#it’s actually football i just use soccer for the americanism of it all

[lithiumcreepblog]

elmax week day 4: Kicking The Ball

U.S. Women’s Soccer Stars Max Mayfield and El Hopper Find Love Off The Field

Washington D.C. When the US Women’s Soccer Team won against Canada in the final round of the CONCACAF W Championship, it felt almost routine. They had been dominating their competition the whole tournament after all. But for two members of the team, it would change their lives forever. When the final whistle blew and the team was celebrating their victory, cameras caught teammates Max Mayfield and El Hopper sharing a tender kiss on the field for the whole stadium– and the world– to see. A few hours later, it was confirmed in Out Magazine that they are in a relationship with an exclusive interview, marking the first time the two of them have ever discussed their sexual identities in the media.

Jane “El” Hopper, known for her impressive strikes as a forward, and Max Mayfield, a talented midfielder with quick passes, have been teammates for several years. But their connection goes beyond just playing on the same team; they have been friends since they were children before being scouted by the USWNT while in college. Soon after, the team started gaining prominence both nationally and internationally, all the while a romance was brewing between the two players.

As for why they chose to share their story with the world now, Mayfield says that it was planned weeks in advance, “We were ready for the world to know. We’ve been together for years now, there was no reason to hide. The interview was coming out whether we won or not, so I’m happy that it was prefaced with a victory.”

The announcement was met with outpouring support from their teammates, fans and the broader soccer community. It has also sparked a new conversation about LGBTQ athletes as well as same-sex relationships in the sports world. Experts have noted that this marks a significant step forward for LGBTQ representation in professional sports, especially within the traditionally male dominated world of soccer. While there is still historical stigma and fear of discrimination that makes it challenging for professional athletes to come out, Hopper and Mayfield’s story has been considered by many as courageous and inspiring.

Going forward, Hopper and Mayfield hope that their story can help others embrace their true selves and make sports more inclusive for everyone. Hopper remarks, “It’s time for LGBTQ+ athletes to feel supported and empowered in their teams and communities.” Their impact has been tremendous already, with many people expressing their resonance with the players. One parent of a teen soccer player is grateful that his lesbian daughter has role models like Hopper and Mayfield to look up to.

As the sports world takes steps towards greater inclusivity, Max Mayfield and El Hopper’s decision to share their relationship will stand as a pivotal moment in the ongoing effort to break down barriers and create a more accepting environment for LGBTQ+ athletes in all disciplines.

The U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team has qualified for next year’s Summer Olympics after their win against Canada. And later this year, Hopper and Mayfield will be competing in the FIFA Women’s World Cup alongside their teammates.

[demonic-shadowlucifer]

Just fyi as an American I'm not gonna get too offended by most jokes about Americans or America in general (in fact I will admit we do deserve to be mocked lol). That said though, and I'm probably gonna make some enemies with this, but can you guys just stop using school shootings (or mass shootings in general) as a punchline? They're not the own you think they are. Those have killed people. Hell they have fucking traumatized people. A lot of us *still* have to worry about mass shootings. And making a mockery of them is... honestly very fucking tasteless. Make fun of our government. Make fun of our nickname for football. Make fun of our arrogance. Whatever. Just... stop making a mockery of stuff that's actually fucking killed people.

[mywritersmind]

CAT PARENTS - LN

pt.2

summary : A kitten is all it takes to get two strangers in the same bed for the night. Lando likes how she doesn’t know him, Olivia likes the cat that he’s trying to take from her.

warning : Just Lando, Olivia, and Juna being adorable (again) !

word count : 1459

⋆ ˚‧｡⋆

I’m in Landos clothes in the bathroom thirty minutes later. I had the best shower of my life, wiping away my club stink and snuggling into baggy sweats and a McLaren shirt.

I hype myself up in the mirror, there’s very few occasions where i’ve stayed over at a man’s house. All of those have been after sex. I am not going to have sex with Lando. It’s a weird learning curve but I was the one who wanted me to stay more.

He lets out a laugh when I walk out, slapping his hand back over his mouth he says, “I didn’t mean to laugh!”

I smile and spin around, “That’s fine. I mean… I do look sort of ridiculous.” his clothes do not fit me by any means…

He shakes his head, playing with Juna who is chasing a feather attached to a stick, “No, you look good.” His voice is a bit raspy, sounds tired.

This should not have an effect on me but the butterfly’s are definitely there.

“So Olivia.” he uses my real name, “If you don’t like F1, what sports do you like?”

I smile and sit next to him, “Soccer mostly.”

He side eyes me, “Football?”

I eye him right back, “Soccer.”

He smiles, happy with our disagreement, “Why not Formula?”

I sigh and shrug, “Sort of rough on an Americans sleep schedule. My dad loves it actually! But when I got to college I never got back into it.”

“That’s good.”

“What, that I never got back into it?” I look at him playing with Juna, a rouge curl falling into his face.

“No. You said your dad loves it. That’ll mean he likes me.” There go those damn butterfly’s, “Unless he doesn’t like McLaren.”

I smile to myself, “He’s a ferrari fan.”

He sighs, “Ah… might have to win his trust then.” I should not be thinking about how much my dad would like Lando.

I lean back against my arms, “And what makes you so sure you’re going to meet him?

He smiles softly back at me, “We have a child together now.” He grabs Juna and brings her close to his face. Something about him and this cat is just melting my heart.

“Right.” I smile and pet under her chin, “Lovely. We’re stuck together forever, I guess.”

His blue eyes meet mine, “I guess.”

____

“Oh my-” I take a bite of my burger that Lando and I ordered. The burger was the first thing ordered, followed by fries, two milkshakes, chicken tenders, more fries, chips, and onion rings.

Lando laughs at my groaning as he nibbles on his chicken, “Like it?”

“It even tastes rich.” I shake my head, “Wanna try?” I don’t know why I say it. I hate sharing my food, I won’t even share my water with my best friend.

He shakes his head, “Nah i’m sort of… picky.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrug and keep eating.

“Back to our game?” He asks, biting into a fry. I nod as he starts, “Favorite color?”

“Blue, Navy.” Although his eyes could be changing my mind on the navy part. “Favorite holiday?”

“Christmas. It’s always during winter break, obviously. So I get all the time I want with my family.”

“That’s really sweet.” I sip my milkshake, “Is it hard, being away all the time? Even if you do love it.”

“Not your turn yet.” He raises a brow, “What’s your favorite memory from your childhood?”

“Hm… I wasn’t exactly a child, But still. I was seventeen and had just got out of a horrible relationship.” he frowns at this, “Don’t worry I poured coffee on him- anyway my friends and I drove to the beach, absolutely blasting Taylor Swift, and we just swam in our clothes.” I shrug, “It was like midnight.”

He smiles as I tell the story, “It’s so cool you grew up by the beach.” thank you cali.

“Answer my question now, please.”

He sighs, “It’s hard. My sister has a kid so I wish I was with her a lot… but honestly my parents can make it to a lot of races and it’s not like I have a girlfriend to worry about.” I laugh at this.

I try to sound casual, “I’m assuming you have in the past?”

“Yes…” he says suspiciously, “but it’s tough. What about you, got anyone special?”

“Definitely not. Broke up with my college boyfriend a while ago…” Why am I telling him this?

He whistles, “How old are you?”

“Twenty three.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I’m twenty four.”

“That is good.” I laugh and he laughs with me, “You’re young.” I say.

He shakes his head, “So are you. I forget sometimes.”

“That you’re young?”

He shrugs and wipes his hands on a napkin, “Being a driver doesn’t exactly scream ‘first job!’”

“I never really thought about that. My first job was a wedding calligrapher though.” He laughs, “I’m serious!”

“I believe you! It’s just… random.”

“You’re random.” I roll my eyes as if that was any insult.

I hear scraping and see Juna join us on the bed the next second, I laugh at the tiny kitten climbing up the bed. She walks right on top of Lando, up his arm and on his neck.

“She likes me!” He whisper yells. I lay my head on the pillow, getting tired after my day.

“She has good reason to.” I say as I yawn, closing my eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, Livvy.”

“I’m not…”

____

LANDO NORRIS

She fell asleep. I look at the clock, 2:23am. I set Juna down but she keeps trying to get my attention as I clean up our food.

I’ve enjoyed this far too much. I like her company.

This girl i’ve just met. I barely know her!

Yet I feel like I've known her for years.

I shouldn’t get attached. I don’t easily. But with Olivia it feels like I've known her since I was in school.

That could be the late hours talking though. But still, we’ve been talking for hours. With this bloody cat who I've fallen completely in love with.

“Norris.” I hear her whisper.

“Yes, love?” I let it slip by accident.

“Juna peed on the couch.” she pats the bed, “Come on.”

I thank god because my back would be fucked if I slept on the floor and my trainer would not be happy. I switch the lights off and climb in next to her, Juna in between us.

“Night, love.” She whispers before promptly falling asleep.

____

OLIVIA WREN

I wake up to an arm around me and a man standing above me. I scream.

“Fuck!” Lando pulls his arm away immediately, opening his eyes quickly and looking at the man in screaming at, “Max!” he groans, “You didn’t have to scare her!”

“Sorry.” He crosses his arms, “I’m Max.”

“Hi?” I try to slow my heart rate, “God! You scared me!” I look back up at him, Lando mentioned the childhood friend but I didn’t think I’d meet him so soon.

“Sorry again. Lando scared me first! Bloke can’t figure out how to use his phone!” Max throws his phone at Lando who dodges it. I’m still trying to recall why I'm here and what is happening.

Juna reminds me when she trots over and plants herself on my lap. “I thought you’d been killed or something!” Max yells at Lando whose face is still in the pillow.

I’m suddenly very self conscious about being in this bed. Max seems to notice and shakes his head, “Well now that I know you’re alive… Plane takes off in an hour.”

____

He’s packed in fifteen minutes. Why couldn’t he be a slower packer?

We’re quiet up until the elevator exit, “Juna is still half mine.” He says suddenly, the blue skies coming into view as we walk outside.

“Okay?”

“So don’t forget me, or anything.” He says, looking away from me.

The corner of my mouth lifts, “No chance.” Putting his bags down, he slides my phone out of my pocket and into his hand.

“My number.” He says before handing me my phone back, “Use it all you want.”

“Oh I should be so greatful.” I say it sarcastically but honestly, I am.

He nods, a small smile still gracing his face, “Be safe, alright? Don’t go home with any more strangers.”

My grip on Juna’s carrier tightens, “We’ll see.”

He says goodbye to Juna, sticking his finger through the wire and petting her. He stands up straight, taking his things as the valet brings his car.

“Good luck.” I say quickly, he looks almost surprised. “In your race. Maybe I’ll watch.”

His surprise turns into kindness, leaning down a bit, he places his lips softly on my cheek, “Don’t scream my name too loud, love.”

I blush as he steps back, I wave. He gets into his car and looks back through the slight tint, smiling.

note : should i do a pt.3??

[redbullgirly]

hi hi can i request a max verstappen x footballer smau but she plays for real madrid femenino and we know max is an fcb supporter (also for the sake of the smau, real madrid femenino can be just as good as barcelona femeni) and everyone going crazy when she just takes him to an award ceremony as her plus-one. no soft launch no hard launch and everyone including the grid and christian horner and madristas and everyone is shocked

MADRIDISTAS [MV1/33]

Max Verstappen x footballer!RealMadridFemenino!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Y/N is one of the biggest rising stars in women's football, playing for Real Madrid Femenino. When she's nominated by Women's Football Awards for the Player of the Year, the last thing anybody would expect is her plus one to the ceremony being Formula One driver, Max Verstappen. Not only is he the World Champion himself, but most importantly, Max is a known FC Barcelona fan. Talk about making friends with the enemy...

Warnings: I have very limited knowledge of football, so everything in this story is based on my quick research. If you're a fan, please don't come for me! Though any advice would be much appreciated, because I have more football requests in my inbox XD.

Author's Note: Hi Anon, thanks for the request! I have to say it was quite challenging for me at the start, because I don't know many things about football, but at the end it turned out fun and good. Hope you like what I did with this social media au! :)

yourusername posted on instagram

liked by fifawomensworldcup, alexiaputellas, maxverstappen1 and 239,022 others

tagged: realmadridfem

yourusername And it's a wrap!🥈⚽️ Thank you to the whole team for another amazing year, we fought hard and we will continue to fight for the Champions League title next year as 2023/24 runners-up. Hala Madrid!✨🇪🇸

view all 809 comments

user1 Love the way you play!

realmadridfem Hala Madrid!💪🏆

liked by the author

yourusername 💯

user2 💥💥💥

user3 Vamosssss

user4 GO GIRLLL🤩🤩🤩🤩

user5 you really deserved to win the finale, the referee was totally biased agains you!!!

user6 Yeah, even as a FC Barcelona fan I didn't think it was fair🙈

martagarcialopez19 amazing Y/N! 🫶

yourusername Thank youuu!💖

user7 wait does y/n know some people from motosport???

user8 No I think it's just girls supporting girls in sports dominated by men tbh ☺️

liked by the author and martagarcialopez19

user7 oh yeah that makes sense

user9 Buen trabajo que equipo tan bueno con todas y en lo personal muy guapa [Good job, what a great team with everyone and personally very pretty.]

marisabel_rguez The dream team 🙌

liked by the author

yourusername Yessss

user10 HALA MADRID 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

user11 literally the prettiest soccer player I ever saw😻

user12 you mean FOOTBALL?!😂🧐

user11 sry i'm american so i'm used to saying soccer

user12 well that's WRONG girly😂

user13 Princess

messages between Y/N and Max

yourusername posted on instagram

liked by maxverstappen1, realmadridfem, charlottesiine and 189,436 others

yourusername Short stop back home in Monaco before flying to London for Women's Football Awards and my nomination for Player of the Year 🤞🌷

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user1 so pretty

maitetxuu_10 The nails Y/N 🤩

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yourusername Not better than yours though 😚

user2 i don't watch football but maybe i should start bc of you

user3 Wow you're such a cutie 😍❤️

charlottesiine great work out together!

yourusername Agreed! We should definetly hit the gym together more often 😂

user4 omg wait how do they know each other?? didn't expect y/n y/l/n to be friends with ex-wags??

user5 Idk but they both live in Monaco so it's easy to know basically everyone who's your age there xdd

yourusername True user5, they don't tell you how small the country actually is 😭

user6 SHE IS MY ROLE MODEL EVERYBODY

user7 👏👏👏👏🔥🔥

lucybrozne Seems like the Monaco sun suits you 😁☀️

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yourusername Oh thanks Lucy! 🫶

lucybrozne 🫶

user8 i love that despite fcb beating madrid they're still friends outside of the field🥺

user9 WOW you should be a model

user10 So sad your talents aren’t being fully appreciated in Madrid.

user11 oh c'mmon she probably wouldn't play for them if she felt unappreciated 🙄

user12 but tbh I think she should be the captain.... like she's literally the best player of them all BY FAR

user13 Nah I don't like her. Hope she'll never be a captain🤮

user12 then go away? lol

user13 damnn the 3rd picture did some unholy things to me 😩

user14 right?! I don't think I'm straight anymore🫣

user15 I have no idea who she is but let me tell you she's gorgeous

user16 ✨✨✨👑🎀🌹

twitter

messages between Max and Christian Horner & Max and Carlos Sainz

yourusername posted on instagram

liked by gerihalliwellhorner, maxverstappen1, alexmorgan13 and 621,983 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername Turning him into Madridista duh.

viewl all 3,084 comments

maxverstappen1 Y/N I love you... but that's never happening ❤️

yourusername Liar! You complained for a week straight about how that referee in the finals wasn't fair and we should have won agains Barcelona! 😘

carlossainz55 hahaaa mate she got you😂

maxverstappen1 😒

user1 OMGGG we converted him on our side!!!

user2 A sad day to be a FC Barcelona supporter and F1 fan😓

user3 A happy day for Madridistas!😍

user4 damn I may have to start watching football

martagarcialopez19 you're glowing! also thanks god now I don't have to keep the secret anymore xd

yourusername Love ya! 🫶

user5 The IT WAG

user6 can we take a moment to appreciate how cute maxie looks here?🥹

realmadridfem You go girl! Convert new fans!🤩💪

liked by the author

user7 I'm still shocked by this whole thing 😹

user8 you're not the only one lol

user9 the second picture????

user10 Max is so lucky man🥵

marisabel_rquez ¡La pareja poderosa!😍 [The power couple!😍]

liked by the author

user11 this post murdered me and dragged me all over slaycity with how much it served 🤭

user12 exactly! her and max are so hot and pretty

user13 🤍😍💯🥳 Hala Madrid!!!

maxverstappen1 posted on instagram

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, f1, realmadridfem and 1,109,332 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1 My girl ❤️⚽️

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THE END

Author's Note: Thank you for reading the whole thing! I'll appreciate likes, reblogs, follows and comments, or any other way of support. Let me know what you think about this pairing and please tell me if there are any football errors, because I have another request about footballer!reader waiting for me. Have a great day! :)

[greenorangevioletgrass]

fever pitch (b.b) - prologue

soundtrack: mastermind - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: Bradley shoots his shot in public, but will he fumble when he meets you in person? warnings: language, drinking, meet cute notes: my first series in a while! this is shamelessly based on the epic Taylor Swift/Travis Kelce saga currently happening rn, and combine that with my innate love of football (the kicking kind, not the NFL kind) and... voila! I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblogs, and asks. Happy reading! <3 ✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

Soccer Sensation Bradley Bradshaw Fails To Shoot His Shoot With Y/N At Her Concert?

Arsenal captain Bradley Bradshaw may be among his club’s top scorers this season, but even he misses a chance in romance like the rest of us.

The 29-year-old athlete spoke about his missed opportunity with the multi-platinum songstress Y/N while speaking to his former teammate Héctor Bellerín on the latter’s podcast, “More Than A Footballer”, earlier this week.

When asked about any fun stuff he did last weekend, Bradshaw replied,

“I went to the Y/N concert at Wembley [Stadium]... it was awesome. It was pouring rain, but it was amazing. I don’t remember Wembley ever being that electric aside from, like, cup finals. She was sensational.”

Bellerín nods in agreement, having heard great things about the famed singer-songwriter’s live concerts.

Unprompted, the American midfielder then continued,

“If you’ve heard about the tour, there’s this tradition of trading friendship bracelets. And I actually made one with my number on it, hoping I could give it to her after the show…”

The Cockney-raised Spaniard cackled in surprise and teased him, “But she didn’t wanna see you, bruv? [That is] legend!”

“No hard feelings!” Bradshaw raised his hands in defense over the Zoom call. “She needed to dry off and get warm. Gotta make sure she stays healthy, protect those vocal cords. But yeah, I was a bit bummed out about it.”

Bellerín laughed and jokingly addressed the camera, “Y/N, if you’re watching, give my boy a chance, will you?”

Mononymous pop sensation Y/N is hot off of her Kaleidoscope North American Tour, which wrapped in September. Her six-show run at Wembley Stadium this November officially kicks off the European leg of her sold-out tour. 

Will they be the next pop royalty and conquer the stadiums with their own crafts, or will this fizzle out as this week’s viral anecdote? The ball is in your court, Y/N.

Y/N’s representatives have not responded for comment.

***

Your Miu Miu heels click and clack against the ground. The pavement gleams after the rain and glistens under the streetlights. Everywhere you look, your eyes hurt. Down, and you worry about slipping into a puddle and falling on your ass. Forward, and a million camera flashes are ready to give you an aneurysm.

All in the name of reporting your night off of work, performing live in front of 90,000 people in a stadium.

In other words, all in a day’s work.

There’s a moment of reprieve, when the silvery white blitzes disappear into the dim tangerine lighting of the lobby. The flight down the stairs is so dark, you’re seeing green. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but as soon as they do, the thumping bass line of some dance music hits your ears. Clashing perfumes doused on the dancing, dressed-up bodies that you have to weave through.

You are seriously regretting your girl friends’ invite to a night out. You could’ve just had them over to your hotel, open a bunch of red wine, and you would’ve still had a blast. But no. You had to say yes to going to the Cuckoo Club with Lacey, Amara, and Jo.

And this evening is making you feel quite cuckoo.

There’s champagne at your booth and you’re much too eager to take a glass and start a toast. “Cheers, bitches!” you yell over the music, clinking your glass against theirs before downing the whole thing in one go.

It’s nowhere near enough.

There’s not enough buzz to dull the assault to your senses—not even after the three glasses of wine at dinner earlier. Everything is still too loud, too bright, too crowded, too… much.

“Hey!” you nudge Amara, who is sitting right next to you. “Let’s do shots!”

She turns to you, eyes widening at the slightest. “I thought you wanted to take it easy tonight!” 

“Changed my mind,” you shrug, as you get up to the bar.

While you make your way through the crowd on the dance floor, Bradley Bradshaw looks up from his booth and does a double-take at the girl who just walked by. Even in a high-end club full of the well-dressed and well-heeled, people still get starstruck. And why wouldn’t they? You’re about as famous as an iPhone. 

His eyes widen and immediately whips out his phone to shoot a text to his oldest and most trusted friend Natasha Trace.

‘Dude, I’m in the club and Y/N just walked in. What do I do??’

Natasha thankfully texts back almost immediately. Then again, maybe being a Communications Director for a major company requires her to be a good texter. ‘Wdym what do you do? Just go talk to her.’

‘You were supposed to introduce us!’ Bradley replies, eyes darting between his phone and you at the bar, conflicted.

Natasha is a mutual friend of yours, too, and when the Bracelet-gate clip went viral, she laughed in his face for a full 5 minutes before deciding to set the two of you up. But the schedule never really aligned, so he hasn’t got a chance to see you. Not even after he went to your concert with a friendship bracelet and a dream.

And now, seeing you here in the same room at the same time as him…

‘What do you want me to do, get down there and do it for you?’

‘...Can you?’

He senses the judgment even as the three dots appear on his screen. 

‘Stop being a pussy, Bradshaw. Let me Netflix and chill with my gf in peace.’

Bradley scoffs, half-annoyed and half-fond. ‘Asshole. Have fun.’

The dance floor clears up, just enough to see that you’re right there. Leaning against the bar in your dress like a dirty daydream, talking to the bartender, and he couldn’t just let you go without a word. He thought about it, and he simply couldn’t.

“Oi, where are you off to?” His teammate Martin hollers, while the others watch him make his way to the bar in determined strides.

He squeezes past patrons across this jungle of a club, hoping to God that somebody hasn’t beaten him to talk to you yet, or you haven’t ducked out completely. Oh fuck. You’re still there, though. Good. You’re still at the bar, still glimmering under the mirrorball. Just a tap on the shoulder away. You can do it, Bradshaw…

“Excuse me, I—”

You feel the hand on your shoulder just as you turn and stand up, and in a flurry of miscoordination, looks up just as the other person moves in.

In a stroke of dumb luck, Bradley feels the top of your head slamming up against his nose and he groans in pain. “Ohh!”

“Shit! Oh my God…” you gasp, reaching out to the man in front of you. He’s tall, very tall, and you can’t quite see his face with his massive hand clutching his nose. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s okay. My bad…” It really doesn’t seem like it, so he lets go of his nose and smiles sheepishly. Gosh, he must’ve looked stupid right now.

But you see it differently. What you see is a dashing man in a sleek tieless navy suit and a well-groomed mustache, straight out of a Cinemascope flick, ever so handsome despite his reddened nose from the way you just accidentally headbutted him. “No, that was totally mine. Are you okay?”

Your eyes are crystal clear even in the dim light, the concern is palpable in your gaze—and rightly so. It’s just that he’d take the headbutt any day, if it means he can look at your beautiful face. “I’m… I’m swell. Y/N, right?”

There’s a shift in your gaze. First, alert—you’re assessing how much of a potential threat this person is, whether they’re gonna be weird about you— and then it relaxes. Not a threat. Then a slightest hint of mischief, like she wants to know what kind of dynamics they would have. “Have we met?”

And boy, can he.

“We haven’t, actually. But I went to your show at Wembley earlier this week. You were amazing.” He offers a handshake. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

You didn’t quite catch his name over the blaring music, although you shake his hand anyway. “Sorry?” 

He leans into your ear, “I’m Bradley Bradshaw.”

You don’t know which one makes your heart skip, the sudden close proximity, the warmth of his timbre, or the whiff of his perfume.

“Right. Nice to meet you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You accept his handshake, hoping he doesn’t see how flustered you are in the strobing purple light.

“Likewise.” He nods with a smile. “And may I just say… you look stunning.”

“What, this old thing?” You brush down the art nouveau-inspired Balmain dress on your body. You’re just being modest, of course; you know you’re dressed to the nines. You have never been much into facial hair, but somehow that mustache suits him very well. “You don’t look so bad yourself. You remind me of a… young Robert Mitchum. Or Paul Newman— or one of those Golden Age leading men.”

His face lights up. It’s hardly the first time he received that kind of compliment, but when it came from you, it feels… different. It feels special. It makes him just a little bolder. “Yeah? Maybe after a few drinks, I’ll be quoting lines from Butch Cassidy. Or would you prefer Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?”

This piques your interest. A man of culture, it seems. But of course, you can’t be too sure. “I’m more of a Paris Blues kinda gal, I’m afraid.”

Gosh, you don’t swoon so easily and he likes you so much for that. “Makes sense.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good underrated musical movie, for the musically gifted… And Sidney Poitier was just fantastic in that.”

“Huh.” You raise your eyebrows. You honestly thought he was just spouting the famous titles. But the fact that he has likely seen this hidden gem might just mean he’s really into it. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

He leans in to speak in your ear yet again. “If you stick with me for a bit, I might show you another surprise or two.”

The music drowns out your racing heart just barely, and the bartender places a whole set of tequila shots on the bar top, and it snaps you out of your reverie for a moment. 

“Wanna get some air?”

He seems surprised, but of course he wasn’t gonna throw away this shot. “Sure. Why not?”

You instruct the bartender to send the shots to your booth, not even spending ten seconds to ponder staying in this deafening hell hole. Not when this man looks like peace. Perhaps an undercurrent of mystery underneath, but his whole demeanor is as calm and comforting as those old-school movies you put on to fall asleep. At the same time, something about this person pulls you in, it’s almost magnetic, and you can’t help wanting to see this through.

[sports-on-sundays]

lucky strike / CL16

Summary: Charles x American!female!reader - F1 comes to Sin City and you unexpectedly run into a certain someone.

Warnings: gambling, alcohol, cussing, use of pet names (A LOT), flirting, one moment of implied jealousy

Requested?: Sort of! Thank you to everyone who voted for Charles in the poll!

Author's Note: Charles won out in the poll, so here you go, everybody! (Of course I HAD to use The Charles Vegas Podium Picture). Also, I listened to Lucky Strike by Maroon 5 while writing.

one in a million ; my lucky strike

Well, you thought the whole F1 thing was absolutely ridiculous. You couldn't care an ounce less about Formula 1, so you certainly weren't happy about all the complications of it coming to your city.

You would call yourself an all American girl, and you're proud of it. If any racing, NASCAR. Football is the sport with the brown ball you throw- NFL, not the white and black ball you kick. That's soccer. You have the greatest food, the greatest mix of cultures, the greatest weather. If you didn't know better, you'd say you have the greatest country, too.

You watched a Formula 1 race when you realized the whole Las Vegas Grand Prix thing was actual, and when you saw that (firstly) it was honestly pretty boring, and (secondly) the only American driver is basically the most sucky one, you decided it would be pretty hard to get into it.

You're a Vegas girl, and you're proud of it. You're actually from Los Angeles, California, but you moved to Vegas to chase your dreams and live the life you dreamed of a year ago with your boyfriend, and it was so worth it.

Now you identify yourself with Vegas even more than you do with the Los Angeles Rams, despite the fact that your boyfriend broke up with you seven months ago and left to go be a prodigal son in New York City.

You decided Vegas was perfect enough for your clever hand, and you'd continue to be a prodigal daughter right where you're at.

But now the Grand Prix is the newest thing, and you don't like it at all. All these people flooding in, like as if there's not already enough people. Just to watch some cars drive around in circles, closing up main roads? No, you're not into it.

Your girl friends all seem to think this is just the best thing, and you discuss it across the table with two of them. One says, "Honestly, the McLaren duo are the hottest."

"No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?" your other friend disagrees.

You snort in disbelief and say sarcastically, "How about neither? So you guys only care about this because the racers are hot? Give me a break."

"Well," one of your friends starts, crossing her arms across her chest, "They are hot. At first, I wasn't so sure, but, I mean, come on! Maybe we could get glimpses of them when they're in Vegas!"

"Or meet them!" your other friend pipes in.

You scoff. "Good luck with that. Aren't these guys self-focused millionaires with too much money for their own good? Probably all greedy idiots who hook up with every half-sexy girl who comes along. So if you're into that, sure, waste your time trying to meet some hot plutocrats, with the one percent chance you might get f*cked like crazy for a night before they forget about you and move back to their mansions across the world! F*ck, is race car driving even a real sport? It's f*cking driving cars. I could do that!"

Your friends don't really argue with you, because you're right. And clearly, they do only care about the hot racers, because you figure any real fan of the sport would argue with you.

Two days before the Strip is supposed to be closed up for the Grand Prix, you find yourself submerged in the vibrant energy of Wynn Las Vegas, the dazzling lights and sounds of the casino floor swirling around you. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air, a reminder of the drinks you've indulged in throughout the night.

You slip between two people to reach the roulette wheel, holding your newly bought chips, with money you've earned earlier in the night.

Bets are placed around the table over and over, as you earn more and more chips. You feel someone nudge your shoulder, and a cocky male voice comments next to you, "You're having a good night, huh?"

"Every night is a good night," you remark back, not even glancing up at the man talking with you. He seems to have some sort of accent that you can't place. Perhaps French?

Which means he's probably from Louisiana. Possibly Quebec.

Probably some rich idiot F1 fan who can afford to travel half way across the country for the Grand Prix.

You don't plan to even give him the light of day.

"Until it's not," he says as you watch the roulette wheel spin once more.

You smirk and feel his eyes on you as you collect more chips.

The game goes on, and you think he's gotten the message that you don't care to converse with him, because does shut up.

But now it's the last bet of the game. You take a sip from your glass and feel a stupid, risky streak in you.

Some idiot part of you that's drunk and wants to push her luck way too far.

You place a straight-up bet, all your chips on the number sixteen.

You can feel eyes on you, and the same man next to you from earlier says, "Are you stupid?"

You chuckle. "Possibly."

"You're going to lose all your-"

"No, I won't." You straighten your back, staring at the wheel. It's true, you've earned a lot of money throughout this game.

And honest, it is true that you're stupid.

But it's also true that for some reason, you're confident.

"So you're overconfident and risky? I like that," comments the guy next to you. "But you're going to lose all your money. All that good luck for nothing..."

"You'll see," you breathe, ignoring his little flirt. "It's going to land on sixteen."

"Sixteen, huh?" This man's hazel eyes sparkle, and something in you tells you that you've seen this guy's brown locks, bright dimples, and perfect stubble before.

You've seen him somewhere. Recently. Like some guy you could haven't been drunk with, but the memory is fuzzy.

But you weren't drunk with him.

Despite being sure you've seen this guy before, you're also sure you've never met him before, either.

"Yeah," you nod, looking away, staring as the roulette wheel begins spinning. "It's my lucky number."

You're not looking at him, but you can feel him grin next to you. "Your lucky number, huh? Just so happens, it's mine, too."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Is that some lame attempt of a flirt?"

"No. It really is my lucky number." By his tone, you can tell that grin has downgraded to a smirk. "But if you'd like to see a lame attempt of a flirt, that's an option, too..." His voice lowers as you feel his arm snake around you, and his hand land on your waist.

You gently shove it off as the wheel begins to slow. You hold your breath, watching, this stupid French boy no longer even a fraction of your concerns. All focus is on your slight potential lucky strike.

And then the world stops as the wheel stops, too.

On sixteen.

And then it all comes flooding back. "Oh my God!" you squeal stupidly, covering your mouth as there's rounds of, "You've got to be kidding me," "No way," "It's impossible!" and "How lucky is this girl?"

You feel surges of shock and pride as you collect all your money. Once you've received it, after such luck, and earning a fortune, you decide you're going to have a drink. Or more than just one.

But when you turn, there's that guy again.

"What's up?" you ask, the grin on your face impossible to wipe off.

"How did you know it was going to stop on sixteen?" he questions, and he looks a little more handsome than he did before as this time he succeeds in taking your waist.

"Are you trying to pick my pocket?" you question warily, though, shoving his hand away.

"Not at all," he chuckles, "But you're a smart girl, aren't you? And I think I might be a lucky boy. Come on- I'll buy you a drink."

You snort. "No way, pretty boy! I can buy my own drink, after what just happened! How cocky are you?"

"Call me cocky, or call me rich, but either way, you're too sexy to have to pay for your own drink."

You scoff at this, but figure that you can't really let down an offer of free stuff. You'll be the first to admit you're greedy. Once of the biggest reasons why you gamble is because you want money- duh- and as much of it as you can get.

So soon, you're sitting at a table with this random guy, looking into his eyes, holding your drink in your hand. After barely a moment of hesitation, your curiosity finally gets to you, and you ask, "Who are you, anyway? I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere recently."

He gets a smug look on his face, which you don't like, before he says, "You really don't know?"

Your nose crinkles up in confusion, and for a second you feel ultra worried. Is this someone that I've met, that I should remember? Am I a terrible person for not knowing who this is...?

But then he says simply, "My first name is Charles. Charles Leclerc."

You stare at the taller individual, knowing you've heard that name, trying desperately to wrack your brain of it.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

Loudly, in your head, in your friend's voice, in the exact tone she said it, 'No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?'

"Wait-!" you say in shock. You can see the satisfaction on the man's face, Charles, as you realize. "So, you're one of those F1 racers? Like, you race for the Ferrari team?"

He snorts and nods. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize me right away. Do you live here in Vegas?"

"Yeah," you say simply, taking a sip of your drink.

"So I take it you hate Formula 1, then? Because how else are you living in Vegas right now and don't know my name, or recognize my face?"

"You sound awfully prideful."

Suddenly, he smirks, and drags his finger across your jawline, pulling your face to look up at him in the process. "Maybe so. But clearly you're not so much better yourself, Miss Bet It All On Sixteen."

You cock an eyebrow at him and return his smirk with a challenging grin. "Sure, but I was right. I won what I wanted."

"Hmm... Well, what if I'm about to win what I want?"

"Oh, yeah? And what is it that you want?"

He leans in closer, so you can feel his hot breath tickle your ear as he utters simply, "You, baby."

You smirk. "We just met, buddy. I'm not that stupid."

"I think you're just playing hard to get."

"Or maybe it's just hard for you to get me," you counter.

"Well, I like your spunk. And your good luck. I think I might need a little bit more of that." He leans away a bit, and comments, "And I think I foresee a little bit more of luck in your future."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he smirks, leaning in closer. In barely any second, his lips meet yours, and though you know you should, there's no way you're pulling away now. He wraps his arm around you, urging you to lean into the kiss. You melt, letting him.

You don't know what it is.

But in this moment, you gently let your lips part, inviting his tongue to slip in between your lips, allowing yourself to, yes, make out with basically a stranger.

It wouldn't be the first time, but it also isn't something you do for fun whenever you feel.

When you finally force yourself to pull away, the first thing you breathe is, "How did you do that?"

He grins, and is clearly red in the face. But there's a look of shock on his face, too. As if his flirty cover was just confidence, and not because he gets tons of girls like this...?

Or maybe you're just reading too much into his expression.

Either way, he responds with, stroking your cheek, "No idea. Maybe I just have a way with you?"

You roll your eyes as you check your purse. No, he didn't pickpocket. He meant to kiss you. You stand up and say simply, "Well, I better get going n-"

"Sorry, what?" he suddenly snatches your arm back, pulling you back down to sit again with a surprised chuckle. "You just met a famous millionaire race car driver who bought you a drink after you won big money in roulette, let him make out with you, loved it, and now you're just going to casually walk off?"

You grin. "What? Do you think I was impressed by you? Think again, honey. Just because you drive cars fast and make ridiculous amounts of stupid money for it, and that you're insanely handsome- none of that means I'm any more impressed with you than I am with any other guys I meet on my night outs."

"Hm," he raises an eyebrow, and says, "What if you could get more from me, missy? Clearly, you're out for yourself and will do anything for a good deal. And you're f*cking sexy about it, too. So what if I had something else to offer you?"

You let yourself sit down at this, looking at him expectantly.

He smirks, clearly loving that he's 'won you over,' before saying simply, "Would like a free pass to the whole weekend, and a pass for the paddock?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, and your eyes widen. "I- what?"

His smirk grows even bigger. "You heard me."

You inhale sharply, but cross your arms across your chest and come out sharply saying, "Unfortunately for you, I couldn't care less about Formula 1. In fact, I'm starting to dislike it a lot. But thanks for the offer."

His jaw drops, and his eyes practically pops out of his head, which gets a chuckle from you. For a moment, he's actually speechless, before he finally gets out, "Are you aware of the offer you just refused?"

You raise an eyebrow, not able to keep the cheeky grin off your face. "Probably not, but that's okay. Why, anyways, would you give a stranger such an opportunity in the first place? You probably have ulterior motives, and I think I can pretty much guess what they are, mister. You don't even know my name yet."

"Oh, God, you're right," he laughs, taking another sip of his drink. "Well, what's your name, princess?"

You roll your eyes, and tell him.

He grins. "It's been wonderful meeting you." He digs in the pocket of his light blue jeans, and pulls out a pen and a restaurant receipt. "I know you think you'll be able to forget me so easily, princess," he starts, scribbling something on the receipt, "but trust me- you'll be wanting this." He takes your hand and presses the receipt into it, before standing up just like that, and saying with a wave as he turns to walk off, "I'll talk to you later, angel."

You look down at the receipt to see a phone number scribbled on it in chicken scratch. But the numbers are clear. And though you walk out that night rolling your eyes at this Charles's boldness and cockiness, with an abundance of money you've earned that's a lot more worth the stupid grease-stained receipt, the moment you get back to your apartment, the first thing you intend to is putting that stupid number into your phone.

"This is stupid," you comment as you slide into the backseat, next to Charles.

He just rolls his eyes. "You won't be saying that by the end of this experience. Besides, you were the one who decided to text me, like I said you would. You were just playing hard to get."

You scoff. "Oh, shut up."

"You look lovely, by the way," he comments in a lower voice. "I like that skirt." You look down at yourself. You're wearing a matching crop top shirt and short skirt, your sunglasses holding your hair back away from your face, and brown sandals.

"Thanks," you snort, crossing your arms and looking out the window, turning your gaze away from the Monégasque driver. (Yes, you did, despite yourself, look him up last night, just to know who the heck this guy even is.)

(You also were sure to look up his salary.)

(Ridiculous.)

(But also intriguing.)

Soon enough, before you know it, you're walking alongside him, about to enter the 'paddock.'

Makes it sound like a bunch of horses racing.

But when you're there, surrounded by it, in the moment, you don't think rude comments like that.

You stop, taking in the high life atmosphere. The revving car noises, the lights of The Strip on the 'racetrack,' the crowds, the music, the richness, and the challenge.

Your breathing falters, and your heart beat quickens as your hand involuntarily finds Charles's wrist and grips it as you gasp, "It's... extraordinary."

You glance to Charles's face to see him softly grinning. His hand slips down to hold yours as he comments, "You seemed like the type of girl to love it."

Your smile widens. "I've been here so many times. On The Strip. But... it's not the same. How did they do it?"

He begins walking, pulling you along by your hand as you look around. "That's just Formula 1 for you. There's nothing in the world quite like it, Y/n."

He leads you by the hand toward the Ferrari garage. Once you're there, he says, "Want to meet my teammate, Carlos?"

"Don't know who Carlos is, but sure..." you say vaguely, taking in the large piece of machinery- the Formula 1 car- in front of you.

He chuckles. "You're f*cking adorable," he murmurs, before leading you away to see Carlos.

He's a well-built man with fluffy dark hair, tan skin, big brown cow eyes, and stubble. Pretty much looks like exactly how you'd imagine a Formula 1 driver to look.

He nods respectfully. "Hey, Charles," he says, and shakes your hand with a friendly wink. "This your new girlfriend?"

You look up to see Charles smirk. "Not yet."

One of Carlos's thick, dark eyebrows cocks up, and the suggestion of an amused smirk travels on his lips for a second. "Ah, I see."

"Charles!" you snap, your eyebrows scrunches together. "Not ever."

"Well, we'll see about that. So far, I've been the right one, now, princess, haven't I?"

"Pfft. I was right about sixteen, wasn't I?"

He rolls his eyes as Carlos says with a chuckle, "Well, it will sure be interesting to see how this plays out," before moving on with his life.

Charles takes the time to show you around, and halfway through the tour, you blurt suddenly, "So, this is all the Italian team and stuff. Isn't there an American team?"

"Hmmm," Charles snorts as his eyebrows travel farther up and he fights off a seemingly somewhat mocking smirk. "There is."

"Why don't you show me them? Don't they have an American driver? Like, Carlos is Italian, right? Isn't it protocol or somethin'? Anyway, isn't it called Williams, the American team, or something? Some guy named Logan something that's an American racer on there-"

At this, Charles can't seem to hold it together anymore, and doubles over laughing, essentially, at you.

"What?!" you demand indignantly.

"You really are clueless!"

"I-"

"Alright, alright, Y/n. Haas is the American team. They don't have an American driver- German and Danish. No, Carlos is not Italian; he's from Spain. Williams is British, and yes, Logan Sargeant races for Williams, and he is American. About the only thing you got right."

You roll your eyes with a shrug. "I told you I don't give a damn about this stupid sport."

"Whatever you say, Miss Starry Eyes."

So, first Charles takes you to Haas, where you learn, surprisingly, that not all the racers are young hotshots like Charles and Carlos at least seem to be. They're friendly enough there, but really don't care much to give you any of their time, so then Charles suggests to go to the Williams garage and see if there's Logan to bother. You agree to that, so soon, you're entering Williams.

As soon as you see Logan, you know he's the American. You can see it in his stance. You can see it in his golden blond slightly sweeped hair, gray blue eyes, and strong jawline. "That's Logan, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?"

You shrug, breaking off from Charles to Logan. "Hey! You're the only American 'round here?!" you ask with a friendly grin.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up, in the most United States of America way. "Oh, hi," he says in what you perceive as dumbly, with a friendly smile. Ah, that's more like it. None of these posh Monacan boys and hot Spanish men- this guy is just like home sweet home!

You can practically hear the eagles cawing over the Rocky Mountains!

"You're Logan Sargeant?"

He nods. "I am. And you are...?"

"Just some Vegas girl dragged here by Charles."

"Ah... so you know him?"

"Well, now, unfortunately, yes."

His eyebrows furrow, but he chuckles at the same time. Though this guy isn't nearly as handsome or charming as Charles, there's something about him you like a bit more-

Suddenly, a hand is on your waist, and hot breath says in your ear, "Got to be getting back to Ferrari now. Come on with me?"

You blush and nod. "Right, Charles."

You have no idea what to think of him.

"Podium?! Uh- is a podium good?!" you ask, eyes wide as Charles brings it home in second.

"Yeah, yeah, it's good!" some guy you don't know wearing red near you says.

"Oh- Alright, well- That's good, I suppose!" you respond a little manically.

As soon as Charles as the chance, he finds you. He still has champagne on his race suit and his face is glistening with sweat, and there's no way you can deny it- he's sexy. When he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you, and his stunning eyes seem to burn into you. He can't fight the grin off his face as he says lowly, "Get why my lucky number is sixteen, baby girl?"

"Ah, stop with that," you snap, your voice cracking. You don't know, but this seems- all this seems-

Way too important.

You reach up to touch the number sixteen on his hat, before taking it off his head and slipping it on your own, backwards, on impulse.

He grins. "You can keep it. Not like you'll need a keepsake. You won't forget me."

You bite your lip, giving a quick nod, still studying his handsome face. Your eyes linger on his light pink lips, which arch into a perfect cupid's bow, as you murmur absently, "You seem pretty confident about that, huh?"

"Of course I do. Looks like you might be my little good luck charm, hm? Can't be letting you run away from me, can I?"

"Hm. Well, we'll see about that."

"Still playing hard to get?"

"Not playing. I just am hard to get."

"Whatever you say, darling," he comments with a shrug, walking off.

The French accent is pretty sexy.

Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see are the big earnest eyes of Charles Leclerc, staring back into your eyes. "Morning sunsh-"

Your immediate reaction is to scream and promptly slap him across his pretty face.

He grunts as his hand flies to his cheek to cover it up, and he says, "Hey, hey, calm down!"

But your eyes scan the room. It's clearly a hotel room. There's only one bed: the one you and Charles are laying in right at this moment. You're wearing a large black T-shirt and big blue gym shorts very tightly tied to fit your waist. Charles is dressed in a grey hoodie and jeans with a white T-shirt underneath, his regular jewelry, and white sneakers. So clearly, he's already showered and gotten dressed. He smells like his rich cologne, and his hair is all washed and fluffy and clean. If you weren't in a slight panic right now, you'd have wondered if you could touch his hair and feel how soft it is.

But!

As you're about to gasp out questions, Charles sits up and gently sets his hand on top of yours. You become aware of the pounding in your head as you bite your lip nervously. Charles looks at you earnestly, and says calmly, "Hey, you don't have to worry. It's okay."

"What happened?" you exhale.

"Nothing," he soothes. "We went out. You got more drunk than any of us though you should. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you to my hotel room. Gave you clothes to change into, and we went to sleep. Nothing more."

You swallow an anxious lump in your throat. "How do I know I can trust you? Please, just be honest with me. I won't be mad. You didn't know any bet-"

"I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. Okay?" he leans in closer, and reaches to cup your cheeks in his hands. "'Kay? Can you just trust me?"

You bite your lip, but slowly nod. "I suppose that's the only thing I can do."

Over six months later, you stand on the boat, staring out at the Mediterranean Sea, smelling the salty breeze in the air, feeling content, wearing a loose button down, light blue jean shorts with a brown belt, your slew of bracelets, white sneakers, and a headband holding back your hair.

Suddenly, Charles is up next to you. "Hey, princess." For months, you've had what you stubbornly call a 'situationship,' whilst Charles calls you his girlfriend.

Because you love Vegas more than you love Charles (or at least that's what you like to say), you refused to leave when Charles did. You like taking risks. Just not the 'travelling halfway across the world for a hot guy' kind of risks.

But you stayed in touch. Charles made sure of that.

Well, he meant it when he said he'd make sure you'll never forget him.

But then Formula 1 came back to the States, to Miami, and you knew you'd have to make the trip. The flirty comments and romantic tension thick enough to cut ensued as soon as you and Charles set eyes upon each other, like as if it hadn't been six months or so since you'd last seen each other last.

It just felt like-

Somehow fate is involved.

Well, when Charles invited you to the Monaco Grand Prix, that was an offer you felt you couldn't let down.

And, boy, was that the best descision of your life.

To see Charles win his home race like that, and to be there? Just thinking about it now gives you goosebumps. Charles had wrapped his arms around you after the race, his eyes a little damp, and you felt something more.

Like he really cared.

If you didn't know better, you'd say it was like he really loved.

Loved you.

But, no. Of course not. That can't be.

Can it?

Well, all night you partied. You were in on the fun. You also made sure to pay a visit to the Monte Carlo casino, as you obviously must.

You had amazing luck, once again.

On this thought, as you feel Charles approaching from behind you, you comment into the wind, "You know, I'm starting to think you're my lucky charm, honey."

He chuckles, coming up next to you. "Oh, yeah? That's what I said six months ago when I first met you, you know. I've been starting to think the same thing about you."

You snort. "Maybe so, Monaco race winner."

He smirks, and you can feel the pure joy radiating off him. He slips his hand into yours as he murmurs, "I was so lucky to meet you."

I smirk. "I am pretty awesome."

He rolls his eyes, but squeezes your hand. "So, do you like it here in Monaco?"

You nod vigorously. "Gosh, Charles, it's amazing."

"Better than Vegas?"

"Well- I don't know if anything is better than Vegas..."

He leans in closer and speaks lower. "Well, would Monaco be better if your good luck charm just so happens to reside here?"

"Hm..." you smirk, flushing a bit. "I'd have to think about that, prince."

"Yeah," he nod, his tone softer. "Why don't you."

There's some silence, as you watch the sun begin to set, reflecting off the sparkling water.

Charles leans even closer to you, his hands gliding around your waist, pulling you towards him. He leans down, gazing deeply into your eyes. Then that stupid flirty grin appears on his face again. "F*cking gorgeous you are, one in a million. I struck lucky with you. My lucky strike."

He closes the distance between you, his soft lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. The heat of his body against yours sends shivers down your spine, igniting a spark between you as your tongues dance together in a sensual embrace. Connected.

Maybe it's not fate.

But it is most certainly luck.

And in this moment, with the lips of the winner of Monaco sucking on yours, you feel like the one who struck it lucky.

[pitchsidestories]

They say home is where the heart is but God, I love the English II Alessia Russo x Reader

arsenal women masterlist I word count: 1390

The North Carolina sun shone brightly as you walked across the campus. With Lotte on your right and Alessia on your left, you were on your way to soccer practice. Or as Alessia kept calling it: football training.

You rolled your eyes at Alessia, “Once and for all, it’s called soccer here, Alessia.“ But the British exchange student just shook her head as if you were the one who was wrong here, “It’s football. Everyone knows that.“ From the corner of your eye, you caught Lotte rolling her eyes with a slight smile. You knew she was annoyed with the ongoing discussions since she and Alessia joined your university football team. Yet, every time there was this knowing smile on her lips. You turned back to Alessia. “Yeah, but you’re in America now, darling. So it’s soccer.“ “You’re the only ones who say soccer. What does that even mean?“, she answered like she hadn’t asked that question each time the topic came up.

You looked over to Lotte, “Lotte, say something!“ But she just lifted her hands and got up, “Keep me out of this.“ “Typical. If Lotte was playing for another country, it would be Switzerland.“, Alessia laughed. “Actually, it would be the Netherlands because her dad is dutch.“, you corrected her matter-of-factly, trying to ruin her joke. This caused Alessia to now roll her eyes at you, “Oh my god.“ “Come on, my two favorite English girls. It’s time for training.“, you changed the topic while you simultaneously increased your walking pace. “Don’t you Americans usually say practice instead of training?“, Lotte reminded you. You stopped in your tracks with shock on your face, “Shit, I spend too much time with you two!“ Alessia started laughing while she caught up with you, “Finally! She admitted that we were right!“ “No, I didn’t admit anything!“

“Sure.”, the blonde striker shrugged. Instantly you rolled your eyes at her comment but could not stop yourself from smirking at the same time: “Got, I hate you, Alessia, you’re so annoying!” “No, you don’t.”, the girl opposite of you shook her head during her observation. Still with a smile on your face, you teased her: “What makes you so sure of it?” “I know you and your weird American words by know.”, was her quick answer to it. But Alessia realized surprised by herself that her heartbeat was going up everytime you teased her in your loving way.

After an away game all the players were crammed into that little teambus, while you were sitting right next to Alessia, the atmosphere was quite cheerful as the English striker secured your team a win through her last-minute goal: “Okay, Lessie, I might give you my rest of the fries because you won us the game.” “Those aren’t fries. Those are chips!”, she corrected you immediately. Audibly Lotte was clearing her throat right behind you two, her eyes closed: “Could you two discuss this a bit quieter? Some of us are trying to sleep.” Guiltily you bit your lip as you were apologizing to the dark-haired defender: “Sorry, Lotte.”

After that you whispered into Alessia's ear: “French fries won this.” “It’s still chips.”, she pouted although the British woman did indeed enjoy your playful banter because it was never serious just harmless fun. In a reassuring voice you told her: “Sure, love, dream on.” Astonished you recognized that your sitting neighbour’s cheeks were turning pink. “Oh please. You know you’re wrong.”  “No, trust me, I’m right on that.”, you gave her a challenging look while replying so swiftly.

Meanwhile Alessia took a deep sigh before holding her speech: “ No, you’re not. It’s a pitch, not a field. They’re football boots, not cleats. We have matches, not games. And for the last time, it’s chips, not fries!”

You just shrugged. Grinning, you tilted your head, “What if I keep saying fries instead?“ “I guess then I have to eat all your chippies.“, she answered with a cheeky smile. But you decided to act clueless, “I don’t know what you mean with that.“ “You know exactly what I mean.“ Alessias blue eyes found yours. You rolled your eyes, laughing, but tried to avoid her intense gaze, “Silly.“ Alessia playfully slapped your upper arm, “Stop it!“ “Never, young lady.“ With a deep sigh and a smile that tugged on the corners of her mouth, Alessia turned to Lotte, “Lotte, she’s so annoying.“

Her English team mate refused to open her eyes and just mumbled, “I’m sleeping.“ “I know you aren’t, Lotte.“ “And I know that you find her annoyingly cute.“, she yawned. Alessia froze. “What?! No, I don’t.“ Finally, Lotte had opened her eyes. “Lessie…“ “Don’t make it weird.“ You could feel the blood rush into your cheeks as you told Lotte to go back to sleep. She only nodded once and closed her eyes again, “I would love to.“

This conversation was still playing in the back of your mind a few weeks later when the season had ended and your two English team mates were packing their belongings. After a seemingly endless hug, Lotte finally let go of you and scrutinized your face. “Lotte, stop raising an eyebrow at me. I’ll miss you two equally when you’ll be back in England.“, you tried to convince her. Lotte gave a slow nod, implying that she did not believe a word you said, “Sure. I bet you will.“ “Besides, Alessia is completely straight.“, you said calmer than you felt. Saying out loud and saying it in front of Lotte was a first time. But there was another knowing smile on her lips when she answered, “Sure, if you say so.“ This immediately awakened your interest, “What are you hinting at?“ “Oh, nothing.“, Lotte replied with more innocence in her face than her voice.

“Lotte, spit it out.”, you demanded, your curiosity clearly taking over. The defender let out a sigh coming from deep down in her chest before spelling out the obvious thing which you were just too afraid to say out loud: “You obviously like her and she obviously likes you.” “But she’ll leave soon.”, you whispered in a sad tone, trying to fight back the upcoming tears.

It was Alessias and Lottes last evening in Carolina and after a farewell party the blonde striker was laying with you on your bed in the small dorm room. She was slightly tipsy and very emotional as she stated: “I’ll miss you so much.” “I’ll miss you too.”, you automatically replied trying to keep your voice calm and reserved without all the feelings you were holding inside. Now Alessia was trying to take hold of your hand while highlighting the point she was making: “No, I’ll.. I’ll really miss you.” “Hey, remember, I’ll come and visit you and Lotte soonish.”, you tried to cheer her up. “Soonish always means never.”, she remarked sourly. Frustrated you looked into her eyes:“I mean it though, I promise. What could I do to make you believe me?” “I think I know what. Kiss me.”, the blonde answered. “Are you sure?” A slight smile was occurring on her lips: “Just do it.”

And as she wished you finally kissed her in between two kisses a question appeared in your eyes: “Do you believe me now?” “I think I do.”, she said before dragging you down to the pillows kissing you even more patiently than before.

Euros 2022

With a huge smile on her face Alessia read a British newspaper article while you were on the way to get you both an iced coffee from the coffeeshop around the corner of the Hotel the lionesses were staying at:

American Midfielder who’s rumored to sign either for Arsenal or Manchester United soon was spotted at the England game watching her former North Carolina teammate Alessia Russo scoring the prettiest goal of the whole Euros so far against Sweden.

She was so excited for her girlfriend to play finally in the same league as her and could not wait to teach you more British vocabulary as you went on your own little adventures.

All you knew was that England was your home even before you played there because it was personified in Alessia who you were handing her iced coffee, not without placing a soft kiss on her pink lips.

God, you really loved the English.

Let us know if you liked our second imagine and if you would like to read a Lotte one soon. ❤️

[3027960]

gay lil blurb about valeria

you moved to las almas, temporarily at least. as a graduate student studying the differences between greek and mayan city-state politics for your dissertation, travel to mexico was necessary. as a poor student, staying in a town run by the cartel meant a cheap apartment for at least the year you would be there.

but las almas was cute. colorful. not unlike that time you visited the cuban parts of miami. the people, at least those who weren't armed to the teeth with semi-automatic rifles and knives, were generally nice. your spanish was passable, for as long as you'd been studying the mayans. your k'iche was better, but you doubted it be very useful. maybe.

you'd been there a few months, mostly holed up in your studio apartment, making do with packaged tortas from the corner store and boxed mexican juices. and coffee. lots of coffee. the cafe down the street had a wonderful dark roast shipped weekly from guatemala and you had brought your aeropress with you from the US.

it's not like you were avoiding going out. it's just, well, you had a lot of work. writing. researching. editing.

and, honestly, you were worried. a fat girl, all alone, in an unfamiliar town run by the cartel? probably not the best idea to wander out by yourself.

but tonight...tonight you were going out.

there was a small bar down at the end of your street, run by a seemingly friendly older couple whom you'd passed on the way to the corner store. they spoke english, so you were hoping you might convince them to put an american football game on the television. it was a thursday and football season, after all.

you were going for casual, but cute, dressed in a short-sleeved crop top and long pleated skirt, with sturdy boots on your feet. even in mexico, december was a bit chilly, so you brought a chunky sweater just in case.

...

the bar wasn't crowded, just a few cartel members hanging around with their guns strapped to their back, and a few local men out for drinks after work.

you slipped onto one of the barstools and ordered yourself a beer, a safe choice with your limited knowledge of alcoholic drinks in spanish.

american football didn't make it out here apparently, but you were content to watch the soccer playing on tv. apparently, december was soccer season too. you cheered when others cheered, booed when others booed, and generally felt the tension in your shoulders gradually disappear as you relaxed under the influence of the alcohol.

so, it definitely startled you when you felt a presence settle next to you at the bar. you turned, slightly surprised, your beer bottle halfway to your lips.

and the woman next to you...god.

she was beautiful. thick brows. full lips. strong nose. tan skin.

you felt yourself blush under her attention.

oh, she was saying something to you.

"....niña?"

you shook yourself, giving her a dumb stare. she chuckled.

"where are you from? i haven't seen you before?"

even her voice was pretty, accented and strong.

"i..uh..i'm from the US. i'm here to study the mayans."

"the mayans, huh? smart girl"

you blushed harder under her attention, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. you noticed you had turned your stool towards her, as she leaned her elbow on the bar, face resting on her palm. she smiled as she noticed your unabashed attention.

"what is your name, bonita?"

you gave her your name, fiddling with the lip of your beer bottle, eyes gazing away from her intense attention.

"maybe i could take you on a walk sometime? explore las almas?"

you stuttered over your breath, blinking rapidly at her. it felt like the heat of her stare could singe your cheeks. her attention was addictive, like the cigarette habit you'd been trying to kick for years.

you heard yourself agree. enthusiastically, actually. in your head you were screaming at yourself. don't seem so desperate!

you agreed to exchange numbers, handing over your busted iphone with spiderweb cracks littering the edges. listen, your grad school stipend didn't allow for many indulgences.

she handed your phone back, her fingers lingering over your palm. they felt calloused, hardened from use. the polar opposite of your soft, round palm, used to typing and turning pages in books.

she left shortly after, leaving you reeling for the rest of the night.

you climbed into your shitty twin bed, feeling the heat of her stare heating you from the inside.

before you fell asleep to the sound of the coyotes howling outside your window, you felt and heard your phone buzz on the small bedside table.

you turned to look at your phone:

mi niña, it was lovely to meet you tonight - valeria xx

[bsydelver]

-MHA (1-A) as nowadays teenagers- social media mostly (stereotypes).

PT.1- the boys.

—>part 2 (the girls)

inspired by those “mha as American high schoolers tiktoks.”

The first section of this post has the ones I wanted to emphasize on the most then the second section will be just mentions of the boys that I found would be basic in my opinion or I couldn’t think about the concept of them being like the teenagers we have at this time,

Izuku:

This guy is active on social media 24/7.

He LOVES sending streaks on snap of everything happening, he finished studying? He is sending a streak announcing it; he was reading? He is sending a streak announcing it; he was on a call? He is sending a streak announcing it; you get the point.

His bitmoji looks like a carbon copy of him, he does not mess around when it comes to it.

The type of person to have a million different accounts on one platform: One is his main, One is his spam, One is for close friends, one for edits, etc. If you ask him for his handle or username he’ll say “which account?” or give you a specific one depending on who you are.

If he gets left on opened he deletes the message even for him only to avoid feeling embarrassed.

His music taste just depends on tiktok for the most part as he listens to audios there all the time for his edits.

I like to think that All might (or the pro-heroes in general) would be a professional player (sports) of some sort in this universe so Izuku would edit him like how people edit football/American soccer and basketball players.

He’s known in the editing community on tiktok and he loves the mutuals concept.

Not a lot of people he knows are aware of his editing hobby only Kirishima since they share it (Kiri does edits of crimson riot)— they would have that RMA fan and Barca fan friendship dynamic. (trust)

Trains the sport All Might is a professional in (and he is determined to be as good as All Might).

Part of the sassy men apocalypse.

Plays Roblox once in a blue moon and only for his friends.

Despite his extremely high screen time: he is actually smart academically.

If you’re playing a match with him (in teams, and sports that include, balls, passing, dribbling, etc.) and you have the ball, he will beg you to pass for him to shoot, but he still misses.

He likes the downtown boy style because he thinks it’s comfortable but Inko hates it.

He isn’t popular but he is still known,

Katsuki:

He barely has any social media platforms but for the ones he does have: it’s always just some private account that he only accepts people he knows on.

He sends his daily streaks and it’s always just the classic “S” drawn poorly on a black screen.

He only uses his story to repost other stories he was mentioned in.

His profile picture on every platform is a picture one of his friends took of him hiding his face using his hand, if it isn’t that photo: he just makes it a black screen.

He would send a tiktok or two every few months to a friend and then disappear again.

His main social media app is snapchat: that is what he uses for texting, calls and whatever other business he wants to do.

His snapscore is over 100k.

“wyll” warrior: if yk, yk.

Kirishima’s gym bro but never talks about it, it’s kiri who can’t help but bring it up.

Despite his somewhat “cold” personality, this mf is the definition of scared of girls: not even in the male manipulator way, he is just scared of them or avoids them.

He just wears plain shirts and hoodies, he doesn’t dedicate his clothes to a specific category: just wears what he wants.

Just expect the unexpected from him.

He is the captain of at least one sports team in his school.

He never studies (according to him) yet gets the highest marks somehow and everyone admires him for it.

Shoto:

He does not use social media at all, nearest thing he has to that is his phone number that’s about it.

Just uses his phone to call people or message them on imessage.

He does not get any joke or reference you tell him that comes from tiktok (referring to brainrot) or any other social media app for that matter unless you explain it to him.

He does backhanded jokes though that are actually hilarious.

Wears whatever he finds in his wardrobe, he does not have a specific clothing style.

His texts are as dry as a dessert.

He’s just there and everyone is here for it.

He’s the “non-chalant” guy every girl on tiktok posts about, and since he is canonically attractive: he is the topic of a lot of girl gossip sessions.

He is like an old man when it comes to phones.

He is very dedicated when it comes to sports, he will not hesitate to continue even when he is injured.

He likes listening to lo-fi and calming music in general: it helps him focus.

Him are Iida are study buddies, nobody can tell me otherwise.

He’s the guy you go to for notes if you missed any during class.

Koda:

He uses his social media accounts for photography.

He also tries to raise awareness about current problems in the world using his platforms.

He surprisingly has a lot of followers due to his insane skills.

He is the quiet guy who everyone knows in terms of appearance but nobody would actually remember him on a name basis except if they are friends with him.

Does not participate in school matches or anything sports related in general.

His mom packs him his lunch and honestly nobody says anything because he isn’t too loud about it either.

He is a really wholesome guy and anyone who knows him loves that for him.

He was raised right and has manners.

He is a vegan but not one of those crazy ones, he just does it for himself and he might not agree with the choice of eating meat but he won’t be an ass to you for it.

He’s the hotspot guy of the class, he always has mobile data so he could post wherever and whenever he’d like, people always borrow it from him and he has no problem whatsoever.

He does not have any unresolved problems with anyone whatsoever.

Everyone from school who has social media follows his accounts and he is just mutuals with people he probably never talked to before in person.

He loves posting bird chirping audios and videos and he made a couple audios that actually got used by a ton of people.

He is average academically and none of the teachers have any concerns when it comes to him.

He wears anything as long as it isn’t made out of fur, leather or anything that comes from an animal.

Ejiro:

His parents despise his phone, he is always on it no matter what in their eyes.

He will spam you with tiktoks no matter who you are, he doesn’t even expect a reply (but if you do he appreciates it) he just likes sharing videos.

EVERYONE knows about his edit account compared to Izuku, he’s the editor of the class.

He does not mess around when it comes to protein and nutrition.

He sends gym and training snap streaks.

If he has a crush, he will try to hint it using videos on social media and he will send you cute tiktoks saying he appreciates you and stuff.

He makes videos of him reaching his lifting PRs in the gym and always has phonk music in the background.

He has a highlight on instagram for only motivational quotes he posts weekly on his story.

All of his bios have a Crimson Riot quote in them.

He’s a great athlete and has respect for you even if you’re on the opposing team.

He is the captain of one sports team as well and all of his teammates love him.

He uses “🤨” and “AYOOOO” while texting.

He’s the type of guy to say “YAYAYAYAY” on text unironically.

if he isn’t on his phone, he is playing Fortnite or minecraft with his friends (mostly Denki) and he loves it.

He is the type to scream in games and use curse words even in a friendly way.

He spams the repost button on tiktok and the add to story button, it is an addiction at this point.

He has a girl best friend (Mina) and he is open about it in every way possible.

He is pretty chill with everyone: boy or girl, no girl gets the feeling that he has a crush on her unless he visibly shows it and he’s the annoying type of guy friend who’s sarcastically rude to you but knows his limits.

If you’re a girl and have a crush on his friend, you wouldn’t be able to help but tell him and you can actually trust him with it.

He hates being on bad terms with anybody and just wants to be cool with everyone.

He is just your average teen boy.

He struggles academically and he knows the reason and has always tried to improve but he feels like he can’t.

Denki:

He is scrolling on tiktok or instagram reels every single second of the day that is if he isn’t playing video games.

Can’t keep a snapstreak for the life of him.

Will respond to every tiktok you send regardless if you sent 1 or 1000 and he enjoys it.

Brainrot is the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He references brainrot in real life every time he gets the chance and he is just known for that, it’s like a staple for him.

He is the “no homo” and “it doesn’t count if we’re wearing socks” type of guy and he pairs it with Kiri’s “AYOOO”s.

Only gets a long with one girl (Jirou) cause he can’t get a long with any other or at least became close with them in contrast to Ejiro.

He loves playing fortnite with Ejiro and Sero and also he is always the host of minecraft worlds and will not forgive you if you kill his wolf/dog.

He begs Izuku and Jirou to play Roblox with him sometimes.

He has a pet and posts stories of them playing together and whatever pet it is loves attacking Denki for no reason.

He is his own person in someway and isn’t the type of guy to depend on someone for a personality but he will depend on the new social media brainrot trend for it.

This man should not be going near a ball or anything sport-related in general, because he’s ass.

Interacts with every post his friends publish and he’s always saying something in the comments.

He loves “homeless-looking” fits.

He is horrible when it comes to academics and he does not even try to improve because he finds no point.

Sero:

Sero has a surprisingly healthy screen time (only during school days though).

He is always open to playing games with the other guys and if he doesn’t have the game, he will download it even if they will only play it once.

He will watch every tiktok his friends send but will only do short replies because he’s too lazy.

He ADORES movie nights and Spiderman.

All of his profile pictures are group pics of him and his friends.

He is always posting food pictures anywhere in general, he loves the look of it.

He always looks forward to Denki’s replies.

Whenever his friends say something off guard to him: his smile fades or he does the “🤨” face and it just became a running joke in the friend group.

He gets matching socks with his friends because he saw a tiktok trend about it.

He tries to lecture his friends but does the same mistake at the end and just laughs about it.

He reposts news on his instagram stories just to mock it or say something critical at least once a week.

He laughs really loud during class and Denki does NOT help in preventing it at all.

He wears whatever one of his friends is wearing just to match with them because he usually doesn’t feel like choosing a complete outfit.

Has an overwhelming fear of parent-teacher conferences.

He swears that he tries his hardest in studying but he always gets marks as bad as Denki’s and he just accepted it.

Tenya:

In contrast to what a lot of people believe, I think Tenya would actually have at least one social media platform.

He wouldn’t use social media like his other classmates use it, but rather to help him share announcements quicker to the others since most of them are more active there.

He’d only have outdated minigames on his phone because he used to play with his older brother but other than that, he has nothing.

He offered free tutoring but Ochako convinced him that it would be a good idea to charge at least 1 bucks or something just so he can get a profit out of it.

He loves being organized and unironically has pinterest just to organize his thoughts there and whenever he mentions it, his classmates are shocked.

He hates when anyone sends a tiktok link or something similar to the main class groups because he thinks it’s out of place and bad.

Everyone comes to him for college recommendations.

People think he’d be a teachers’ pet but the teachers aren’t actually that fond of him or just treat him like any other and he actually appreciates that.

He scolds his friends for being too active on social media and that it can affect them in the future not only due to lack of concentration but also due to potential bad digital footprint.

He takes the internet really seriously and avoids anything harmful to keep his digital footprint as clean as possible.

Some of his friends ask him to set up a screen-time system on their devices because they trust him the most with it.

Straight A student and is in all of the advanced classes.

Apologies to:

Aayoma

Tokoyami (💔)

Shoji

Sato

Ojiro

Mineta (not really)

[hjellacott]

Bit worried about Ashlyn Harris actually

Aside from all the drama that's been going on lately, I've got to confess that for the past few months (or years?) I've been wondering what the hell is up with this woman.

I was such a huge fan back when she was just this Satellite Beach goalkeeper with a humble head and the love for skate-boarding and surfing and you know, family & friends first and her work with To Write Love on Her Arms. And I get people change and that none of us ever really knew her, but I've seen I'm not the only one who can't believe what she's turned into. Like, can we recognise her any more? Or was the completely playing out to be an entirely different person ten years ago?

I think it started when she came out with Ali and suddenly she was like, this attention-seeking, uncomfortably loud (as in literally screaming) person with the weird, rather cringey fashion, only talking about gay things and nothing else, behaving like the complete soccer start that to be entirely fair she wasn't... Even on her wedding video I couldn't believe that Ashlyn was the same Ashlyn of 2011, 2012, 2013... It's not even that many years to change so much, let alone in your thirties. It's like there were no remnants of the surfer, the skate-boarder, the humble butch from a small town who valued the little things... Like she was adamant on transforming into this massively public, loud, "fashionable (?)" celebrity. Even when giving interviews she was expressing herself like she had no intellect any more, you know like male footballers speak, like it's all looks and no brain, no sign of the person who got a uni degree and who gave an amazing mental health talk with TWLOHA years back.

And then when they were celebrating the WC, I was thinking, since when is she this loud and arrogant? Since when is she so attention-seeking? When did she turn into this whole other person who makes such a huge effort to ignore her lack of National Team performances and pretend like she deserved her world cup as much as Ali or Pinoe? I get subs deserve the medal and all too, I mean, they made it so far and if they weren't there training with the rest, the rest wouldn't be as good. You're only as good as the worst of you, after all. But none of the others was bragging so loudly and calling themselves x2 champions so much without having played a minute of those games, were they? Even Alyssa Naeher doesn't have world cup champion in her profiles, nor does AD Franch, nor PINOE, but you know who does? Hope Solo. And you don't want to have THAT personality. I feel like when you're confident on your victories, you don't need to brag, everyone knows who you are, your work speaks for itself.

What worries me about AH (sit down here comes my Psychology Grad analysis) is that in the past few years she's been more and more behaving like someone with no self-esteem, who's desperately afraid of being forgotten and needing to shout left and right look at me! i'm a champion! I'm a soccer star! And then she stopped getting called up for the USWNT, got stuck in the Pride (and I love them but bunch of losers tbh), and all she had left was Ali. And then Ali's doing better than she is. And then Ashlyn gets these horrible injuries and that's story of her life (injuries effed her up from day 1 and seriously impacted her career) and she's forced into an abrupt retirement with no glory.

And then emerges this Ashlyn who only cares about rubbing elbows with celebs, who believes herself to be some fashion mogul (that's all she's got left) and who is deeply satisfied with how her life turned out to be and how she's ended up being nothing but a footnote in the history of American women's soccer, specially compared to her wife. We know they've had issues for a while, that has been hinted at before, and I can only imagine there must've been a growing resentment/bitterness towards Ali because she gets everything Ashlyn won't in terms of soccer. In fact it seems to me (and maybe it's just me), that she seems to be ferociously resentful to soccer in general, like, suddenly she wants nothing to do with it and wants to pretend like soccer is not a big deal. How many times as she stated quite firmly that she's now happiest she's ever been and acted almost as if soccer was actually holding her back? as if her soccer career is nothing compared with what she has now, when we know it isn't true, because she still feels the need to remind us she's a twice world cup champion all the time?

So from a psychology point of view I think she's very bitter, very hurt, very pissed off, very resentful, that she hasn't processed her forced retirement and her not so good soccer career in a healthy way, and so she has to pretend like she's super happy and better than she was before so as not to look like the failure she feels she is. She has to use social media all the time and brag about the celebrities she's meeting, the trips she's going in... She's got nothing else but to pretend she's still as successful as all her friends she has to constantly see in social media showing off with the accomplishments she wishes she had. It's the classic game of getting depressed comparing yourself to others so you take to social media to constantly pretend you're as good as them or better, we all do it. And she's gone, in my humble opinion, off the rails, she's unrecognaisable, and if she has really had an affair and hurt Ali this big, as rumours have it, then that only strengthens my opinion. Like, I wouldn't be surprised if she's abusing substances again, if she's in some spiral downhill as it looks like. And what's Ali going to do? She can't focus on looking after her, she's got work, she's got two small kids, at this age Ashlyn needs to see she needs help and seek it on her own, not expect Ali to mother her.

That's part of why I really don't like people going on and insulting her left and right, because we really don't know what's going on, but to me it seems like when someone's not well, when someone's spiralling, they start to really go off and the first people to get hurt are those closest to her. And we must remember she is a human being, even if she makes mistakes, even if she does bad things (IF she has), and she doesn't deserve billions of people judging her and making her life miserable. And none of us would like it in our consciences if she actually is struggling with her mental health and gets worse because of generalised mass bullying. She's still Sloane and Ocean's mother, and they probably love her very much, and Ali's probably struggling a lot, so we need to remember supporting one person does not have to mean stooping so low as to have to become horrible bullies. Let's stay human, y'all.

[discokicks]

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push harder on the door.

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

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

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

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

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

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And wait.

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.

[blue-thief]

do you perhaps have some headcanons about mr. isagi? <3

OFC!! <3333

on top of having 2.0 vision (and well, metavision) his VVIQ score is a perfect 5

this helps him a lot with art and he's actually pretty good at it even though he's not as passionate about it as he is with football/soccer

he started drawing through doodling his favourite manga characters and he's able to recreate art styles almost perfectly

he's actually pretty careless when it comes to his schoolwork (esp for STEM) so sometimes he'll hand in incomplete work bc it looks like he's already filled in certain questions

like no. you doodled an eye instead of solving for "x"

he canonically hates science, but if he had to choose one branch as his favourite, it would be chemistry (not boring & derivative memorization like bio but not absolutely insane like physics)

something might contradict this in canon but i hc his handwriting is pretty shitty lmao

since so many sports anime characters look like him (nanase haruka, kageyama tobio, etc) i like to pretend they're all cousins and they meet up at family reunions to compete to see who's better at their respective sport

so yeah despite having no siblings he has a shit ton of cousins who he's really close to

he was conceived by accident 💀 his parents love and coddle him despite this

despite showing the exact opposite of the typical symptoms (great spacial awareness, scarily good empathy, etc) i still say he's got autism lmao. he just has a really unique type yk

his hobby is canonically walking, but i wanna expand on this a little bit

he somehow doesn't listen to music on his walks

(in fact, he doesn't listen to much music at all. that's why his fav song is from a commercial 💀)

furthermore, he rarely ever brings his phone out on walks at all. he likes being at one with his surroundings and he doesn't want his phone to distract him

which is understandable. unless we're talking about how he'll sometimes walk 2+ hours to go to a friends house AND HE DOESN'T HAVE IT?? NO GPS??? NO MAP NOTHING

he's just spent so much time walking around saitama he has a map of most of it installed in his mind

he really doesn't use his phone much at all. he has a few accounts in case he wants to check something out, but he doesn't post anything + barely follows anyone + even has a blank pfp on everything

he apparently received 0 valentine's chocolates in the previous year, but a few ppl from school had a crush on him

he's not popular or anything but some ppl over the years thought he was a genuinely sweet guy and quietly observed him from a distance

he's completely oblivious to this

his school friends all have way more romantic experience than him and they all tease him for this

he gets really frustrated about this and tries to convince himself he likes certain ppl in hopes of something sticking

when he genuinely likes someone he's oblivious to this too lmaoo

he's the type of guy to take dodgeball in PE wayyy too seriously

the first time he swore was when he was eight and got mad at his teammates for slacking off

he got in trouble for this and never swore in front of an adult ever again

(the lack of any physical adults in blue lock made him fall back on his foul mouth)

his fav class is PE in canon but i think i remember something about isagi hating baseball? that might have just been someone else's hc but yeah

he enjoys basketball and badminton, but he thinks volleyball is mid

the one time his school tried floor hockey he enjoyed it well enough

american football is just way too confusing for him

he had no backup plans in case football/soccer didn't work out, but he'd be fantastic in psychology and/or politics

[keresnotceres]

MW2 CHARACTERS: School AU

[sfw] cw(s): none !!! As a girlie who has been reading fanfiction for god knows how long, it was inevitable that I came through with a High/Secondary School AU. As a reminder, I don’t know shit abt the British school system so we’re going with my experiences with the American public school system. enjoy dovies <3

Ghost is that one upperclassman in every single one of your co-grade classes that just sits there. He doesn’t say a damn word and you don’t even see him writing down any notes, but somehow, he has the best grades in the whole fucking school. Principal’s honor roll, scholarship recognization galore.

It takes so long for you to work up the courage to talk to him and ask him for help on an assignment and when he admits he doesn’t know they had an assignment to do, you’re a bit dumbfounded. You realize that he quite literally just sits there and vibes the entire time. He proceeds to turn back to the window and stare out of it.

Eventually he warms up to you, though. It takes, like, three months of pestering him until he actively begins conversations with you and you find yourself with a very stoic cheat sheet. He has kept all of his tests and is perfectly fine with just giving you them bc what are morals???

Gaz is the local “i know him but we aren’t friends” kid. Literally everybody knows his name, he’s on the school’s soccer (football, i guess) team and is relatively well known as a nice person, but he only has a few close friends. His grades are also insanely high, you don’t understand how he manages to ace every test while also spending most of his time practicing sports.

He’s the type of person to forget a pencil, however, and usually ends up leaning over to whoever is next to him and asking for one. He usually gives it back, unless it’s someone he doesn’t particularly like. When he tries to give it back to you and you just tell him to keep it, he likes you automatically.

He’s always inviting you to watch his games after the two of you get closer. He also sits with you during shared study halls or lunches regardless of if you or he has other friends in the lunch. Gaz is also the type of person to lean over and ask if you wanna share the copy of an assignment document or swap essays to proofread.

Soap is absolutely the really loud jock kid that people either really like or really hate, and there’s just no in-between (i’m so sorry Foap 😭). Despite this, he’s actually one of those really nice sport boys that will start punching if someone disrespects his friends. He’s also in an abundance of art classes.

In class you can see him scribbling down notes until he gets bored and starts just doodling in his notebook, tuning out the lecture. However, if your science teacher decides today is not a teaching day and puts on something like Bill Nye or The Magic School Bus, he is enraptured. Is also the person to quietly chant “Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill!” during the theme song. Used to hate the Amoeba Sisters until he binged their videos before his Biology final lol.

You start being friends with him on complete accident after you help him with a question on a pop quiz. He gave you puppy eyes! How could you refuse! He proceeds to talk to you the next day like the two of you are best friends and you are now stuck with him until graduation. But hey! You basically have a bodyguard now.

Price is an Honors English and AP Literature teacher through and through. He originally wanted to be a history teacher, but the English position was open and he took it with little complaint. He’s absolutely the teacher you can launch into tangents for the entire class and will take half a point off of your essays for misusing a comma.

If you're his favorite student, he tends to grade your FRQs and other assignments much harsher than he would others, but it ends with you having well rounded essay skills afterwards and acing your assignments later in the year. Will let you hang out in his room during your study halls and is always open to helping you on assignments if you ask.

Hangs thank you notes from students on his walls, has a wild collection of them and shows them off any time another teacher asks him about them. Has cried reading some from students he liked having in his classes.

Laswell is a Geometry, Pre-Calculus, and Calculus professor. Idc what u think she is absolutely a math teacher and would absolutely have a doctorate. People who don't like math probably go into her class also not liking her, but come out at the end of the year wanting to be in her class next year.

If you're one of her favorite students, she absolutely gives you little notes on your graded tests like 'good job :)' and always says she's proud of you if your grades improve during the year. She also lets you and your friends eat lunch in her room because she understands why you'd rather be in a math room than the cafeteria.

Has never been seen without a coffee during the first four periods of the day and a random beverage during the last three. She always has a drink with her and it's become a bit of a game between a few of her students. Sometimes she'll give someone who asks a drink as well. A student she particularly liked tried to pay her to bring them coffee; she gave them their money back and brought them a coffee.

Nikolai is a history teacher that also coaches the school golf team. And yes, golf team; that man radiates golf energy and I cannot be told otherwise. He doesn't understand the kids' obsession with things like Kahoot, but makes them because it keeps kids engaged with the class and mostly keeps grades up.

Being one of Nikolai's favorite students is hard if you don't golf, but if you are a favorite, he tends to give you extensions of assignments if you're struggling to find time/motivation. Also will give you candy under the table if you win a Kahoot, or if you visit him during a study hall he will also give you candy. He gives out Smarties (the American version) because he thinks the name is funny.

If you show interest in learning Russian and ask him how to roll your Rs or how to pronounce the Cyrillic letters, he will automatically like you more than the others. As long as he feels like you're earnestly learning it out of interest and not just to make him like you, that is. If you already know Russian he'll like you anyway. Sometimes it's nice to speak his native tongue.

[hlficlibrary]

Hey!

Do you have any more football (soccer) fics? Like one of them, so Louis, is a professional footballer or just playing as a hobby… I’m kinda in a football fever these days haha

Thanks!

Hi, anon! The "so Louis" made me laugh lol! But yes, I do!! And here are some fics for you!

Caught In Your Gravity by @lululawrence

It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. "They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn't actually have much in common with the show at all.

burn this flame by rainbowninja167 / @rainbowtitania

“You’ve played keeper before?” Tomlinson asks suspiciously, hands on his waist.

“Er, yeah,” Harry coughs. “Loads of times.”

“Alright Popstar, if you’re sure,” Tomlinson tells him with a shrug, his professional expression already curling into laughter. Harry tries not to read too much into it. After all, how hard can goalkeeping really be?

When Harry gets invited to play in a celebrity charity match with Louis Tomlinson, Manchester United's star player, he's determined to impress him with brilliant football skills. The only flaw in Harry's otherwise foolproof plan? He has absolutely no football skills, brilliant or otherwise.

Eat Your Vegetables by @bananaheathen

In which Louis is a celebrity footballer and Harry is the new team nutritionist.

Or, the one where they have to go to Marks & Spencer and Waitrose.

“I’m not a child, Haz,” Louis says, trying to sound offended and not quite sticking the landing.

“No,” Harry chuckles, looking down over his notes. “You’re a big professional sports boy with perfect stamina and an excellent heart.” He blinks back up at Louis. “And I’d like to take you shopping on Sunday. May I please?”

[what-gs-watching]

"If that's a joke, I love it. If not, can't wait to unpack that with you later."

So, here’s a thing - winter makes me sad. I mean, it makes a lot of people sad, but also me. When I was younger I used to just cause a whole bunch of drama to get it out of my system but I’m an adult now and I’m still mostly fruitlessly job searching and I can’t really just go around starting fights anymore so I’m just sitting in my ennui, feeling unmoored. 

Which made me realize: I need Ted Lasso. Desperately.

Wherein, a low level American football coach moves to England to coach actual football (aka soccer) and ends up creating something so beautiful it’ll make you laugh and cry until you just can’t anymore.

If you’ve never seen Ted Lasso, first of all - how dare you? And secondly, start it now. Like, literally right now. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. 

I will admit I didn’t get into it until my husband watched it and encouraged me into it because of my love for Jason Sudeikis. I tend to pick up unnatural obsessions for SNL alumni, I just want all of them to succeed, so I gave in and instantly lost my mind over it. I couldn’t get enough.

During the second season run, I literally had a standing weekly fifteen minute meeting with my engineers to talk about the latest episode and our theories on what would happen next, or what our favorite joke had been. There were MANY heated debates.

Before the third season came out, I made my family binge the first two seasons while we were on vacation. I remember my mom calling me after she and my dad had watched the series finale so we could talk about it - she’d never bought into a show like that before.  

Ted Lasso just brings people together, and I find it absolutely ridiculous that this poignant, wonderful, life affirming show came out of a bit that Sudeikis wrote in 2013 for an NBC Sports commercial. It’s mind boggling. 

You guys know, it’s all about the relationships for me, and that’s the entire show, really. Ted is unrelentingly positive and charming and understanding and the reason he likes coaching is because he wants to help his players be the best versions of themselves and wooooph throughout the show, you get that, for every single character, even Ted himself. It’s about loving each other and loving yourself and also somewhat about football and it’s just so fucking…delightful. 

And I’m obsessed with all of the different dynamics. Ted and Beard, and Roy and Ted and Beard, and Roy and Jamie, and Roy and Keeley, and fucking Keeley and Rebecca! If you need to see a perfect incredible WONDERFUL female friendship, it’s Rebecca and Keeley fucking Jones. Someone needs to write a long-winded essay about these two, because dear lord, I want a best friend like that. Everyone wants a best friend like that. Like, I just can’t with all of the messy, hilarious, beautiful relationships. I want to be part of them all.

Also,  it’s funny. Like, properly funny. Laugh-out-loud-no-matter-how-many-times-you’ve-seen-it funny. The bits are layered. And you’ll get something different out of them every single time. Nuance, gang. It’s all so nuanced. 

The first season is absolutely perfect. You get to know all of the characters and you get a general sense of what’s up. Everyone is kind of charming and you’re immediately annoyed with Rebecca and charmed by Roy even though he tries his best to be threatening, and you think that Nathan is adorable and you’re pulled into Ted’s unwavering enthusiasm and Beard’s silliness indulgence and straight-man stoicism and Keeley’s adorableness. And it’s WONDERFUL! I’ve seen season one at least four or five times, likely more. It’s everything.

There are so many good moments. At one point, Ted says he’s having salads for lunch with Higgins who is communications director or something and as Ted goes to leave Higgins says “Cesar you later!” and Ted BURSTS back in through the door and just yells “YES!” and it’s hilarious every time. 

When Ted and Beard realize that Roy is a bristling motherfucker who wants to hate everything, Ted says something like “wait til we win him over”, with Beard announcing “He’s. Going to be. Furious.” (And he was.)

It’s the little things in the first season that really endear you to Ted Lasso. It just wraps you up and makes you feel warm and appreciated, like there are people out there that are pure and good and they can make you feel pure and good too. 

And then you get into season two and you start to see behind the curtain. Ted’s really not okay with his divorce (which, I still think is because his wife couldn’t deal with his optimism? Which is so insane to me and I can’t even, I never forgave her like, what the fuck is that) and in general and they tackle a lot of mental health issues and social issues and it’s a bit hard to get through.

But at the same time, season two has some of my favorite bits? Which is confusing??! The scene where Sam asks Isaac for a haircut - everyone gets a single cut from the captain once a season - and the entire team watches and whoops and freaks out and it’s like, an intricate performance and everyone is just so fucking thrilled to be witnessing it? It’s weirdly beautiful. 

Ted and Beard teaching the entire team the choreography to NSYNC’s Bye Bye Bye so they can send off the team shrink in a ridiculous way? Incredible. When they finally get the dance right, they lose their fucking minds. It’s so JOYFUL.

The episode where Roy finally realizes he wants to join the coaching staff and he makes a dramatic trek to the stadium while “She’s a Rainbow” blares? The theme of that one was believing in rom-communism - to rouse the team Ted tells them “Fairy tales do not start nor do they end in the dark forest” and yo that’s so TRUE - and when Roy finally showed up on the pitch he said, “You had me at ‘coach’.” I cry every single time I see that one. I literally watched it twice in a week when getting the family into the show and I cried both times. Hard. 

I think part of the reason this show is so resonating is because dark shit happens, but a lot of really sweet things happen too. There’s an episode wherein Rebecca’s dad dies and they’re all attending the funeral but it still is somehow achingly funny too, even though you learn some terrible things about Ted and Rebecca both in that one. They really ride the line of darkness and light and it’s messy and that’s life.

And then season three is hard.  So much happens. And you know that you’re barreling toward the finale. There’s only 34 episodes in the entire series and it’s not nearly enough but they do try to make the most of their time. 

Watching the finale season in real time was really interesting though, I’ll say, because the fandom was so nuts at the time. So many random theories and outrage over some of the story points. And at the time I did kind of agree, but seeing it all back to back now in my first true binge, it all makes sense. Everyone had their own journey and some of them were ridiculous and maybe we just wanted things to stay the same because that’s how we fell in love with the characters but that’s not the point, gang. Shit is forever changing.

I’ll never get over the moment when Roy finally relents to the diamond dogs. Or Jamie teaching him how to ride a fucking bike in Amsterdam. Or when the team comes together to help Sam put his restaurant back together after it’s completely vandalized. Or Beard explaining to Nate his background with Ted, and offering his forgiveness to Nate as a way to honor everything Ted has done. Or Rebecca calling Roy out on his shit, saying that instead of helping himself he’d rather “eat shit soup and then complain about the portions”. 

There are so many little beautiful pieces. So many things that will pull at your heart strings and make you realize things that maybe have been niggling around in your brain but refusing to come forward because you were scared of them. Ted Lasso helps you be less scared of them. Ted Lasso helps you be less scared of everything, because it encourages you to accept yourself as you are.

In the final episode, Higgins says “Human beings are never gonna be perfect. The best we can do is to keep asking for help and accepting it when you can. And if you keep on doing that, you'll always be moving towards better.” 

And that’s what all of us need to understand. This show will ingrain that thought into you, and it’ll buoy you, and you won’t even realize it. 

So maybe now I’m feeling less ennui. Because I’m still laughing at the hijinx and basking in the wholesomeness and the amazingly perfect relationships  and the belief. Ted Lasso makes you fucking believe.

[squiddosss]

salutations fellow human being! if you are taking requests, may i suggest the aouv crew (there needs to be a better nickname for them) as children? idk just an idea

p.s. this is also a reminder that al had a bowl cut when he was 6-7 years old :) do what you will with that info :)))

I AM ALIVE! [insert 20 exclamation points here] ok but seriously sorry for dipping off the face of the planet :(

here’s the line up! i kinda forgot everyone’s exact ages. i’m going to go ahead and say the characters are in 3rd-5th grade right now. also isn’t elionor one of the oldest champions?? uhhh idk

additional headcanons:

we all know Reid is a huge nerd. he probably leaned into the nerdy-ness a lot as a kid. this kid wore starwars shirts every day. also glasses, (i believe this is canon)

Isobel was actually rather quiet as a kid. she preferred books over people, and liked talking to adults more than kids her age. she was still exceptionally clever and motivated, but she didn’t really learn how to be sharp-tongued and ambitious until she befriended Briony. she owes her people skills that got her through the months before the tournament and all the reporters to her best friend. 

Briony basically coerced Isobel into joining a thing called spell scouts. think like boy scouts or girl scouts or any other youth program but for a magickal world. things like nature and survival skills were taught, but also the basics of spellcrafting and ethics of spell using. (just imagine them in their little uniforms)

Finley was pretty athletic and played a few sports, but didn’t fancy working with a whole team. he attempted junior league soccer (wait… football??? i am american help) but found that he preferred scoring points for his team rather than with his team. he did summer swim at first and running, but wouldn’t discover fencing until he was older (i believe he is the team captain in high school) oh, he also totally did summer theater camps. 

Alistair TOTALLY had a bowl cut. unfortunately, he has curly hair. Marianne Lowe thought his curly hair (which he inherited from his father, whoever that could be) was unbecoming for an eventual Lowe champion, so Alistair’s mother would have to magickally get it to stay straight every day. this is part of why Al lacks freckles— whenever Al went outside, humidity would turn it back into a curly mess. so, under Marianne’s instructions, he just never went outside. he later stopped straightening his hair (and outgrew the bowl cut thank god) but the habit of staying indoors stayed with him. 

Elionor experimented with dying the ends of her hair when she was younger. the blues and pinks never really showed through because her hair was brown, but she liked it, so that’s all that really mattered. she also wrote fanfiction and posted it to online forums despite technically not being old enough to use them.

after losing their father and having their mother leave them, it was hard for Briony and Innes to feel noticed within the large Thorburn family. they went about trying to feel accepted in different ways. Briony, obviously, was loud and learned to announce her presence to feel heard. Innes preferred a more subtle approach, learning a particular relative’s interests and schedules to find a way to slowly do little things to win them over. stuff like doing their chores or completing their hair. 

Carby was like… basically a baby at this point. so… [insert toddler personality trait here]

Diya definitely did extracurriculars at school. she won the spell fair (like the science fair but… y’know… spells) three years in a row and was a member of the book club that included a tournament with other schools at the end of the school year (which she won, duh) she was pretty competitive with it, too. 

Gavin… thinking about his childhood makes me so not ok. he realized pretty early on he was basically a sacrifice to a tournament his family would never win. Gavin knew about the tournament, and realized he would be the champion, and had always seen how distant his parents were, but didn’t realize what that really meant until a bit later. 

OK BUT SERIOUSLY THANK U FOR REQUESTING THIS!