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Grandad makes sure his things— a large hold-all, backpack, water bottle, pillow, and boots— are arranged neatly on the seat beside him, says a few words to Mum that Roy can’t hear, and steps back patiently as she approaches. Mum smiles at him, but it’s a bit… odd. Her eyes are too bright. “Be good,” she says softly, resting a hand on the car’s roof. He nods, Mum smiles, then shuts the door firmly. Roy obediently buckles his seatbelt, startling slightly as Grandad’s door shuts.
“Alright back there, Roy?”
“Yeah,” he says. Though, really, he doesn’t quite know what he feels. Especially as Grandad starts the car and they begin moving, the sound of crunching gravel loud in the otherwise overwhelming silence. Roy turns around and watches Mum waving, growing smaller and smaller until he can’t make her out any longer.
He swallows, turns around, and clasps his hands tightly. There’s an itchiness beneath his skin— nerves. Just like before a big match. Roy swallows, gaze flicking forward. He catches Grandad’s gaze in the rearview mirror but says nothing. Neither does Grandad.
Instead, he turns on the radio.
Roy’s attention wanders, and he practically presses his face to the glass as increasingly unfamiliar scenery rolls by. Mum pointed Sunderland out to him on a map, but it’d seemed a lot closer then, kilometers filled with paper rather than silence and worry. What if I’m not good enough? Roy thinks, feeling almost like he’ll be ill.
Unbeknownst to him, Roy’s foot is jiggling up and down, up, and down. His fingers clench, nails digging into his palms. “Oh, this is a good’n,” Grandad says suddenly, reaching for the radio’s volume dial. He begins to hum along and tap the steering wheel as Rod Stewart starts to sing.
A few hours later, Roy stirs awake. “Are we there yet, Grandad?” he asks sleepily. Fields and trees and a few buildings rush by outside. It all looks terribly unfamiliar in the growing dark.
“Almost,” Grandad answers.
Roy nods, staring out the window again. He falls asleep.
The sudden stillness is what wakes him, he thinks. They’ve parked outside a massive stadium— not that he can see much of it with how dark it is. The large, glowing sign for ‘Sunderland AFC’ confirms where they are. Roy yawns and stretches, pulling a face at the near-numbness in his legs. Then he notices the low murmur of voices. Roy squints, unbuckles his seatbelt, and shivers at the cool blast of air as he opens the door. Both men look up at the sound.
“And you must be Roy,” says the stranger. “Nice to meet you. I’m Malcolm Crosby, Manager of the team.” He sticks out his hand. No one’s ever shaken Roy’s hand before.
He blinks, realizes he hasn’t said anything yet, and lunges forward to grasp Mr. Crosby’s hand. “Nice to meet you too, Sir. Thanks for having me.”
Mr. Crosby laughs and even Grandad chuckles. Then Roy’s hand is let go as the manager abruptly stops laughing. “I’ll let you two say your goodbyes and send someone out to help with the bags.” Somehow, he knows that’s directed at Grandad, so Roy stays quiet. While the grownups talk, he spins around in a circle, eager to inspect his surroundings. This ends frustratingly as he can’t see much in the darkness.
Grandad claps a hand on his shoulder, steadying him as Roy abruptly comes to a halt. “I’ve got something for you, Roy-boy,” he says.
“Roy Kent! Come here, right now!” Mum shouts.
Shit. She must’ve found my report. “Yeah, Mum, I’ll be down in a second,” Roy calls, shrugging out of his shirt, still damp and dirty from training. He makes a face and throws it atop the hamper. Then he hurries down the stairs. ‘Like the most graceful heard of elephants, you are,’ Mum’s said before. She nags him about it because the flat’s walls are particularly thin. Though she never complains when they have to listen to the neighbor’s rows.
Mum is standing in the kitchen, a piece of paper clutched in one hand, fist resting on her hip. Dad’s not home yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he knows too. As Roy walks into the room, boots loud against the linoleum, Mum spins around. “What the hell is this?” She brandishes his report, lips pinched. Roy waits.
When she says nothing else, he shrugs. “My report card.”
Mum mutters something, pinches her nose, and exhales deeply. “You’re failing two of your classes and barely passing in the others. What’s going on, Roy?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Roy—”
“It doesn’t, Mum! You know I hate school. And Arsenal recruiters were at our last match. Fucking Arsenal, Mum! If they pick me up, my marks won’t matter.”
Mum stares at him, clearly disappointed, even if she knows he’s right. If Roy gets signed, no one will care what his marks are ever again. She sighs deeply, lowers the paper. “That may be so, Roy, but I’m still disappointed. Your father and I will be having a conversation about this, understand?”
Roy meets her gaze and nods. “Yes, Mum… sorry.”
A faint smile. “Go on, get out of here.” She shoes him off with the wave. Despite the faint twinge of unease he feels from disappointing her, Roy is also filled with a heady sense of victory. Dad’s always been proud of how he plays, and he was the one who spotted the recruiters last match, too. He’s won. Fuck school, Roy thinks for good measure as he dashes up the stairs.
He absently admires the crisp, cream-colored document as he reads everything over one last time. He knows what it says, would probably sign it even if he didn’t, but a part of Roy wants to savor this moment— you only sign your first professional football contract once, after all. Another wants to make sure there are no tricks here, that he hasn’t missed anything obvious.
With a nod, Roy sets the paper down on the table. He picks up a pen and quickly writes his name in the blank space over the black line. It looks good against the stark contract. He sets the pen down and looks up, an impassive expression concealing the excitement he’s feeling. He briefly recalls the argument he and Mum had had about school three years ago, just before he left it. ‘If they pick me up, my marks won’t matter,’ he’d said. Guess I was right.
“Anything else I need to sign?”
“No, that’s it. Welcome to the team, Mr. Kent.”
“Oi!”
Roy sets the eggs down in his cart and keeps moving.
“Hey, mate! You’re with Chelsea, right? Midfielder.”
He blinks, stares at the boggling selection of low-fat yoghurts for a moment, then turns around. “I am.” There’s a challenge in his voice and Roy can feel his shoulders tensing. But he does nothing to stop it. He’d known what signing with a premier league team meant— having both been prepped by the PR team and watched how other footballers were covered— but he doesn’t like the attention, most of the time.
The stranger blinks, sensing either the reined-in aggression of his posture or perhaps Roy’s discomfort. He appears to reconsider further conversation, and licks his lips. “Good match last weekend. Cheers.” With a wave, Roy is once again left alone with the yoghurts. He doesn’t even like yoghurt.
The model, Olive— or is it Olivia? Ophelia?— bends forward, grabs her drink, and giggles. He thinks he recognizes her from a billboard, magazine, or maybe that makeup commercial that’s been all over the telly. She’s certainly pretty enough for it. “Thanks, luv,” possibly-Olive tells the bartender, brushing a long, curly strand of blonde hair over her tanned shoulder. Roy’s eyes can’t help but rove over her appreciatively: long legs, lean, toned arms, and a skimpy, glitter-coated dress that leaves little else to his imagination. Yeah. She turns around, raising the drink to her lips, and takes a sip.
He saunters over and leans against the bar top in a pose that accentuates his biceps and calves. Roy watches the bartender move about, feigning disinterest. Olive, or whatever her name is, hasn’t left yet, which can only be a good sign. The bartender circles back and takes his order. He straightens up and glances over his shoulder. Olive-Olivia-Ophelia’s green eyes meet his, quickly moving up, down, and back up.
“Hey. I’m Roy. Roy Kent.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The next morning there’s a space in the bed next to him, a hollowness in his chest, and an empty spot on his dresser where the Cartier Calibre should be. Shit. He bought that watch after his first pro match. Later that day, a teammate texts a link and a winky face. He clicks it and is taken to an article on The Sun’s website, “A new Roy on the Block? Olivia Wilke spotted with Chelsea F.C.’s Centre Midfielder.”
He scrolls down. There’s a candid of him and Olivia kissing in the passenger seat of his Lambo. Roy doesn’t bother to read the article. Instead, he shuts off the screen and tosses his phone onto the couch.
Like God, the commentator’s voice booms over the stadium speakers. Roy listens for those magic words, “They’ve done it! Chelsea F.C. are UEFA Champions League winners. What a match, what a victory—” and when he hears them, everything else is lost, becoming a faint buzz in the background as an upswell of sound sweeps through the stands.
The crowd’s roar is thunderous. Heady. Addictive. He closes his eyes for a moment, breath coming in pants, and takes it all in. We did it. We fucking did it. Along with the tiredness, the aches, is an elated sense of victory. Roy opens his eyes and watches the white and blue banners, shirts, and scarves flutter. His teammates huddle around their opponent’s net in clumps, a few gesturing to the crowd, some hugging, others chanting along, “CHEL-SEA CHEL-SEA!”
Roy smiles and jogs over to join the celebration.
As soon as he turns thirty, the age taunts start. Several teammates get him joke cards for his birthday— one even includes fucking dentures with theirs— and Roy bears it all politely, even if his eyes promise bloody murder and his thoughts include several choice, and colorful, words for everyone who pokes fun at him. Abruptly, he’s reminded of Doug Stashwick, the prick. Shit. Is this what he felt like? It’s a terrible thought, one he chooses to drown out with a few drinks.
However, the physiological signs of ageing are harder to ignore.
“Oh yeah, tight hamstrings are a common problem for experienced players,” the physical therapist tells him as she bends and kneads and stretches and flexes him as if he’s bread dough.
Roy digs his fingers into the padded table and grits his teeth. “Ah,” he half-answers, half-grunts. At least she didn’t outright call him old. Fortunately or otherwise, he’s distracted from his bout of self-pity as the woman digs in with her pointy elbow. Christ, that hurts.
Later, his jaw aches from how hard he’d been clenching his teeth, but his lower back and legs undeniably feel better. He never felt judged for the sounds he made, either. Roy almost feels like skipping. But he doesn’t, of course. The ice bath feels even better, but he doesn’t use it often. He’ll make some adjustments to his routine— only an arrogant fool wouldn’t— but that feels like an acquiescence he’s not prepared to make yet.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He tosses the paper down, huffing, and puts his hands in his hair. Roy begins pacing. He doesn’t care how angry he looks— pushes aside thoughts of the gossip rags’ new nickname for him: ‘Scary Roy’— and curses again for good measure. Then he kicks the offending newspaper, and it’s inconsiderate enough to only flutter in place. He bends over, crumples it, and hurls it away from him. It lands pathetically nearby. Thankfully, there’s no one else around to witness it.
He flops down on the couch with a grunt, runs a hand over his face, and tries not to see the headline: “End of an Era? Chelsea Centre Midfielder Roy Kent Off to Richmond.” It’s not a surprise— management sat him down and told him last week— and he isn’t mad anymore. But the press’ barrage of questions, their undercurrent of doubt, that stings. The implications that he’s losing his touch does a lot worse than sting. After all, he’s only 33. Roy still has years of good playing left in him. “Fucking wankers, the lot of them.”
AFC Richmond is many things. Some good, some bad. They respect him enough to make him captain, which is… nice. A part of him is touched that they value him enough to do it. The team has some victories. Some defeats. Contrasted with where he’s played before, it’s mediocre. Out to pasture for you, Roy thinks occasionally. He tries not to make comparisons— because he was a different player then and it’d be unfair to his current teammates— but some days, it’s hard not to.
Especially when he’s dismissed so readily by up-and-coming stars arrogant pricks like Jamie Fucking Tartt. God, he hates Tartt. His smug attitude, preening, selfishness (both on and off the field), his cruelty, everything about that man-child. Unfortunately, a part of Roy, the tactical, determined, professional part, is forced to admit that the kid is good. He has the talent to back up some of his braggart ways. Tartt plays for fucking Manchester, after all. But that still doesn’t mean he has to like him.
Along with the rest of the country, he watches the introductory interview, albeit with a little more personal interest. At the very least, it is informative. Despite Roy’s distaste for the media, he feels some petty satisfaction that they all seem to think Ted Lasso is a wanker too. It’s been trending on Twitter for several days now. His opinion is cemented when the man starts playing mind games with him. Roy sets aside the gifted copy of A Wrinkle in Time determinedly, despite his curiosity. What business does the cowboy have coaching football? Fucking none, that’s what.
Keeley finally leaves Tartt. He doesn’t let himself consider why that’s so satisfying, though. It’s probably just that he gets to witness Jaime’s quiet, lingering discontent in the days afterward. Mostly, Roy’s glad that she’ll have a chance to find someone who respects her. Keeley’s always been better— cleverer and more decent— than the pathetic boys she dates.
Thirty years later, Roy shares the story in the treatment room, surrounded by his teammates. The memory does strange things to him. In a blink, he’s nine years old again, watching the strange countryside fly by, hearing Grandad tell him to be a good lad, now, Roy, and I’m sure you’ll do your best. Shivering in the cold, but warmed by Grandad’s gift. Counting down the days until he can go home. Listening with angry disbelief as Mum tells him, “I’m so sorry, Roy, he’s gone.”
Blankie’s been with him throughout it all— his entire fucking career. In a way it’s fitting that it’s gone now, turned to ashes in an instant. Burned out in a blaze of glory. Seems a pretty apt metaphor for the life of a footballer. Roy only hopes that he’s got a little more fire left in him. He’s not ready to quit, yet.
A Wrinkle in Time isn’t bad. In fact, he quite likes it. Phoebe does too. Fucking gaffer was right. He thinks about the book sometimes when they’re doing one of the quieter poses. Roy will never admit it to anyone else, but he might’ve retired a while ago if it weren’t for yoga and the outlet it gives him. He hasn’t had true anonymity in decades, but he does here. No one gives a shit that he’s Roy-Fucking-Kent, or about football.
There’s also something to be said for being able to work through his pain: knees, back, hamstrings, away from the others. Everything hurts most of the time now and like it or not, a football team is akin to a pack of sharks, or maybe lions. It’s brutal and animalistic and more than a little vicious— the point being, they sense weakness. Injury. He’s been called old for years. Well, now, Roy’s actually feeling it.
“Breathe in, out, and begin transitioning out of Child’s Pose.”
Somehow he gets through his bumbling confession explanation without looking like a total twat. Keeley even agrees to go on a date with him. It’s a fucking relief because he hasn’t been able to get that kiss out of his head since it happened, nor is he oblivious to Keeley’s less-than-subtle hints that she wants more (even if it looks like he is). Roy’s never been good at letting anyone one in. But maybe it’s time for a change.
I’ll never be a Diamond Dog though. Fuck that.
The sky is a warm blue. He enjoys the stadium’s calm emptiness. Not many have the privilege of seeing it this way. It’s these in-between moments that Roy thinks he’ll miss most. A cloud passes over the pitch, darkening the grass, and he watches its progression, mentally preparing himself. It’s only a matter of time now. If not today, then soon enough. Most coaches would’ve said something after the first game, with the performance he gave. Even Coach Lasso will have to act soon, if not of his own volition then forced by Ms. Welton or the bloody fucking press or public opinion.
And the longer he stares, really focusing on taking in his surroundings, the less Roy can feel the void growing inside him like a fucking sinkhole. He’s seen it happen to other players, better ones than him. He knows the fate of those who stay on the pitch too long. Roy wonders if he’s doing right by himself, by the team, by still being here. Part of him thinks not, but a larger part disagrees, and he’s always trusted his instincts. Nate was right that he’s still angry.
In the grand scheme of things, 39 isn’t that old. He tries to remind himself of that, even as he’s surrounded by carefree, arrogant youth in the locker room. It’s giving him a complex. At least yoga has given him back some confidence— not because he compares his looks and pains to his friends.’ No, they’ve comforted him in other ways by reassuring him that what he’s feeling is natural. But in the realm of sport, of football, the thing that truly matters to him, Roy senses the grim reaper breathing over his shoulder. It’s only a matter of time.
So it’s not a surprise when Ted sits down beside him. Roy listens with bemused annoyance as the gaffer rambles his way through a story about baby animals, attempting to soften the bad news. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t, because while Ted plays the naive nice guy, he knows the consequences that come with being benched for a player like Roy. They both do. And if people are already questioning when— not if— he’ll retire, this will only make it worse. It’s a death blow.
He knew it was coming, but somehow, some fucking how, it’s still a surprise when it finally happens. So he curses Ted out because Ted is right there, Ted is telling him what everyone else has been too chickenshit to say to his face, Ted is confirming the doubt’s he’s been harboring, you’re too old, you’re a washed-up wanker, you are nothing, and it hurts.
“Fuck you!” Roy spits, then leaves.
Keeley is everything he’s ever wanted: patient, honest, understanding. Smart enough to take him down a peg when he needs it. Willing to prop him back up even when Roy doesn’t think he deserves to be. They’ve both been through the trenches of bad relationships, been fucked and fucked over enough times to have wrung it out of their systems. With Keeley, he can half-imagine life after football. Phoebe helps too. She’s never valued him for what he does on the pitch. To her, he’s only ever been Uncle Roy. Silly, grumpy, funny Uncle Roy who reads stories, plays dress-up, and gives good piggyback rides when he’s not too tired.
Between the two of them, he might just be alright after all.
“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fucking where, Roy Kent! Roy Kent!” Through the haze of pain, Roy listens to the crowd, lets Sam and the others help him up, manages a wave to the fans. Their roar in his ears matches the clamor in his head, the buzzing agony of his knee. He can’t hear the commentators but knows they must be saying something about all this. Asking, “Is this Roy Kent’s last match?” It hurts. Of course it does. He’s played this bloody game for most of his life, hasn’t he? But at least Roy can savor the look on fucking Tartt’s face, and even better, the feeling of knocking his ass to the ground, as well as the memory of Keeley’s wild cheering.
Sport is not just physical performance, it’s theater too. Sometimes the best you can do is to shake the other guy’s hand and bow gracefully come curtain call. If he’s honest with himself, and Roy is trying to be, this moment has been a long time coming. He doesn’t know what will happen next— other than that he’s got a lot of fucking recovery to do— and that isn’t a pleasant thought. If he never plays again at least it’s a decent finish. Keeley’s here and so are Ted Lasso and Coach Beard and Nate and the rest of the fucking team. He still has a future, even if it’s not football.
As Ted says later, “The only thing worse than being sad is being sad and alone.”
Roy listens politely to the rest of the consolation speech, and while he appreciates the sentiment, his head’s not really in it. Only partly because his knee really fucking hurts. He’s also distracted by his girlfriend’s soft hand and the warmth of her shoulder, which he’s leaning against. “Should we get you checked out, love?” Keeley whispers.
“Not yet,” Roy grunts.
When Ted is done speaking, the others come over and compliment him on finally one-upping Jamie, then slowly drift away. Roy responds appropriately to each statement, but it gets harder with every interaction. He’s exhausted. Ted, Coach Beard, and Nate are the last ones to stop by, offering to help him to the training room. Roy declines. This is something he needs to do on his own.
Keeley ends up walking him over. She even holds his hand as his knee is gently bent and prodded and twisted like Roy’s some sort of malfunctioning machine— which he’s not. If he’s learned anything from all this, it’s that nothing is more breakable than the human body. A rather humbling lesson, that. Despite the caution with which he’s examined, Roy grits his teeth and grunts and hisses.
He’s asked the standard questions: “Where does it hurt?” “Do you feel any numbness?” “What’s your pain level at on a scale from one to ten?” “Do you need a chair?” and his answers are all short and blunt: Fucking everywhere, No, Six, and Fuck no. However, neither the doctor nor Keeley take offense. Roy’s given painkillers, told to check in with his regular physician for a more thorough diagnosis, ordered to ice as soon as he gets home, fitted for a knee brace, handed a pair of crutches, and barred from using stairs for the foreseeable future. Keeley expresses gratitude on his behalf, then half-drags him to her car and takes him home. Roy blinks as his street comes into view, having lost time, probably because of the medication, and Keeley’s worried smile grabs his attention.
“Let’s get you inside, yeah?” she prods gently.
He grunts and allows her to help him out of the car.
Roy more or less collapses on his couch once they’re inside and only the sound of Keeley puttering about keeps him conscious. He allows the ambient noise to wash over him: sink running, ice clinking, faint pat pat pat of feet on stairs. Roy drifts. As the couch cushions dip, he blinks and half-sits up. Keeley places an arm on his shoulder and pushes gently. Roy allows himself to be guided down, grunting appreciatively as he finds another pillow’s been placed under his head.
“Roy?”
“What?”
“Want me to do the ice, or—”
He cracks open his eyes, fumbles for the bag, the cling film, and grunts, “I got it.” With unfortunately practiced ease, Roy situates the bag, holds it in place with one hand, and wraps it in cling film with the other, then collapses against the pillow once more. Keeley’s silence is decidedly worried, but he doesn’t have the energy to reassure her. She’s dated footballers before, she knows what to expect. More importantly, they’ve already talked about his injuries and insecurities.
The light kiss to his forehead and sudden weight beside him is surprising, though. Even so, all Roy can manage to do turn toward her, eyes still closed, and mutter, “I’m disgusting right now.” Whether it’s an apology, permission to leave for the night, or something in between, he’s not entirely sure.
“Yeah, I noticed. And I don’t care.” A hand runs through his sweat-disheveled hair. Then Keeley’s warm lips press against his shoulder. “Get some rest, love.” Obediently, Roy closes his eyes and soon drifts off. He dreams of football and in his dreams, Roy is happy.