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#also i fucking love rupert
musicprincess1990 · 1 year
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Goddammit... I didn't need another obsession...
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yourfavehaskenergy · 4 months
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Ronald Weasley from Harry Potter
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Ronald Weasley from Harry Potter has Kenergy!
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detectivechandler · 7 months
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why write chandler if you hate his canon relationship?
canon relationship - ? i ... buddy, timon and pumba are more canon than fucking joe and kent
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babygirlgiles · 1 month
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I said “yeah that’s what they do to me at work, they lock me in the basement and then toss little miniDVs and other obsolete digital storage media down to me” and he said “that sounds kinda sad” and then I said “no it’s great it’s how I get enrichment in my enclosure” and then he made out with me sloppy style so I’m happy to report love is real guys
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rustchild · 4 months
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I am reading an ARC about WWI war poets and it’s kinda wild how the first three guys are like. 1. Beautiful rich asshole with serious mommy issues who writes two sonnets about how majestic dying for England will be and then dies before the fighting begins from an infected mosquito bite. 2. Batshit insane American who keeps writing about how happy he is to be fighting for the good of France even as his friends bodies are mangled on barbed wire around him. And 3. Dirt-poor Jewish painter who hates the aristocracy too much to get a patron, enlists because he has no money, and then writes about how fucked and stupid everything is until the war kills him
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mintneve · 10 months
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Literally laughing with tears still wet on my cheeks from the Ted Lasso season 1 finale. Why the fuck did it take me so long to watch this show?!
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Ted Lasso is such a FUCKING GOOD SHOW
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GILES MUSIC BREAK SLAYYYYY
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hearteyedpup · 11 months
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OUGH TED LASSO IS KILLING ME SLOWLY
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maxybabyy · 2 months
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Daniel watches on as Max dodges him for the third time today, shimmies away from Daniel’s hands as he hurries to catch up with GP.
Daniel knows Max likes GP better than most people, knows they’ve been together longer than he and Max have. Max will bring it up sometimes when Daniel’s being needy and won’t stop touching him. He will go, “He is of course my race engineer, Daniel. Always I will have to see him more when it is a race weekend, no?”
Daniel will whine, call them work husbands with no love left for their real spouses. The words will taste sour even to his own tongue, but in the moment it will feel better. Max will say as he did once, “If you do not like this, GP being my husband. You can of course change this also, Daniel.”
So Daniel doesn’t call them that anymore, has taken to kiss him silly instead to keep him put.
But Max’s already been in two meetings with GP, and Daniel has barely seen him today, didn’t even get a morning kiss in before they had to leave for the paddock.
GP is picked off by one of the engineers, young and sweet as he works up the nerve to interrupt Max’s latest rant, hands vivid in the air. Daniel is quick to swoop in, bullies Max into a small alcove with his knee pressed against Max’s thigh to keep him in place.
“Daniel? What is this?” He says, wiggles in his hold. “I of course do not have time for this. Rupert wants me to look over the food that he will order, and I have to –“
“You’re a busy boy, Maxy. I know, just,” Daniel says, digs his knee harder into Max when he still hasn’t stopped moving. “Why are you being weird? I’ve barely seen you today, baby, and now you’re trying to do a fucking runner on me.”
“I am not weird,” Max says, crosses his arms over his chest.
Daniel smiles, sweet and soft to keep his lips from twisting. “Annoyed then? Frustrated? Did I do something to piss you off, babe?”
Max keeps looking at him, steady blues as he doesn’t blink. But his chest starts to move, deep, fast breaths that make his tits strain against the polo he always wears. The wind is chilly too, makes the nips peak out. “I am of course not this, annoyed, frustrated,” he says, voice curt.
“But I did do something,” Daniel guesses. “Baby, whatever I did to make you mad, please just tell me and I will –“
He leans in to touch Max’s waist, face close enough to kiss if Max just gave up the last few inches. But instead of leaning in like he always does, Max twists away from him with a glare, “Always I will see you later, Daniel. You can think maybe about how to not be a stupid idiot then.”
Daniel doesn’t know what to say, watches him walk away with his back against the wall.
“’A stupid idiot’? That’s what he called you?” George asks, digs his fork into the leafy greens Daniel had been too weak to order. “And you’re sure you haven’t done anything bad? Did you forget an anniversary perhaps? The cats’ birthdays?”
Daniel shakes his head. Max doesn’t care about shit like that. Sassy had her birthday back in April, and Jimmy will have his turn after the summer break. Siblings, but not twins. “They of course deserve their own birthdays, Daniel,” Max had said, coaxing a small hat onto the head of a patient Jimmy.
“He was fine last night, had a nice dinner. The hotel room is meh, but that’s not my fault, yeah?” Max had been tossing and turning all night, sweaty where he was pressed Daniel’s chest. But he’s dealt with a tired Max before, and this wasn’t it.
George watches him for a moment, eyes sharp as he stabs his fork through a tomato. “Reckon it’s that thing women do sometimes?” He asks, voice unnaturally casual like he knows it’s a shit thing to say.
“What, George?” Daniel says and abandons his spoonful of chickpea curry. The coriander tastes odd on his tongue, and he wonders if maybe they put nuts in it anyway. “What is it that women and Max do sometimes?”
“I don’t – you know that wasn’t.” Geroge breathes out, in, and then out again. “Carmen obviously doesn’t do this, mind you. And I don’t think Max would either, but there are like, these stories on the internet of women getting mad at their boyfriends because they dreamt about them cheating on them.
“Obviously, Max wouldn’t do it either, but.” George shrugs uncomfortably, the corner of his mouth pulled to the side.
And like, but indeed.
Max barely looks at him during dinner, talks about the press conference like Daniel wasn’t there next to him, and doesn’t answer when he asks about going out for drinks tomorrow.
He’s about to storm back into the bedroom, when Daniel says, “Reckon we should talk about this? Or do you want to keep being mad about something I did in your dream?”
The way Max’s head whips back to look at him is confirmation enough, but the deep, scarlet tint to his cheeks makes it all the more obvious.
“Maxy, why didn’t you tell me you had a bad dream? We could have talked about it together, yeah?” He says. He closes the distance between them cautiously, hovers awkwardly at the edge of Max’s personal space until Max nudges their feet together.
“You were of course a very stupid idiot in my dream, so I thought it would be good maybe to have you think about why it is so bad to do,” Max says, and he sounds so sincere it makes his chest feel tight.
“I reckon that’s fair. It did feel like shit though, thinking you were really mad at me, baby,” Daniel tells him. Max opens his arms, and Daniel is quick to fold himself into them, bury his head in the crook of his neck. The scent of their shared cologne is faint under the day’s sweat. “But you have to know I would never do that to you, yeah?”
Max nods against his shoulder, kisses the crown of his head. “I of course know this, Daniel. It would be very stupid to do this, and you would end up dead also,” Max says. He cups Daniel’s cheek, strokes his thumb along the edge of his jaw, and Daniel knows he’s going to get kissed, soft lips against his, but he cannot –
“Like, yeah. Obviously, I would never cheat on you, Maxy,” he says, covers Max’s hand with his own. To keep him in place, to stop him from moving closer, he doesn’t know. “But, killing me because of it is a bit much, don’t you think?”
Max watches him with a frown, head tilted to the side. “Cheat on me? Why would you do this? Daniel, is this what you dream of? We should talk maybe about this more also.”
Daniel digs his fingers into the dip of his waist, wills Max not to step away, “Hey, it’s your fucking dream, babe. I just think we maybe disagree on whether it deserves the death penalty, but it’s all hypothetical, no?”
Max scoffs, “This is a very stupid dream you have, Daniel. In my dream you were stupid also, so there is maybe something to think about.”
“If it wasn’t – Maxy, love of my life, whom I will never cheat on, ever,” Daniel says, kisses him softly. “Why were you mad at me in your dream?”
Max’s eyes sharpen, and the hand on his cheek drops to hold his shoulder, “Because never would you listen to me, Daniel. We were in the apocalypse, and always you were going to get yourself killed! You did not want to stay with the very nice, very big dog that I told to protect you, and you did not want to eat the food I made for us.
“Always, you wanted stupid Scotty to stay with us, when you knew, you knew of course that he was bitten and would try to eat us. And then I will have to kill him, and you will of course be sad. But I have to save us also, Daniel, so you have to stop being so stupid!”
Max looks so fucking worked up about this, chest heaving and red in the face, and Daniel wants to fucking eat him alive. Kisses him instead, takes what he can get.
“You’re gonna protect me in your big, bad dream, Maxy?”
Max huffs, lets himself be led into the bedroom, “I will of course always save you, Daniel. When you are being so very stupid, also.”
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hilsoncrater · 11 months
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I am once again going to queer analyze the fuck out of Ted Lasso, specifically the scene with Trent and Ted in the hallway at the end of Season 3, Episode 7.
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Trent swoops in as the door is closing behind Ted, calls out, “TED!”, and then he runs towards Ted, who is walking away from him. Ted turns, bewildered, because here is Trent -- cool, calm, awkward Trent -- completely out of his shell like never before. There’s a spark to Trent. He’s excited, he’s rambling, he’s so close to Ted. He’s vulnerable, too, because he is laying everything he’s thinking and feeling out in the open. (“It’s going to work!” “And I’ll tell you why -- The Lasso Way!” “You haven’t switched tactics in a week!”)
Chemistry goes both ways. It’s a feedback loop, in a sense, because Ted is taking in what Trent is giving. He turns fully to face Trent, even turning when Trent leaves; actively engages by asking questions (“Great! What is?” “Why?” “I haven’t?”); and the more this interaction goes on, the more Ted’s face goes from bewildered to fond. Is he humoring Trent by letting him ramble? Yeah, he is, because he finds it endearing.
The way it’s shot plays a massive role, too. We the audience know that Roy and Beard are there all along. However, we temporarily forget their presence because the camera is equally close on both Trent and Ted. And the intensity of Trent’s rambling distracts us. It’s not until their little conversation is over that the angle is zoomed out and we’re reminded they aren’t alone. It’s intentionally done like that as an insight onto how Ted feels. He’s tuned in on what Trent has to say, and everything else falls away to the background.
In a heavy rom-com episode, this is the love interest’s confesional to the main character.
Trent was sparking. So much so I’ve seen people say they expected the two to kiss. And that thought doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere. You don’t arrive to that conclusion baseless. Which means:
1) The simmering three-season-long groundwork put into their relationship is rock solid.
2) The romcom beats -- which have gotten more frequent -- are subconciously hitting the audience and therefore priming us to expect a follow through (re: a kiss)
3) Characters do not get that close unless it’s to kiss, fight, or scheme. Clearly they aren’t fighting or scheming, so what other expectation is there?
Now hold onto your hat, cowboy. This is where it gets fun.
This hallway scene is a direct parallel to Rebecca and Ted in the West Ham hallway. It’s at an away game; Rebecca and Trent are both potential love interests with an air of manic energy; and, again, it takes place in a hallway with the team in the locker room. 
Only this time, with Trent, everything is subverted. 
Ted walks to Rebecca vs Trent runs to Ted.
Rebecca touches Ted vs Trent doesn’t physically engage.
Ted being uncomfortable the entire interaction vs Ted leaning into the interaction.
Beard and Roy not being present vs Beard and Roy being there.
This subversion also applies to where Rebecca and Trent’s respective manic energy stem from. Their energy levels are foils of one another. 
Rebecca’s stems from negative external factors outside of Richmond (re: Rupert) and the fact the team is losing the match/things are not working.
Trent’s stems from positive internal factors within Richmond (re: belief in The Lasso Way) and the fact things are going to work despite the team losing the match.
Let’s get queer up in here and extrapolate those subversions to sexuality:
Ted slowly approaches heterosexuality (Rebecca), alone (without community) and is uncomfortable by the external pressures placed upon him, the way heterosexuality imposes its touch on him. He visibly looks/feels worse after the interaction.
vs
Queerness (Trent) running up behind Ted with a warning shout (hitting Ted when he doesn’t expect it) and while Ted is surrounded by others (with community). And at first Ted is confused by it, but as soon as he hears it out, gives it a chance, he grows fond of what it has to say. It does not impose its touch on him, and the pressure is an excited internal one. Ted visibly looks/feels better after the interaction.
In Trent’s words, it’s going to work.
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islndgurl777 · 1 year
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I said in the middle of the episode, when Rebecca was staring at Rupert during the match, “I really want Rebecca to get to the point where she doesn’t think of Rupert at all. Where he’s not even a consideration to her or her happiness.” Because even though they’re divorced and she got his team in the split, she’s still looking at him. She’s still thinking about beating him, all the ways she can humiliate him and lord it over him.
He destroyed her (controlled her for years, prevented her from fulfilling her dream of becoming a mother, humiliated her in the press when they got divorced, etc.) and every moment she spends continuing to let him influence her like this just hurts her more. I love her and want better for her.
And I think when she saw Rupert messing around with his assistant, she had a bit of that realization. He’s still messing around. He’s still a piece of shit. And now he’s doing to Bex what he did to her, what he did to his wife before her.
“Your daughter deserves better and so does Bex. Stop fucking around.” It didn’t feel like a threat to me. It didn’t feel like she wants to use it to hold over him. It didn’t feel angry, it felt like...pity. For Bex and the baby for sure, maybe even for Rupert for being such a broken record, but also maybe a little bit for herself for wasting all that energy on hating him.
At least, I hope that’s what that was, because like I said before, I want better for Rebecca, and I think learning to let go of Rupert will go a long way to getting her where she wants and needs to be in her life.
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sylvies-chen · 1 year
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ok TED LASSO EPISODE 2 THOUGHTS:
keeley wanting to take a blood oath with her coworkers on ayahuasca is so funny like these writers really understand girl culture 😌
dani is the unsung hero of this episode because his lines have such an innocence to them even as he’s telling trent to fuck off which honestly takes talent to portray with such naïveté so kudos to cristo for that!
THE TEAM BEING UPSET EVEN BY THE RUMOUR OF ROY AND KEELEY BREAKING UP hands down the funniest and most amazing scene of the episode like they all know roykeeley are precious and the king and queen must be protected at all costs i love those himbos 🥰
trent is doing his best and honestly we love him for it. I mean look at that face, what’s not to love?
I do think his book will cause some ground to rumble at richmond though. rebecca and keeley and higgins were right in nodding vigorously at ted because it will not be good if it blows up
also rebecca saying yes while seeing a bunch of no gestures just after ted did the same thint mhm yeah soulmates I do believe
roy is being his usual self this episode and you can so clearly see how his mindset with his career last season set the tone for his mindset in his relationship with keeley which led him to break up with her. he’s being stupid because hello, she’s keeley fucking jones, he needs to get over the insecurity, but I also get how his it’s valid as he’s felt it in so many aspects of his life before. him holding onto the news clipping is proof of that. the whole “some people would rather quit than get fired” thing just is so layered with him dumping her out of fear that he would end up dumped one day and have his insecurities about not being good enough for her confirmed. this also means he’s growing and will get over it though, trust in endgame everyone !!
zava is more of a diva then jamie was in season 1 and it is going to be a BLAST watching jamie perhaps revert back to his old self just a *little* bit out of jealousy and watch these two have one big ol’ diva-off (in my head it plays out like a “lip sync battle for your life” on rupaul’s drag race kind of moment but that’s just me)
THE PUB BESTIES ARE BACK OMG
jamie trying to hug roy and roy shoving him away cause he was freaked out was absolutely hilarious like it’s giving fleabag when claire tried to hug her (if anyone hasn’t seen fleabag pls go watch it on amazon prime)
Rupert Mannion is a slimy turd and I hope Rebecca murders him in a violent and unspeakable manner and then gets away with it
also Rebeca yelling at Zava in the bathrooms paralleling when she told Keeley that men give each other jobs in bathrooms all the time!!! Haha!
give me a ten hour episode of Jason Sudeikis as Ted Lasso batting his eyelashes and making comments about Hallmark Christmas movies and I will be a happy woman
BONUS: the amsterdam snowglobe!!! THEY KEEP TEASING THIS TRIP AND GOOD LORD IT IS GOING TO KILL ME!!!
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discokicks · 8 months
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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 Walton 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.”
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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.”
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“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.”
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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.
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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kvetchinglyneurotic · 2 months
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A list of things from my season 1 rewatch, in no particular order (but most of them are about Jamie because he's my special little guy)
Attention to detail! A lot of plot relevant things come up in the background a long time before they're addressed overtly — the news broadcast in the background mentions that Jamie's on loan from Man City in 1x02 (although Ted doesn't seem to be aware of it until 1x06); Roy is shown icing his knee in the background of several shots, ect.
Jamie displays a mixture of genuinely bad behaviour and behaviour that isn't inherently shitty but reads as him being an asshole in light of his general attitude, and might register as worrying outside of that context (thinking he'd have to sleep with whoever bid on him and his clear alarm at the thought; dissociating when Ted yells at him, flinching when Dani goes in for the high-five, his conviction that people (mainly Ted) are playing mind games when they're being nice)
I don't think they had the Amsterdam story planned out when they wrote 1x04 but it fits really well with Jamie's behaviour at the gala. My interpretation is Jamie asked Bex to come so he'd have someone he knows to bid on him/drive up the price but didn't intend for there to be a bidding war with Keeley specifically — he doesn't ask her to bid on him until her and Roy joking about him having to sleep with Cheryl (the older woman) freaks him out, and I think he may have asked initially asked Bex because he knew that as his girlfriend Keeley probably wouldn't bid on him
Cartrick strikes me as kind of similar to James Tartt in a way that might have represented some sense of familiarity, no matter how unpleasant, for Jamie — Jamie's worst behaviour is in 1x03-1x06 when the team is changing around him and he's losing his hold, but at the same time, losing that position of power in 1x06 does seem to mellow him out a bit
Love Rebecca's schemer era and how her better nature seems to slip through in these moments where she's not deliberately trying to scheme (offering Keeley a job, helping Ted through his panic attack)
Ted has grown on me a lot since my first watch through when I honestly found him quite annoying. That being said I still completely understand why Michelle wanted to get a divorce. Aromanticism aside, I would also divorce that man. Sorry Ted.
Forgot how much season 1 makes you want to murder Rupert. I want to murder him so much. Fuck that guy.
Roy and Jamie's mutual hatred era is weirdly hilarious when you know they're going to end up as friends. Aw it's your bestie <3
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triple-mayday · 11 months
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There’s hella theories floating around about the reason behind Tucker Carlson’s sudden divorce with Fox News, but there’s one that I love the most.
Its the sexiest, pettiest, most delicious bullshit to ever be conceived. Behold:
We know for a fact that Tucker got bitch slapped across New York City by Rupert Murdoch himself. Not only that, but baby boy was laid off sometime on Friday and notified only on Monday, when he came to work. So, this unforeseen development was like a kick in the balls. For the uninitiated, Rupert Murdoch is the name of the demonic entity responsible for the creation of Fox News.
Tuckerson and Rupert had a special relationship. According to Tucker himself, the now ex-host was “100% [Rupert’s] bitch” (we love a proud sugar baby). Tucker was basically a glorified court jester - he cosplayed for daddy Rupert as a pro-worker, anti-elitist, anti-establishment, Christian, relatable everyman that broke republicans could relate to. That was, of course, a load of horseshit. As said by Tucker himself.
You see, back in Mesozoic Era (circa 2008-2011), our boy was an active participant in shock radio programs where he paraded himself as an open and proud elitist and a self-admitted trust fund baby.
All of this deliciousness speaks for itself. Tucker Carlson is a chameleon that changes his face depending on what’s resonating best with his conservative audience. Which brings us to the nearly orgasmic culmination of events that could have possibly led to Tucker’s current unemployment.
Tuck roleplayed as a hardcore Christian for quite some time. On that fateful Friday night, he turned it up to 100 for his speech at the conservative think tank Heritage Foundation’s 50th anniversary gala. Bubba was popping off, calling abortions “child sacrifices” and demanding daily prayers. The audience loved it. Rupert? Not so much.
The thing is, for Rupert business comes before fascism. Grandpa worships money, Jesus is merely a profitable business strategy. For a businessman, the rabid fundie shit was already incredibly off-putting. And Tucker’s villain monologue just happened to be the last drop in the bucket that was already filled to the brim by Murdoch’s ex. That’s right. The chair of Fox News broke off his recent engagement because his fiancée was a Jesus freak.
Now onto the good shit. Rupert’s ex had a favorite show. Guess what that show was?
Tucker Carlson Tonight
The woman in question even had tête-à-tête chit chats with her favorite TV personality, thanks to her connection to Fox News CEO.
Tensions were rising in the Murdoch household. The ex-fiancée’s obsession with Tucker only added fuel to the fire. The woman went as far as declaring that Carlson was a messenger from God. One day, Tucker had a dinner at his boss’ estate. In the middle of dinner the Jesus lady pulled out a Bible and began discussing the book of Exodus with Carlson.
Rupert just sat there like 👁️👄👁️
In the end, the man was too freaked out by Christian fundamentalism and kicked Tucker out after his particularly awful speech. It was also a cute little fuck you to his ex cause now her favorite show got canceled
This is just one theory, but it’s my favorite, so I prefer it above all else, and now you get to experience this beauty with me
God, I adore American politics
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