feeling at all, would never understand the extent of his pain or troubles, but that didn’t stop you from having a different perspective. As an objective third party, you could see what he couldn’t. Maybe that was good, just this once.

“I can’t begin to imagine what that’ll feel like, Roy,” you said softly. “But just because you won’t be on the pitch, doesn’t mean there won’t be something new waiting for you.” Roy raised his brows at you softly, in waiting. He was listening, he was all ears. “I know fuck all about football, but– I know about you. You won’t just fall off the edge of the world.”

“How do you know that?” he asked, swallowing back some of his anxiety.

“I know because of all the fucking trophies on that shelf,” you said, gesturing to the shelf behind him. “I know because, when you run onto the pitch, all those fans scream that chant, just for you.” You let out an abrupt laugh, trying to convey just how amazed you were. “For fucks sake, Roy, you played in the World Cup in 2014, for fucking England. You were the same age as me then, you know.”

“A year older,” he corrected you. “I was twenty-nine.”

“Yeah, and I’m twenty-eight and only just doing my masters, working at a football club when I don’t know anything about football, with the athletic ability of a fucking teaspoon.”

Roy smiled at the table immediately. It was the kind of smile that took up his whole face, one that made his eyes squint and glint.

“What I mean is,” you continued, leaning a bit closer to him. Roy peered up at you again, his eyes glassy. “You’re a legend, Roy. And, even though I’ve been part of this world for no time at all, I know that very well. It was the first thing I learned, and will probably be the only thing that I’ll remember about the game after my year is up.”

“Not true,” Roy said abruptly, taking another sip of his whiskey. “The first thing you learned was that I’m not the fucking caretaker.” He smiled, and after your heart stopped racing as fast, you smiled back.

The atmosphere transitioned back to something more playful, but the underlying warmth of your prior conversation didn’t go away at all. It settled into every word that you and Roy shared, every small huff of air that you blew out from amusement, every sigh you let out to catch your breath. When your whiskeys were done, you caught a glance of the time on your laptop– it was almost midnight. You’d spent hours in each other's company, just talking, and it had gone by in mere minutes.

“So,” Roy let out, and his tone got under your skin immediately. Maybe it was the booze, or the darkness outside, but when he caught your eye this time you felt like a deer in headlights. “Did you have any more questions?”

You skimmed your laptop, but you knew you’d already asked everything you’d wanted to. It was just for show, just so that he’d think you had more to give. You didn’t want it to end just yet, not when the tension between you was inescapable. It was just a crush. It was just a crush.

“One more,” you lied. You smiled at him playfully, before you gently started circling your finger on the rim of your glass. “You’re a professional footballer,” you stated, amused.

“No fucking shit,” he replied.

You huffed gently. “This is off the record, and just because I’m curious, and you do not have to answer it if you don’t–”

“You want to know how many famous people I’ve slept with,” he interrupted you. You froze, and your cheeks immediately warmed. He’d worked you the fuck out.

“Just– an estimate.” Your voice was high pitched when it left your mouth.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Roy said, matching your amusement.

Your expression flattened. “A few weeks ago you announced to the locker room that you’d slept with four of the Spice Girls, Roy,” you said plainly, and Roy sat up straight defensively.

“Only because Tartt was fucking boasting and someone needed to shut him up!”

“Was it Posh Spice?” you asked.

“What?”

“The one you didn’t sleep with, was it Posh Spice?”

“Fuck no,” he said immediately. After a beat, he added, “It was Ginger.”

Your eyes widened at his response, but your laughter overtook you faster. You leaned back in your chair and burst with unavoidable chuckles, the kind that you felt in your belly, the ones that felt impossible to stop. Only when they started to settle did you sit up again, only to discover an utterly new look on Roy’s face. His features were soft and his jaw settled. There was a tiny smile on his lips, but not enough to show off his teeth, or to take up the entirety of his face. His eyes roamed your features gently, until you were certain you’d landed upon a name for his expression��

Affection. Roy was looking at you affectionately.

You let out a final soft chuckle. “You’re fucking amazing,” you let out.

Roy raised his brows, chuffed at your genuinity. “Is that why you wanted to write about me?”

You settled. “Yes,” you said, affectionately. It just sort of… fell out of your mouth. One word that was an exact copy of the look he was giving you.

Electricity buzzed between you, enough to startle you innately. You glanced at the time on your laptop again– past midnight. You hated it, but you feared that time was up. You’d got all you’d needed, and you didn’t want to take up more of Roy’s time, despite the feeling that he had no desire to be done with the conversation.

Roy’s eyes flicked back and forth between your own, frantically, like he couldn’t settle. He was on edge, he was buzzing, and he had no intention to break his focus from you. He knew it would come to an end though, when you inevitably mentioned the time and made another joke about being old at heart. He thought back to the night of the charity ball, then, when you unintentionally spent the entire evening together. When you’d walked off to the bathroom, he and Jamie had attempted to find a middle ground at the bar. All the while, his eyes had constantly flicked back and forth between the beer in his hands, and the direction that you’d walked. He’d only moved away from the bar for a moment, but when he’d returned to find it utterly empty, he knew you’d decided to leave. He couldn’t understand it then, but annoyance had struck him in the heart– you hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye, hadn’t even tried to find him again to send him an awkward wave before you walked home. That’s what led Roy to leave, himself. He took a final scan of the vast room, before he stuck his hands in his pockets and headed for the exit. When he emerged into the cold Richmond air, you were standing at the bottom of the steps, shaking subtly, as you tried (and failed) to find directions home, using Google Maps on your phone. It was an innate feeling that had him descending the steps and taking off his jacket, only to drape it over your bare shoulders. The same innate feeling hit him when you stood outside his house. It made him invite you in for a drink, but the look on your face had shown him everything– it was going to be a no, and that was the moment that had cemented who you were to him. Sensible. Smart. Holding yourself back.

Roy had held himself back from things his entire life, but he didn’t want to do it anymore. He wanted to answer your questions genuinely and open himself up to being judged by others– by you, sat opposite him, looking into his eyes like you were trying to find something, anything, to talk yourself out of having another drink with him.

“What about you?” Roy said suddenly, taking you– and himself– by surprise.

You tilted your head at him. “What about me?”

“No, no, don’t be fucking coy,” Roy said, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “I told you my life story, now it’s your turn to tell me yours.”

You scoffed abruptly, trying to ignore the warmth that radiated on your cheeks. “Fuck no. We’d be here all night, and you definitely wouldn’t look at me the same way.”

“That’s the whole fucking point,” Roy said. “I want to look at you differently, the way that you’re looking at me right fucking now,” he said, gesturing to the affectionate and bashful expression on your face.

He was right, you did know a lot more about him, and he knew fuck all about you. You felt mysterious for the first time in your entire life. There was a spark that glistened in your eye, one that was playful and ready to fall headfirst into this entire ordeal. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to open up to Roy– you did, oh man, you did– but you didn’t feel that now was the right time. Not after he’d just spilled his guts to you.

Roy gently leaned forward again, sliding his arms out in front of him, until his hands were close enough to touch your own. “What have you got to lose?” he asked.

A fist-full of answers bombarded your skull. Nothing. Everything. You. Myself. All of the above.

But the one you settled on, over all the rest, was the best one for you then. All the other words tried and failed to bounce over the wall that you’d built previously. You gently skimmed your fingers over Roy’s knuckles, trying to be playful. Touching Roy’s skin made your entire arm buzz with adrenaline. It shot up through your fingers and reverberated through your arm, until you got the shivers suddenly. You played it off as nothing.

“Sleep. I’ve got sleep to lose,” you said.

Roy’s hand twitched on the table, and for a second you thought he was going to reach out and take your hand in his. After your words hit him, however, he settled on retracting his hands back into his lap, and leaned back in his chair once more. He smiled at you in recognition, but you knew you’d just done it again– said no, when it was fucking obvious to both of you that you’d wanted to say yes.

“Past ten-thirty, is it?” he said gently.

“Way past,” you confirmed, but the words felt sour in your mouth.

Roy huffed to himself, but he didn’t come across like he was in any way annoyed. He shouldn’t be, you were perfectly within your right to call it a night, but you still felt guilty about it. Maybe that was a sign that you should stay.

“Another time,” Roy said before you could.

You smiled at him. “Another time.”

“I mean it,” he added, his voice transforming into something stern and dominating. “Otherwise we’re not fucking even.”

You nodded, faking seriousness, despite the playful smile on your lips. “Everyone knows that not being even is illegal.”

“Exactly.” Roy nodded.

The conversation had reached its end. As you packed your belongings, Roy picked up the glasses and bottles from the table and took them to the kitchen. Quickly, he washed the two whiskey glasses in the sink, while you shuffled your bag into your shoulder. Left beneath it on the table was Roy’s jacket. You stared at it sharply, forgetting that you’d even brought it with you.

Quickly, without fucking thinking, you picked it up and abruptly stuffed it into your bag. You shoved it between your laptop and a notebook, before you turned around to find that Roy was already looking at you.

“You okay?” he asked, noticing the subtle panic on your face.

You nodded. “Just checking I have everything.”

Roy walked you to his front door. He was a few paces behind you the entire time, only looming over you when he reached forward to pull the latch on his solid wood door. He tugged it open, and you slotted yourself underneath the frame, before you turned around to face him.

You peered up at him, meeting his eye without any hesitation. You let out a content sigh. “Thank you for doing this,” you said, and you really fucking meant it.

“No problem,” he said gently.

“I’ll let you know when I’m done with the article.”

Roy nodded in response, keeping his expression the same. You thought he’d say something smart, something that would make you chuckle or giggle, something that would make your cheeks warm violently once more, but he simply stayed silent as his eyes continued to skim over the features of your face.

“Goodnight,” you said first, knowing it was best not to linger– even though you wanted to; even though Roy wanted you to.

“Goodnight,” Roy said after, but neither of you moved a muscle. You didn’t step back and leave his front door step, nor did he step back and make an indication of closing his front door.

Instead, Roy stepped forward. You froze as he leant down and placed a small peck on your cheek, one that was over just as soon as it had fucking began. For a split second, you felt the scratch of his beard and the warmth of his skin, and then it was gone. You smiled, and then, just like his kiss, you were gone.

On the walk home, you clutched your bag fiercely. Roy’s jacket felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric, but you didn’t fucking care. You weren’t ready to give it up yet, especially not when the prospect of another another time had cropped up once more. You tried not to think, but absolutely failed. Words scrambled in your head painfully, bashing the base of your skull and bumping into the plush walls of your brain. There was one word that screeched above all else, and it was only getting louder–

Him, him, him, him, him.

On Monday, Jamie Tartt was gone. It was a shame, considering his abrupt change of heart at the so-called cleansing the previous week, and the fact that Ted had finally managed to get through to him in a way. In fact, Ted was seething. You didn’t think that Lasso had an angry bone in his body before the news dropped, but when he sullenly returned from Rebecca’s office, he took down Tartt’s football shirt from his cubby sadly.

You leaned against the door to the manager’s office, shooting a sunken face at Ted as he gently pushed past you.

“Well,” you said, turning around to face him. “This is shit.”

“That is a mighty fine way to put it,” Ted said, as he dropped Tartt’s shirt on his desk. “Man City recalled him. Guess they didn’t like the fact I put him on the bench.”

You shrugged. “It’s a shame…. but, alternatively, now he’s Pep’s problem again.”

Ted, Beard and Nate all shot their stares to you instantly. You frowned at them, feeling uncomfortable suddenly. “What?”

“You said something about football that was actually correct,” Beard said, gobsmacked.

You huffed, annoyed. “Come off it. I know a lot more about football now!”

“About another team, even,” Nate said. “That’s impressive.”

“Come on, guys. Leave her alone,” Ted said, stepping forward. “She still knows more about this sport than me.”

You winced. “I know a lot more than I once did, Ted, but it’s still not a huge amount.”

Tes shrugged. “That’s why I’ve got you guys!” He happily smiled around the room, looking at Beard and Nate in turn. You let out a scoff, before you sent them all a wave goodbye and headed back to your office.

You had a day full of writing ahead of you, and you simply couldn’t wait.

As the weeks went by, you slept less and less. It got so bad that you’d often find yourself still awake when the sun was beginning to rise. Writing was all you could do. Alongside your assignments, you were dedicated to Roy’s article, spending any free time you had to yourself on it, and abandoning your usual self care and comfort.

The guys were scared of you, slightly. You were snappy and sleep deprived, with a one track mind that they couldn’t understand. Even Roy found himself concerned enough to eventually check up on you, which was a task for him, too.

He often thought back to a few weeks before, when you and he had chatted for hours about his life. You’d sat at his table, drank his beer, shared a whiskey with him— and then you’d left again. When you’d entered his house, he spotted his jacket on your arm, but as the night went on, both of you had forgotten about its inevitable return. Before you took your leave, Roy witnessed you shoving it back into your bag. He hadn’t said anything. He’d found it funny and endearing, and he had to admit to himself that he’d looked at you with the most affection he could muster at that moment. Not that you knew, not that he wanted you to, but Roy Kent had a definite soft spot for you.

That was why he agreed to the article in the first place, after all.

When he finally plucked up the strength to check on you, he found you at your desk— fast asleep. Your laptop was open in front of where you’d leaned your cheek down upon the wood, papers sprawled everywhere. There was an almost uncomfortable look on your face, like your subconscious knew that you should be awake and writing, yet it had finally overtaken you.

He peered down at you softly, and balled his fists to stop himself from sitting down opposite you to gently push a few strands of hair from your face. He knew he should leave, but he also knew you’d get mad if you knew he’d seen you this way and not woken you. Slowly, softly, Roy leant down and gently poked a finger to your cheek. He did it a few times, whispering wake up, until you finally stirred. Anyone else in this fucking club and he would have yelled from the get-go, but you were different; he didn’t want to startle you.

You came around finally, and flinched as soon as you opened your eyes. Seeing Roy’s face after an intense nap wasn’t something you were used to at all. You let out a visceral “Jesus fucking Christ!”

Roy only perked his brow at you. “Dreaming about unicorns and rainbows, were you?”

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, and stopped yourself from sleepily scratching them out of their sockets. “I wish.” Roy growled questioningly, wanting you to go on. You sighed. “I wasn’t dreaming about anything. Sorry to disappoint,” you said, peering up at him grumpily. It was your own fault that you felt so bad, you knew, but you’d been short with everyone for the last week because of it.

“Not to state the obvious, but you look fucking awful,” Roy said, to which you scoffed abruptly.

“Thanks for that,” you let out.

“What the hell is up? Has something happened?” he asked, crossing his arms at you with stern concern.

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s fine,” you said, waving him off. “There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything, or to stay awake for.”

“Is this about the article?” Roy asked.

You guiltily peered up at him. “I just— can’t stop writing. It feels like I’ll fucking die if I spend a single minute away from it.”

“You’re not gonna die by taking a break, but you will die from sleep deprivation. That’ll turn you fucking mental,” Roy said.

You yawned— hugely. “I know, I know,” you said, before you settled. You allowed yourself to smile at him. “I’m almost done, actually. I’m so close.”

Roy huffed. “Good. Take a fucking break then.”

“I will, just not—,”

“Come to Liverpool with us, for the Everton game,” he said suddenly. “I know the lads want you with us, and it’ll give you time to calm the fuck down.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but you stopped when you actually thought about it. The Everton game was four days away, which meant you had three to finish the article completely, before you submitted it. You could do that. That was doable.

“Well, I mean,” you started, before you finally shrugged. “I have been wanting to go to more away games. And, if the guys want it, then I definitely want to show my support.” You smiled at Roy with a finality.

He nodded in approval and uncrossed his arms. “Okay,” he said softly.

For a moment, the two of you looked at each other thoughtfully. Perhaps your minds were bombarding you both with flashbacks from a few weeks ago, when you’d both said goodbye at his door when it was obvious that neither of you had wanted to. Since then, due to how much work you had to fucking do, you hadn’t thought much of it. But at night, before bed, your mind often wandered. Roy’s face popping into your head had almost become normal, especially with the added security of his jacket still on the peg by your door. You called yourself silly for taking it back, but you still hadn’t returned it since that fumble.

Roy cleared his throat abruptly, pulling both of you out of your thoughts. You sucked in a sharp breath and smiled at him, trying to cover up how loud your thoughts about him actually were. He did the same, inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, until the moment had dissipated.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Roy said, breaking the silence.

You huffed affectionately. “Thank you.”

Rod nodded, before he headed to the door and left. You leaned back in your chair when you were alone, stretching your arms above your head to get some feeling back into them after your nap. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, noticing the cracks in the cinder block bricks and the awful paint job, but it was only to distract you from thinking about Roy.

Roy, who was definitely a gentleman in disguise. Roy, whose jacket you had on a peg in your flat. Roy, who wanted you around him and his team. Roy fucking Kent. Writing the article didn’t make your crush on him any easier, but only perpetuated your feelings to oblivion.

A few days later, while you laid in bed at God knew what time, your heart swelled to a thousand times the size of normal. You’d just written the final sentence, just tweaked the final edits, and your article was finally done. In a frenzy, you opened the Independent’s website and immediately went to submit it, but you stopped yourself before you could. Somewhere within you, you knew that you needed Roy to read it before you could, otherwise it wouldn’t be fair. With one more day until travelling to Everton, you knew it wasn’t the best time at all. You’d tell him after the match that you were done, and as soon as he read it, you’d submit it if he was happy.

You went to sleep elated and buzzed, but still managed to drag yourself to work the following morning. You clutched your laptop to your chest as if it were a fucking child, trying not to scare yourself into thinking that Roy would hate what you’d written about him. As you entered your office, you found Keeley sat at your desk. You flinched in surprise as you turned the corner, but that surprise very quickly turned into a smile at her presence.

“Hey babe!” Keeley said, jumping up from your chair and rounding your desk quickly. She picked up one of two coffee cups from the desktop and handed it to you. “I brought you coffee.”

You took it from her, but you weren’t dumb. Keeley was here for something, and you didn’t know what. “Alright– what do you want?” you said, shooting her a playful look.

Keeley let you settle behind your desk, as she started pacing the space of your office. You dropped your laptop down and sat in your chair heavily, trying not to show just how tired you were.

“Well, I know you’re coming to Liverpool with us tomorrow, but I had a feeling that you might be done with your article…”

You rolled your eyes at her, tapping the lid of your coffee cup. “You want to read it, don’t you?”

Keeley lunged at your desk, shooting herself forward so your noses almost touched. “Of course, I do! After reading what you wrote about Rebecca last time, I’ve been dying to read more of your stuff.”

You opened your laptop up, smiling to yourself as you clicked onto the article. It was already loaded on the Independent's website, you just hadn’t sent it off. “I could do with someone looking at it, actually. I… I don’t know if I’m going to submit it.”

“Why?” Keeley said, taking a seat on your desk before you.

You peered up at her, furrowing your brows. “I don’t know if it’s good enough.”

“Well,” Keeley said, quickly spinning the laptop in her direction. “I’ll be happy to sing your praises after I read it.”

You smiled at her smally, grateful to have her in your life. “Speaking of Rebecca, I actually have a meeting with her this morning,” you said, as you stood. “Happy reading!” you added, and Keeley practically jumped back into your chair as you left.

You walked to Rebecca’s office slowly, breathing through the immense grogginess that you felt. You drank Keeley’s coffee in record time, but the caffeine wasn’t enough on its own. You knew you should go home to rest, but you didn’t want to when all that you were feeling was self-inflicted. You could sleep early when you got home, and on the bus up to Liverpool in the morning. You’d live.

You knocked on the door to Rebecca’s office a minute later, and let yourself in when she mumbled it was okay to do so. “Oh, good morning, darling,” she said, waving you inside as you shut the door behind you. She stopped smiling when she got a proper look at you. “Fucking hell, what’s wrong with you?”

You laughed tiredly. “Good morning to you, too,” you croaked. “I’m just… a little tired.”

“I can see that,” she said, looking at you up and down with concern. She stood abruptly and whisked herself over to her bar cart, while you swayed on the spot in front of her desk. “Sit,” she instructed you, pointing at you sternly, before she went back to her plan. You did as you were told.

Rebecca popped a coffee pod into the top of her Nespresso machine and placed a cup beneath the spout. When she clicked a button the machine started to thrum, before a boiling hot and aromatic stream of coffee was produced. When it was done, Rebecca placed the espresso in your hands and perched back onto her desk. She peered down at you the way a mother would sternly tell off her child.

“Why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?”

“Because I haven’t slept in days,” you replied, subtly huffing at your own joke. Rebecca shot daggers at you. “Sorry. It’s just this article for the competition.”

“The one about Roy?” she asked.

You nodded. “I finished it last night, actually, so I won’t be like this for much longer, don’t worry.” You took a trepidatious sip of coffee, but as it slinked down your throat you felt your heart buzz with electricity. It was both invigorating and incredibly anxiety inducing.

“Congratulations,” Rebecca said, and her expression changed to something softer. “Have you sent it off yet?”

“No,” you said lowly. “I don’t think I will for a bit longer.”

“Why?”

You winced. You knew that if you were to tell Rebecca and Keeley the reason for you not sending it off, that they’d only yell at you to get over it. Roy agreed to this from the start, so surely he was fine with you actually submitting it. “It’s just that I want Roy to read it before I do, is all.”

Rebecca let out an abrupt cackle, so loud that it startled you. Your espresso wobbled in your hand. “Oh, please. Roy wouldn’t know a good article if it reached out and punched him in the face. Nor would he care.”

Rebecca was right, even if it hurt for her to say it. “I know, I know. It’s just that it’s about him, and I don’t want him to hate what I’ve written.”

“Of course, he’s going to hate it,” Rebecca said immediately, and your face soured. “And that’s no reflection on you, darling, it’s all on him. I think you should submit it, just get it over with.”

You let out a sigh. As much as you knew she was right, you wanted to believe that Roy cared about what you’d written. You felt you’d done him justice, that you’d written about what actually mattered in his life, but there was always an element of the unknown when you wrote about someone else. Would they like it? Would they think it was shit? All those same questions cropped up at you with Roy Kent as the subject, and you knew that you’d find out what he thought of it one way or another– whether that was when he read it on your laptop, or in the paper.

But still, you respected him. This wasn’t just a one woman job, this wasn’t just about you, this was about him, too. And despite understanding every reason that was laid out in front of you, you still wanted approval from him before you sent it off. That was the end of it.

You took another sip of espresso, and Rebecca sent you a raised brow stare. There was some playfulness behind it, some giddiness that made you both look and feel like schoolgirls again. Rebecca moved to sit opposite you, picking up her tea and sipping upon it to match you. You caught eyes with her, immediately understanding what she was saying to you telepathically.

Something is happening between you and him, isn’t it?

You finished your espresso, while Rebecca placed her cup down on its saucer again. She leaned her chin on her knuckles as you sorted yourself out opposite her. You shuffled in your chair and sat back comfortably, and when you looked up again you saw that she was staring at you with a concerned gaze, once again.

You let out a huff. “Rebecca, I’m fine.”

“Be careful,” she said softly, seriously.

You frowned at her, confused. “Of what?”

“He’s a footballer,” she continued. “We should all be careful of footballers. Especially the kind ones.”

You swallowed her words forcefully. It was only then that you dawned on all of this being scary. A crush could turn into more, especially with how Roy was around you. You felt special, it was true, and that was the most dangerous thing of all. Inside you, that wall shot itself towards the sky once more. Behind it, you tried trampling your feelings down, but you knew it wouldn’t hold them at bay forever.

You started your meeting, and for that hour, you didn’t think about Roy once.

Downstairs, beneath two layers of concrete, Keeley Jones finished reading your article. It was brilliant, and she knew that if you didn’t win it would be an absolute crime. She skimmed her favourite parts over and over again, and was pleasantly surprised to find herself looking at Roy in a different light after inhaling your words about him. She harboured a bad feeling that made her believe you’d never actually submit it, whether it was from your fear of being good or not, or something else entirely.

That’s what led her to a lightbulb moment, one that overtook her senses and had her checking if you were returning from Rebecca’s office. When she saw the coast was clear, she smiled to herself. Lucky for her, you were all ready to actually submit your work, but she knew you needed a bit of a boost– in the form of her doing it for you.

Quickly, deviously, Keeley scrolled to the bottom of the application page. Without thinking of any consequences, she clicked the big green button that said SUBMIT.

Tag list: @atjamesbbarnes @20th-centu-fairy-girl @royalestrellas @weakmoony-stuff @ironmanmagnetfridge @lemonpiegurll @hellomagicalsouls @her-fandom-sanctum @gothicwidowsworld @old-enough-to-know-better73 @djarindroid @afraidofshrimp @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @queen-of-dumbasses @sogoodtoheritsvicious @lznnph1l @crav1ngc4ke @onceuponaoneshot @jamieolivia27 @dadbodfanatic-x @kelp-dreaming @harrypedro465 @lonely-escape-artist @abeeabeeabee @nicklet94 @libsybum @cha0sdreaming

#and for GOOD REASON #i’m both excited for the next chapter and not #take care series

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