Work Text:
“Coach,” says Isaac, looking pale in the doorway. “Coach, I think I fucked up.”
Despite Roy having slammed the door shut between his office and Ted’s, he still sees Isaac out of the corner of his eye. It takes Roy a second to get his knee to cooperate enough to get out of the chair, and by the time he makes it out to the dressing room, the team is circled loosely around something at the front of the room, everyone uncomfortably still. Isaac is making crazy hand gestures at Ted, babbling incoherently, and even Zava looks unsure, which causes Roy to push through until he’s taking the situation in.
In one corner is Jamie. He looks more like he had when Roy first met him—his hair shorter, and the stupid eyebrow slit is gone. Given that Roy had seen him just a few hours ago, dumb haircut and wang and all, this is obviously disturbing. But the smirk on his face—that has Roy’s hackles rising. Tartt, even when he had been at his most assholish, had always had limits. He’d throw a punch or two in the locker room, and there were very few things he wouldn’t say—but Roy had never been afraid that Tartt would, like, knife him in a dark alley or some shit. But now the way his upper lip curls in a sneer has him looking like a Disney villain.
Across the room, huddled by the door with his head buried in his arms, is a little kid. 6 or 7, probably, and flinching any time one of the lads so much as murmur. Still, when Roy gets a look at his face, his eyes are a familiar shade of grey.
“What the fuck,” Roy says, because that seems the only appropriate thing to say.
“I chopped ‘em,” Isaac says miserably, “and I ruined the Believe sign. Sorry, Coach.”
Roy scrubs a hand over his face and wonders if Sky Sports would take him back.