Archive of Our Own ^beta

As per usual, the lads all have incredibly mixed views on the whole fucking situation.

It’s kind of like those boxes of chocolates that his mums used to only buy at Christmas (‘cause they're both dentists and had only let him and his sisters eat unhealthy shit on special occasions) - you never know what you’re gonna get, but the one thing that you do know is that they’re all gonna be different.

Some, for example, are sweet and sugary.

“¡Mis hermanos!” Dani shouts, which quiets all of them, ‘cause he’s one of those people who can be as loud as a foghorn before six in the morning.

“We must not lose hope, we do not know what will happen tomorrow; we could win! Nosotras no podemos rendirnos! And remember, futbol is life!”

There’s a bunch of mixed reactions to that, some are nodding their head slowly, like they want to believe their resident sunshine generator but can’t, and some others are just groaning in defeat, like they’ve already lost and can’t bear an ounce of optimism anymore.

“Guys, I agree with Dani.” Sam interjects, and Dani throws himself at him and wraps his arms around his neck as a form of thanks.

“After all,” he continues, “the match is not lost yet, anything could happen. We have to stay positive.”

But there’s never just sweet stuff in those types of selection boxes; some of the shit in there is real bitter and make you feel like you need to wash it down with summat else.

“Statistically we are very likely to lose, after all we are already out of the FA Cup, and we lost last week to Everton, and-”

The usual chorus of ‘shut your fucking mouth, Jan Maas’ fills the locker room, and apparently even though they’re still all yawning and rubbing sand out of their eyes they’ve got enough energy to chuck the towels from their booths towards the man to make him shut the fuck up.

(If it were different circumstances, Isaac knows he’d be wiping a proud tear out of his eye. They grow up so fast, innit.)

“Hate to say this,” Colin adds, sounding utterly defeated, slumped in his booth in a way that's gonna make his back ache later on, “but he’s right. We’re fucked, lads. Like, properly fucked. Does dim yn gobaith.”

That gains mixed reception, with Dani trying to tell him not to give up, to creer, mi amigo, but no one’s really listening, because the only thing going through the locker room is the overwhelming stench of how badly they’re going to get fucked in the arse tomorrow against Hertha Berlin.

But, like there always are, there are always those few chocolates in the box that come with nuts.

“Hey, hey! None of that fucking negativity, lads; Dani and Sam’re right, anything could fucking happen out there. And who gives a shit what the press are saying; it’s all just poopy - let it flow!”

Jamie enunciates his point by banging against the wall of his booth, which makes the whole thing shake so much that Cockburn falls off.

“Oops. Sorry, man.” Jamie smirks. “But me and Sam and Dani are right, yeah? We’re gonna do fine.”

“Si, Jamie!” Dani screeches, shooting towards where Jamie’s standing and wrapping his arms around him, telling him how he’s so right and brilliant.

“Right you are, muchacho.” Jamie agrees, nodding his head 'cause he's so fucking proud of himself, the twat.

“Think we define those adjectives differently, Dani.” Bumbercatch adds, the only thing he’s said all morning.

“Fuck off, Bumber, you’re just jealous; just like the green-eyed monster in Hamlet what drove him to stab Juliet ‘cause she were shagging Macbeth. Try being a bit more cultured like me next time.”

Sam bursts into laughter that’s so hard Isaac almost runs over to him and slaps him on the back.

(Mentally, Isaac contemplates convincing Roy to red card Jamie for such offences to literature.)

“Come on, Jam, even you can’t deny we’re fucking doomed.” Colin chimes in, burying his head in his hands.

Jamie’s face scrunches up, which looks far funnier than he clearly intended.

“Fuck off, Colin, ‘m tryna boost moral and that. ‘Course you’re too busy being down in the dumps about tomorrow.”

Colin purses his lips. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Isaac, tell Jamie-”

“SILENCE.” He bellows.

And, for the first time since all of the lads have arrived, complete silence falls over the group of them.

(Isaac wonders what the collective noun for a group of lads is. Probably a ballache.)

He points towards Colin and Jamie.

“You two. Quit the shit. Make up. It’s too early in the morning.”

They both grumble, but Isaac’s stern glower shuts them up, and they (very begrudgingly, he should add) shake hands.

(Jamie thinks he’s being smart and that Isaac can’t see the crossed fingers behind his back. Little prick.)

For the next couple of minutes chatter begins to resurface amongst the locker room, though this time it’s far more civil, he can hear Sam telling Jamie and Dani that he hopes they’re gonna start watching Lilo and Stitch when they get to the hotel, Richard and Zoreaux muttering to each other in French, Colin ranting to Bumbercatch about how Duolingo is full of shit for not freezing his streak when he forgot to do his lesson yesterday and Bumbercatch suggesting a tirade against the entire company and all such companies driven by profit, before he shows him a picture of the ‘DOWN WITH CAPITALISM’ jumpers that he’s knitting for the whole team for Christmas.

(He’s a sweet one, innit.)

Isaac allows himself to sit back down in his cubicle and allows the sounds of their conversations take his mind away from the match tomorrow (which he’s lost many hours of sleep over, let that sink in) - and also matches of the past and future in general.

The mental image of walking out into that gargantuan stadium tomorrow makes him feel physically sick. And it’s not just ‘cause all the press and pundits (especially that piece of crap, George Cartrick, what a wanker) are saying that they’re gonna lose by a landslide.

(He thinks of their match against Huddersfield in the FA Cup, the one that’d kicked them out of the competition).

(It’s not about how embarrassingly low they are in the Premier League. It’s not about how Huddersfield are in the Championship. It’s not even about how they conceded a goal and scored an own goal).

(It’s about what happened in the third minute of added time at the end).

Isaac glances towards Sam as he time travels back to that time and place. There’s no plaster on his eyebrow anymore and the medical staff had all said that it’s unlikely to scar (but they’re wrong, because it’s not Sam who’s scarred after what happened).

They’d been trying to save the game, to at least get a draw. They’d decided to park the bus to try and get an unexpected goal (it’d worked against Tottenham in the FA Cup two years ago, innit) and things had been on the up, until he’d been passing to Sam and hadn’t seen that the lad hadn’t been ready to receive the ball, and he’d fucking booted it, and-

Isaac hadn’t received a yellow card, which is fucking insane to this day, as they’d seen that he hadn’t meant it. And he hadn’t, truly, but that didn’t do shit to stop his heart from rising up to his fucking throat and twisting and tightening itself so much that he hadn’t been able to breathe, and-

Sam had said it was fine. So had all the other lads. All of them.

But the awful, aching feeling that he’d hurt one of them, that he’d failed them, that he’s a goddamn shit fucking captain hadn’t left him. And it still hasn’t.

And they haven’t won a game since. (In fact, they haven’t won many games this season, especially after Christmas, but now it’s fucking worse than ever).

(He’s more up in his head now than he was right before Roy joined the coaching staff.)

That was just under two months ago.

And tomorrow’s a quarter-final match in the fucking Champions League, where fucking none of them have played before (and they’re only still in it ‘cause they fucking scraped through by the skin of their teeth during the knockout stage).

Fuck.

(He hates to admit it, but Jan Maas is right. But he can’t let the lads think that. He can’t fail them even more).

The chatter dies down again upon the door to the coach’s office slamming open and Roy storming through, holding a piece of paper in his hands and wearing his newly-acquired reading glasses (Jamie’d had a fucking field day when he saw him wear them for the first time).

All heads snap towards Richmond’s manager (and their only remaining coach, given that both Ted and Beard went back to America in May and Nate’s making rain over at West Ham) and Isaac feels himself stiffen from where he’s sitting.

He’s known Roy a long time (even before Richmond he’d known about and seen this angry, curly-haired Hercules with sea blue pressed against his chest, despite the sickening drawback that he played for Chelsea) and he can tell that even though the man’s still growling and grumpy and fucking… on edge all the time, it’s all for the wrong fucking reasons.

‘Course, Roy doesn’t share and Isaac doesn’t ask (he likes his balls to not be flicked, thank you very much) but he can tell that through his coach’s behaviour since the start of the season and his vast knowledge of kinesics that something’s definitely fucking out of order.

And he can tell that the boys can all see it too, but they’re too scared to mention it. Or, if they’re not so far as scared then they’re at the very least aware that it would be the stupidest fucking decision in the world to go up and ask Roy Fucking Kent about his feeling and not expect to be hung, drawn and quartered on the spot within two minutes of opening your mouth.

All of them remain dead silent as Roy’s eyes scan the room to make sure they’ve all arrived before he clears his throat.

“Right.” He huffs. “You lot better listen up, because I’m only gonna say this once, alright.”

(Even Jamie and Dani aren’t unsuccessfully stifling giggles behind their palms or whispering random shit to each other.)

“We’ll be leaving on the coach in twenty fucking minutes, and stopping halfway, but the drive’s thirteen fucking hours long, so anyone who needs to go take a piss do it right fucking now. Alright?”

A low murmur of ‘yes coach’ runs its way through the locker room.

(They don’t want a repeat of The-Incident-We-Don’t-Ever-Fucking-Talk-About-That-Happened-On-The-Coach-Up-To-Leicster.)

“Second,” Roy continues, “there’s no fucking Wi-Fi on the bus, so don’t be fucking complaining about that on the drive up. It’d do you little pricks good to be away from your screens.”

That gets a reaction out of them; an orchestra of groans fills the air, many about how there’s no point playing the match at all, and how the universe is too fucking cruel, innit.

Roy’s low but audible growl cuts through their noises like a blunt knife.

“Shut the fuck up.” He grunts. “Anyway.”

He stops at that, which’s fucking weird, innit, ‘cause by saying ‘anyway’ tells them that he’s gonna say more, but he fucking doesn’t.

Roy stands up there at the front, directly below where Ted’s old sign used to be (the one that’s all ripped up. Kinda appropriate given that there’s little belief in them left, from the fans, press and themselves.).

(Shocking performance from Richmond today, Chris - what do you think might be the issue?)

(It’s clear to me, Arlo, that it’s a lack of direction from their captain, Isaac McAdoo, who’s been faltering in terms of performance for a while now.)

(The lads shouldn’t have to pay for his mistakes. He’s the captain, so if he doesn’t know what the fuck to do then neither will they.)

Several confused faces exchange confused glances, everyone’s expression mirroring everyone else’s. Even Jamie seems to have abandoned all jokes and prickishness, as his grey eyes have significantly widened, and he’s actually the one to break the penetrating silence.

“Roy?” He asks.

Roy clears his throat again. “I-uh- fuck. Yes. Yes, I’m fucking fine.”

“Are you sure, Roy?” Sam adds.

“Yes.” He replies through gritted teeth. “Now, go take a piss if you need to. If you don’t, get on the fucking coach. We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Scram.”

He briskly strides out of the locker room after finishing his sentence, though not without catching Isaac’s gaze before he slams the door shut, and it suddenly reminds him of that night two years ago, overlooked by the shit block of flats that Roy’d grown up in, on the pitch where he’d learnt football.

He’d seen a similar look in his eyes as he’d limped off the pitch a year prior, in the match where they’d gotten relegated.

Though he can’t quite see what it actually is this time.

“-oyo? Isaac?”

Isaac blinks, belatedly realising that Colin’s got a hand on his shoulder.

“Hm? What?”

“You like… fucking blanked out as soon as Roy left.” Colin explains.

(Oh).

“Oh. Uh. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Colin smirks. “I wasn’t. You owe me a tenner when I beat you at FIFA last week. Need to make sure I’m repaid in full. Dwi byth yn anghofio, boyo.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. Mostly because it’s not true.

(One example being last year during the match against Man United, when Colin had nominated that they watch Watership Down, forgetting that that film isn’t about ‘fluffy little cwningod, boyos’.)

Isaac rolls his eyes as he grabs his bag and throws it over his back before following several of the lads out the door.

Half of them seem to have shot towards the toilet, Richard leading the pack, which is good, ‘cause no one fucking wants to live through that happening again.

“Amigos, do you think Coach Roy is okay?” Dani asks.

“Dunno, muchacho. He’s a real enigmy, like.” Jamie answers, twisting his hands in his hoodie.

“Enigma.” Isaac corrects.

“Tomato, tomato.” Jamie choruses.

“Guys,” Sam interjects, “something is clearly wrong. But perhaps Roy will come to us in his own time and tell us what’s wrong.”

Isaac, Colin and Jamie all give him deadpanned stares.

“Ah.” Sam realises. “I understand.”

“Whatever it is,” Jamie stretches his hands behind his head as the five of them exit Nelson Road, “we’ve gotta be sensible. Don’t wanna go opening a panda’s box the day before a big match.”

(It takes Isaac two minutes to work out what he’d meant.)

~~~~~

Well. Roy sure made a right fuck-up of that, didn’t he.

Great job, mate. Excellent. Superb. Just what the whole world needed.

(Isn’t he just manager of the fucking year).

In his defence, which is a shit one mind you but still a defence, he hadn’t intended for that thought to fill up his head and use up all of the oxygen in his entire body.

And now, just three hours into the tedious and fucking too-long coach ride to Berlin (Rebecca said her goddaughter had been insistent, and he’s not too opposed to the idea himself, actually; minding all of those little pricks around a big airport sounds like a real ballache and a half) it’s all he can think about.

(Actually, it’s been all he’s thought about since Christmas.)

(All he’s thought about since the start of the season back in August.)

(All he’s thought about since Ted left and he was appointed the manager and head coach.)

(He’d thought they’d go with Nate. He’s a fucking god on the sidelines and practically has ideas for every solution, every tactic, every gameplay you know he’s got stored up in his head.)

(But Nate had gone back to West Ham after fuckface Rupert had lost it and his third ex-wife had gained ownership of the club.)

(They’re on good terms - or as good terms as anyone can be on with Roy - but he can’t help thinking that they made a terrible decision by not choosing him as the new manager.)

(Just look at the fucking table. West Ham are fourth. Richmond are… significantly lower than fourth.)

(And it hadn’t taken the press long to start spreading all sorts of shit about them, secret rumours that aren’t true about what goes on behind the closed doors of the locker room, the ‘real’ story.)

(But they don’t know the truth. Because the truth is that the players aren’t not good enough or unprepared, it’s that they’re being trained by a ponderous old sod who can’t break free of a time capsule that he’s stuck in, one that won’t let him escape the past.)

Fuck. He presses his head against the top of the seat and loses his eyes, Kenneth’s rough driving jolting him every few seconds.

(As they were getting on the coach that fucker told him to ask the world to help solve his troubles. Like that’s gonna fucking work.)

(Sure. Suppose it can’t fuck up this job more than he already has. Why the fuck not).

(Especially in the Huddersfield FA Cup match, Jesus fucking Christ. He doesn’t know how he’s still allowed to be a coach anymore, since he’s so shit).

(And… the lads deserve better, really.)

Roy opens his eyes and glances towards the window, watching the world pass him by. The sky is now a bright blue and there’s much bustle on the road, what with it being a Saturday morning, and he watches as hundreds of people drive to wherever the fuck they’re driving towards.

And for a moment Roy wonders if he should press his face against the window, just like a nine-year-old kid he’d known a long time ago had done. Roy hasn’t seen that kid since he got out of the car on a frosty September evening and didn’t look back.

Only he’s never stopped looking back.

(Fucking time capsule.)

Sounds of shouting from the boys behind him fill his ears and drag Roy away from his thoughts - which he’s fucking grateful for - as they saunter through topic to topic between conversations.

(Well, screaming matches probably fits the description better.)

At seven o’clock they were doing Buzzfeed quizzes about which ninja turtle they were. Half an hour later it was star signs. By quarter to nine it was the inevitable decay of societal structure in general as a result of the impending class war (blame Bumbercatch for that). Now Roy thinks it’s about who adds the best songs to the team collaborative playlist (so far it’s between Colin and Dani).

(He remembers how Billy Joel had played from the beaten old stereo in Granddad’s old car, on that September night. He remembers how he hadn’t been blasted around the vehicle like always, but instead had been a mere low hum to fill the cold silence).

(He wonders where that nine-year-old boy is now. He’s nowhere to be found, he’s been missing for years and years and years. He’d been engulfed inside of himself, long dead and buried in the graveyard that’s taken over his soul ever since he climbed out of that car and said goodbye).

(And now he wonders whether he should’ve, whether he should’ve done something else, should’ve stayed, sh-)

“Roy?”

(Shit.)

His eyes snap up away from the window and he looks up to see none other than Rebecca Welton, tall and composing and staggering over him, blonde hair crisply and precisely curled and face made-up. She’s got her hands clasped together and hanging down beside her, though even she manages to make that look neat and graceful.

He realises too late that he’s staring with his mouth dangling open like the gob-smacked goldfish Ted told them all to be before he realises how his facial muscles and voice box work.

“I- uh- fuck- yeah?” He stammers.

Rebecca raises an eyebrow at the abruptly cut out pieces of his speech, though her smile isn’t diminished.

“Can I sit down next to you?” She asks, as if he’d given a perfectly reasonable response.

(He expects her to ask what the fuck’s happened to him, to pull himself together, to stop losing them so many fucking games because he’s fucking up everything, can’t he see that, and they’re all better off without him, and he should just fuck off before they leave him, and-)

“W-what?” He stammers again, and at her slight frown and pinched brow he imminently corrects himself.

“I mean, uh, why?”

(He doesn’t sound any less like a computer that’s been drenched in water, but at least he’s managing to form words).

She laughs, though there’s no hint of mocking or malice to the sound.

“I’m sorry.” She says. “It’s just that Leslie is eating an egg and mushroom sandwich and the smell of it is enough to curdle new milk.”

Her nose wrinkles as she says it, and she gives a slight shudder, like it’s causing her physical distress.

“Alright. Yeah.” He replies, giving her a nod.

She grins down at him and sits down, clutching her hands on top of her skirt.

Roy notices how relaxed she looks now; no longer is that wanker casting a staggering shadow over her, no longer does she appear stiff and discomfited, but instead natural and calm. She runs a hand down her skirt without saying a word, her smile not diminishing.

(Yeah. He’s happy for her. He figured Rupert was a shithead even before all his affairs got leaked.)

The sound of the boys shouting at each other from behind them reaches full volume, and Roy’s tempted to turn around and threaten to start punching dicks if he doesn’t hear silence, but there’s suddenly no need as the sound of Richard screeching in French cuts through the crowd of anarchy.

He turns towards Rebecca, who’s failing to hide her laugh behind her palm.

“Catch any of that?” Roy asks when Richard’s stopped, remembering her mentioning how she’d done French for A-Level.

“Only casse-toi as fuck off, if I recall correctly.” She replies, her voice lilting as she tries not to laugh harder.

The silence from earlier falls over the two of them, and Roy glances towards her again, and realises how she’s so different to the cold and contained Mrs Mannion that he’d met upon joining Richmond (feels like a fucking century ago now) - no longer does she hide herself away in the icy, murky shadows. Instead she’s let herself into the light, and has let her shrivelled, dying plant grow into a beautiful and vibrant flower, and she seems now like almost a new person.

(In all honesty, he wishes she’d shout at him about tomorrow. It’s what he deserves. It’s what he’s used to.)

“Actually,” her voice quietens.

(Thank fuck.)

“There was something I wanted to talk to you about. As well as Leslie’s sandwich being an abomination to all existence.”

He mentally prepared himself for the hauls of insults, for her to start screaming about how he’s fucking shit at everything and how he’s letting them all down; her, the team, his family, the fans. He wants her to spit at him about how he let Sam get hurt in the Huddersfield match, he should’ve made sure they were all prepared before telling them to start parking the bus (that’s Nate’s trick anyway, not his). He wants her to tell him how he’s not Ted and he never will be, so he should just fucking… give up.

(It’s all he’s good for, anyway.)

“I wanted to ask if you were doing alright.”

(What.)

He stares at her face and it doesn’t seem like he’s bullshitting him (he doesn’t know shit about reading people’s faces anyway) or like this is all just one big fucking trick.

“I-” he stammers, though he can’t think of anything intelligent to say.

“I know that tomorrow’s match is a… fucking big one.” She continues. “But you’ve been stuck in your fucking head since the start of the season and I want to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

(Fuck. Well, he wasn’t expecting that. Never in a million years would he have suspected she’d say that.)

She huffs. “I know last season I was a bit… on edge. I just wanted to beat Rupert so badly, to win, as a final ‘fuck you’ to him, and for there to be nothing he could do about it. But… I put a lot of pressure on Ted and Beard and you, and all of the boys, and I’m sorry.”

(What the fuck is going on. What the fuck is going on. What the fuck is going on.)

He lowers his head towards the ground, and he wants to bury himself away into the ground and never talk to anyone ever again, because he can’t do this, not now, not before he’s about to get them all booted from the Champion’s League and fail them all.

“I-I’m making them lose all the fucking games. I’m a shit coach.”

He sounds so broken and so tiny and he hates it so much, but he’s powerless to stop the words escaping from his mouth until it’s too late and he’s said them, and he’s dreading having to face the look of pity that she’s bound to give him.

But it never comes.

Instead, she sighs.

“Roy,” she begins, “I can tell that you’ve been dealing with some issues since becoming the manager and sole coach of this club, and those feelings are clearly affecting your work.”

(And you’re full of shit and I hate you and you should leave and you’re a shit coach and you can’t do this and you’re Ted and you’re not good enough and that’s why you should leave before everyone else does-)

“But you shouldn’t try to hide them away. Because they’re not going to go away, Roy.”

(Problems, they’re like mushrooms, yeah? The sooner you leave them in the dark the bigger they get).

She turns to face him directly, her eyes sharp and determined but also kind and caring. It’s fucking weird.

“If you hide from your feelings and everyone around you then it’s not going to fix shit. You’ll end up bitter and miserable and alone and it’s going to bring everything down with you, until you’re in a fucking ditch of misery. So get out of your own way, man.”

He doesn’t miss the way her eyes twinkle as she says the last part, and suddenly her face is breaking into a wide smile, and all of a sudden he’s taken back to karaoke in Liverpool and two-fingered salutes. And the rest of them (not fucking him) singing on the coach in Amsterdam. And opened bottles of champagne after winning matches.

(And somewhere, though he’s not really sure if he notices it or not, someone lights a match.)

~~~~~

Kenneth’s always liked to drive… uniquely, so that’s probably why he does a few final swerves of the coach as he parks up outside the hotel, in Germany’s capital city, at seven o’clock in the evening.

He does a fucking good job of waking up any of the lads who’d fallen asleep on the drive up (like Will, with a cheek pressed to the window, or Jamie and Dani, curled up like dormice together, or Richard, with his thumb in his mouth), with several foreheads colliding with the back of seats in front and an onslaught of weary groans filling the stuffy air of the coach.

Isaac wrinkles his nose in disgust at the awful stench of the plastic bag that Colin's used to throw up in several times throughout the ride, and he carefully picks it up by its handle and places it in the bin bag that Will’s taking across the coach for any rubbish.

Will’s nose wrinkles in a similar fashion to how Isaac’s had.

“Thank you, Isaac.” He grimaces.

“Sorry, bruv. Wasn’t mine.” He replies, receiving a light smack on the arm from Colin himself, and he turns around to smirk at his best mate, who’s looking rather green.

“Don’t be ashamed about it,” he puts his hands on Colin’s shoulders, basking in the scowl he’s giving him in return, “s’not your fault you can’t drive a car and get sick on buses. Can’t be helped, innit.”

“Dwi’n casau ti, boyo.” Colin growls, the last part coming out as a spit.

“And also with you, bruv.”

The sounds of several of the other lads stiffly standing up and stretching, and rubbing the grain from their eyes, cuts the two of them off and they look in the row behind to see Sam attempting (whilst laughing so hard he’s about to choke) to untangle Dani and Jamie, as they’re all knotted up in each other.

They’re not all off the coach by half seven, which is fucking ridiculous in itself, but what’s even more so is the fact that after they’re all off for some reason a group of them can’t remember whose case is whose, and Richard and Jamie would’ve had a proper scrap right outside the hotel if Sam hadn’t intervened, and Jan Maas just hadn’t been able to stop himself from adding in his two cents (or euros, Isaac supposed, ‘cause they’re in Germany now) on the matter, that they should’ve just labelled their cases.

(It turns out in the end that the case isn’t Jamie’s or Richard’s; it’s Higgins’ and he’d only forgotten that it was his because he hadn’t been able to identify it due to the crowd of lads circling it.)

(Jesus fucking Christ.)

They’re actually not all gathered in the lobby until five past eight, which is just fucking brilliant, isn’t it just.

(Things were going so amazingly already.)

Chatter fills amongst the group of lads about how swanky the hotel looks, and usually Isaac knows he’d join in, but he’s too fucking tired, his body and brain just wanna hide away from all of this, so he’s actually grateful for Roy’s screech.

“WHISTLE! Shut the fuck up, all of you!”

That cuts through the crowd like a fucking knife and silence follows almost immediately.

Roy grunts towards Higgins, who’s clutching his clipboard in fear at the manager’s outburst.

“Uh, thank you, Roy.” He stammers. “Right then. I’ve just got a few notices here.”

“We’re all staying on the fifth floor, in rooms 501 to 520. You should all know who you’re sharing with, but if you’ve forgotten I’ve got a list here.”

(Isaac himself is sharing with Colin, which is better than last time ‘cause he got Jamie, who isn’t still even in his sleep - which isn’t a problem, but he did make the bed creek a fuck of a lot. Before that he’d been with Bumbercatch, who’d been mumbling about how the moon is real but Saturn isn’t. Before that he’d been with Sam, which had been perfect. Sam’s the best one to share a room with.)

“Breakfast will be at nine o’clock, and we’ll be leaving for the match at half ten, so make sure you all get plenty of sleep tonight. I think that’s all. Anything you’d like to add, Roy?”

All eyes dart towards the manager.

Roy blinks back at all of them, looking extremely uncomfortable and not at all in his element. He lets out a low grunt before speaking.

“Uh, yes. Fuck. Yes.”

Roy glances towards Rebecca, who gives him a look that doesn’t indicate anything towards what she’s feeling.

Jamie’s frowning and Colin’s tilting his head, like what’s going on is gonna make more sense at an angle.

“You pricks can all go out tonight.”

See, they all think he’s taking the piss for a moment. They all think he’s just doing it for a joke, ‘cause it’s a ridiculous notion; him, Big Man Roy Kent, letting his team go out for the night right before a Champions League quarter-final match (where they’re most likely gonna get fucked in the arse) in one of the most iconic and famous and fucking ginormous stadiums in the entire world.

So, yeah, they don’t react for a whole few minutes.

Higgins is making that half-gurgling, half-choking sound that he makes whenever things aren’t right and Rebecca, to the side of him, is staring right at Roy, one eyebrow raised in confusion, but Isaac can tell he’s intrigued and waiting for him to go on.

(Kinesics, innit.)

And that must make the penny drop for all of them, ‘cause they all start cheering and celebrating like they’d won a game (like they’d won the game) and Roy silences them all again with his penetrating shout.

“WHISTLE!”

They all go silent again, all eagerly staring towards their manager, waiting for what else he’s gonna say.

“Alright. If we’re gonna do this I want best fucking behaviour from all of you.”

He glares towards Jamie and Dani, most likely remembering how they almost didn’t show up for a match against Brighton ‘cause they spent all night in an animal shelter with puppies.

(Jamie scoffs as if Roy’s being unreasonable and Dani continues to smile at their coach.)

“Also, no fucking alcohol. I’m not having you pricks too pissed up to play tomorrow.”

There are several murmurs throughout the crowd, all clearly in agreement that that rule makes sense.

“And finally-” Roy declares, “-all of you better be back here in the hotel by midnight or else I swear to fucking God I’ll gut you all like fish and chuck you in the Landwehr Canal. Got it?”

There are many cries of agreement with Roy, who just gives them all a silent nod, before he briskly walks through the crowd of them and out of the door of the hotel.

(What Isaac notices, but the rest of them don’t, is the two-fingered salute he gives to Rebecca as he walks out, and she returns it, paired with a knowing grin.)

Rebecca takes Higgins and Will to go and put the cases upstairs before the three of them all leave the group of lads standing in the lobby like that, all by themselves.

“What the fuck’s going on with Roy?” Isaac asks. “He wouldn’t normally do that, no way.”

Jamie shrugs. “Dunno, mate. Maybe he’s having his mid-life crisis or summat.”

That earns several snickers and laughs amongst the group, and Colin even gives him a high-five from behind him, like it’s the funniest shit to ever be said.

“Who cares why he’s done it,” Zoreaux pipes up, “we can go out tonight! What should we do?”

Unsurprisingly, all eyes fall to Isaac.

He’s really far too tired for this, all he wants to do really is go to bed and sleep and pretend that tomorrow’s not gonna happen, but he can’t, not when they’re all looking at him like that with such expectation, he can’t let them down. (Again).

“You guys chose.” He tells them, trying not to sound weary, flicking his hands in the air to emphasise his point.

“Alright.” Bumbercatch says. “We’ve got to break into the spy museum. Or we could break into the Reichstag building and burn it down in protest against all government rule everywhere.”

(Jan Maas, rather concerningly, doesn’t look too opposed to the idea.)

“Sorry, boyo, I didn’t come here to Berlin to learn things in some museum.” Colin says.

“No!” Dani cries. “We should visit the botanical gardens and find a German flower to take home - as we did not go to see a tulip in Amsterdam - and we should leave immediately. ¡Vámonos hermanos!”

That earns several uneasy glances across the room, as none of them really know how to tell Dani that the botanical gardens are closed at this time of night (since he wasn’t planning on breaking in like Bumbercatch had been).

(Isaac doesn’t pick up on the way Jamie starts quickly clenching and unclenching his fists at the unprompted mention of Amsterdam. Sam, however, does).

“Michael says that Checkpoint Charlie’s a good place to visit. And there’s a nearby McDonald's so we can go there when we’re done.”

No one seems too keen on that, either.

“We should take a train into Paris!” Richard unsurprisingly suggests.

“And be back by midnight, bruv?” Isaac points out.

“Si, Richard, if we are not back by midnight we could turn into pumpkins like Cinderella did in the movie!” Dani shrieks, terrified at the notion.

“What version of the film did you watch, boyo?” Colin asks, giggling.

“Yes, Dani, we all know that that did not happen in the movie.” Jan Maas confirms.

“Speaking of movies,” Sam says, getting everyone’s attention, “we do not have to go out at all. We could just enjoy a team movie night and watch Lilo and Stitch, which you all promised me after last week’s match against Arsenal.”

(They lost 2-1. It was fucking bad. Isaac remembers the way the fans had booed them on and off).

“No, bruv.” Isaac overrules him, memories of that match burning inside his head and making him sound angry, which shocks all of them and just makes him feel even more sick.

There’s another moment of silence as all of them are thinking about new suggestions, and Jamie’s twisting his hands in his hoodie like he always does, only he’s doing it quicker this time.

(Isaac remembers how the fans had screamed in fury after he’d missed a sitter in the first half of that match).

“Guys,” Zoreaux says, putting his phone down, most likely having looked up an answer to their ailment, “I’ve found it! There’s a red light district in Berlin - we’ve gotta go there!”

That earns several noises of surprise, and many of the lads seem to agree with his suggestion, so no one notices Jamie’s reaction to it.

(He’s twisting his fingers inside the pockets of his hoodie and harshly biting his bottom lip, and he looks too much like the little lad in the Wembley locker room. Sam notices, and without a second thought slopes an arm over his hunched shoulders).

Meanwhile, Isaac’s having another headache because now (almost) all of them are shouting, and he just doesn’t want to deal with this, but he’s gotta, innit, ‘cause he’s the captain.

“C’mon, guys, we’ve gotta go.” Zoreaux says. “Richard, Jan Maas, Bumberc-”

They all look around the room and realise that Bumbercatch isn’t with them.

(If Isaac sees anything online tomorrow about someone breaking into the Reichstag he’ll know exactly where he went).

“Okay. Anyway. All in favour of going to the red light district, raise your hand!”

All hands are raised - bar Isaac’s, Colin’s, Sam’s, Dani’s and Jamie’s.

“Bruv, we’re not fucking going there. Overruled.” Isaac declares. “I’m the captain, and as the captain, I say we’re not fucking going.”

That causes several Roy-like grunts all around the room, and it looks like this is gonna be another Amsterdam night until Jan Maas speaks up.

“If we can’t decide,” he says, “we should just split up and do what we want separately.”

That earns many noises of agreement, but Isaac isn’t having it.

“No!” He shouts. “We’re not gonna fucking split up! I’m the captain, and as the captain, I say we’re gonna stick together.”

“Well,” Richard says, standing up, “as your team, we are going anyway. Au revoir.”

And then, like the fucking pricks they are, all of them except Isaac and his little quartet (and Bumbercatch, since he’s already shot off) just straight up walk out of the fucking lobby, leaving the captain sitting with wide eyes at the fucking audacity.

(Shows what kind of captain you are. Now they’re going against you. Who can blame them, anyway. You’re useless as shit, bruv).

“Bobl bach.” Colin whispers. “Didn’t know that was legal.”

“Not now, bruv.” Isaac whispers, though he didn’t exactly hear what his friend had said over the ringing in his ears and fog in his brain.

(It’s not long now before they start going against you on the pitch, too. Maybe they’ve realised it’s the only way they can win matches now. Maybe they’ve finally woken up and realised how their captain is fucking useless).

Isaac stares down at his little quartet; Colin, Sam, Jamie and Dani.

It makes sense why Colin wouldn’t wanna go, he’s got a boyfriend and wants to keep it that way. Sam, too, ‘cause he wants to sit and watch a movie. And Dani, ‘cause he just wants to see a flower. The three of them not wanting to visit the red light district makes sense.

Jamie, however, not so much.

(The silence has clearly taken his brain away from Amsterdam and back down to Earth, as he no longer looks twelve. Sam’s noticed that, and is pleased for his friend).

“You didn’t wanna go, bruv?” Isaac asks him, eyebrows raised.

“Nah.” Jamie replies, awkwardly looking down at his shoes. “M’tired, anyway.”

His voice sounds a little scratchy, which takes Isaac by surprise, but he doesn’t push, just nods to himself in silence.

“Captain,” Sam asks, “what should we do? Should we have a movie night?”

“No, bruv. We’re not gonna fucking do that. No way.”

“Mis amigos, we have to visit the botanical gardens!” Dani screeches.

“No way, I don’t wanna see a bunch of flowers!” Colin replies.

“Shut the fuck up, all of you.” Isaac says, cutting through the increasing volume. “M’tryna fucking think.”

“Don’t worry, boyo, anything’s hard if you haven’t done it before.” Colin puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles at the glare Isaac gives him back.

(Best mates, innit).

And even though he’s got a million voices in his head, pundits and journalists and coaches and the lads are all there too, telling him he’s shit and he’s useless and he’s making them lose all their games, an idea swims into his head.

“What is it, Capitán?” Dani asks, tilting his head.

“I know exactly where we're gonna go, bruv.”

(Four sets of eyes blink back at him, all confused and unsure).

~~~~

If you'd asked Roy why he had the bright idea of letting his team go out the night before what’s most likely going to be the biggest and most talked about games all season (and what will be one of their biggest embarrassments, no doubt) he’d’ve told you to fuck off and would’ve walked off.

In a similar fashion, if you've asked Roy why he walked out so quickly and abruptly after telling the team of his decision, he’d tell you the exact same thing.

(Only he’d probably say it with a bit more rigour and anger, because that would be the second time you’d asked him a question about his recent actions, which in his opinion is two too fucking many).

He’s got his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, the taste of the coffee he’d just brought from a late night cafe a few blocks ago. He’d downed it like he was a fucking football hooligan chugging pints at the pub, but he’d been so desperate for a drink so bitter and strong that he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.

(And it hadn’t fucking worked, because he’s still fucking moping around Berlin by himself at night like some kind of fucking loser instead of back at the hotel in bed and praying for the game to get called off).

(He’s too fucking old for this).

(Don’t tell Jamie he ever fucking thought that, or else he’ll have you fucking annihilated).

Roy looks up at the sky, and it’s so vast and wide, like a cover protecting the world; and that would be fucking great if it weren’t for the painfully true fact that the only thing that the inhabitants of the world need protecting from is themselves and the harsh, cold, uncomfortable feeling of life.

(Jesus fucking Christ).

Roy notices the dark heather charcoal clouds gathering in the sky, and hopes it’s not going to rain tonight. He doesn’t want to ruin his trainers.

He shakes his head and keeps walking, though he’s got no fucking clue where he’s going, and he’s just getting further away from the hotel, where he’s supposed to be, and he’s gonna just go and get himself fucking lost in a city he hasn’t been to since 2004 (that is if he’s not fucking lost already, and if he is he wouldn’t know because he’s too fucking up in his head to do anything right, and-)

Roy suddenly stops in his tracks.

He can hear a busker, and he’s singing Billy Joel.

(Billy Joel always played in Granddad’s old car from his old stereo. It was always really slow, and took twice the time of a decent car to get anywhere, but Granddad always said he'd never give it up, because it’d been his older brother’s, and he’d been given it after he died in the war).

(Billy Joel had played when Granddad had driven the nine-year-old boy up to Sunderland on that chilly September night, though he’d been singing very quietly as he’d been on low volume).

(The nine-year-old would’ve been excited about getting to sit in the front of a car for the first time, but the knots in his stomach had been too tight for him to think about anything else).

(Granddad’s veiny hands had gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were paper white, and the nine-year-old boy remembered how he and Dad had shouted at each other before he’d been buckled into the car).

(He’s just a boy, how could you send him away like this, Granddad had said and come on, Dad, you’ve seen him play, and we’ve paid too much fucking dosh for us to say no now is what Dad had replied with, both of them being so loud that they’d woken up the nine-year-old boy’s three-year-old sister from her nap and she’d started wailing. All the nine-year-old boy had thought was how he’d never heard Dad so angry before. Dad was never that emotional around him, anyway).

(Dad had given him a pat on the shoulder, ever so brief, and Mum had given him a kiss on the cheek, her mouth stinking of tobacco, which was also over in a second, before he’d been led into Granddad’s car).

(When they’d arrived at Sunderland - at ten o’clock, far later than the nine-year-old boy had ever been up for - Granddad had put one of his hands on his shoulders and had tenderly squeezed it).

(He’d said that it was okay if he didn’t want to do this. If he didn’t want to go. That he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to).

(But the nine-year-old boy had just shaken his head and had promised that he did, and had faked a smile. Granddad had smiled back, though he was clearly still sad).

(Here, have this, he’d told him, it’ll keep you warm and remind you of home until I see you again, handing the nine-year-old boy an old blanket. He’d pulled him in for a long hug and had pressed a kiss to his head before he’d pulled away, and the nine-year-old boy climbed out of the car).

Roy suddenly feels his throat tighten, and the world starts fucking spinning.

(He’s taken back to the treatment room and rumours of fucking ghosts and fires. He’s taken back to every single fucking night that he’s wished to go back in time and grab Blankie out of the bottom of that bin and never let it go ever again).

(He’s taken back to yellow signs above doors and books in the locker room and do you believe in miracles and hello, Coach and trips down to the fucking sewer and telling a whole fucking story to answer a single question).

(After last week’s loss it’s clear that Kent’s letting the whole fucking team down).

(He might’ve been a good coach in a group, but Roy Kent can’t cope on his own).

(Same old Richmond, still a shit show!)

(He’s not good enough he’s not good enough he’s a piece of shit and he destroys everything and he’s not good enough and the team deserve a million times better than him because he hasn’t got a fucking clue and Keeley and Chelsea are fucking glad he left and the team all hate him because he’s fucking everything up and Ted and Beard and Nate are all laughing their arses off at how badly he’s fucking this up and he’s ruining everything and-)

Roy sits down before his knees give way and he collapses, not realising he’s sitting underneath the Brandenburg Gate.

(Clearly Roy Kent would rather punish himself than accept the love and support from the people around him).

(I’m beginning to think Roy Kent hates himself).

“Shut up, Thierry Henry.” Roy mumbles, though it comes out as a sob.

He clamps his hand over his mouth but it’s too fucking late because then another one forced its way out of his mouth and then he feels a thin stream of moisture leave his left eye and run down his face, followed by another, and then another, and then he leans over and covers his face with his hands, and then

and then he’s fucking sobbing by himself at night underneath the Brandenburg Gate, and that busker is still playing Billy Joel and-

“Roy?”

The sound of someone familiar fills his ears and he almost thinks he’s imagined it until he hears it again, louder this time, laced with concern and confusion and he lifts his head and sees someone standing above him, someone who he’d never thought he’d see tonight.

It’s Trent Crimm.

~~~~

“Capitán,” Dani asks for what must be the twentieth time since they left the hotel less than an hour ago, “where are we going?”

Isaac huffs, his breath appearing in front of him due to the chilly night air. Mum Aoife calls it ‘dragon breath’, and she’d always chase him around their back garden whenever it snowed, making fake roaring sounds that would always make him giggle.

(Though he feels quite different about the whole thing now).

“I’m not telling you, bruv.” He replies, not even turning his head around to face them. “Stop fucking asking, all of you.”

(He figures it’s fair enough to say that ‘cause they’ve all been pressing him about where he’s taking them for the whole walk. He’s beginning to understand why his year eight history teacher retired early after the annual school trip to Poland).

“Hm,” Jamie throws an arm around Dani, “I reckon it’s something illegal or summat, muchacho. He’s being super mystificatious about the whole thing.”

“Mysterious.” Colin corrects.

Jamie rolls his eyes, making Dani giggle. None of them catch the relieved look in Sam’s eye when he sees Jamie laugh with him, all previous stress and anxiety having seemingly left.

“Come on, guys,” Sam says, “stop pestering Isaac, or he might accidentally lead us the wrong way.”

(Already have, bruv. You know that. Already leading you lot down to relegation. You know it, the other guys know it, the fans know it, everyone knows it).

Of course, Isaac doesn’t actually say any of that because he doesn't want to let any of them know what the night before what will most likely be the biggest and most talked-about game all season (since they’re gonna lose and be knocked out of the Champions League, so they won't be in the semifinal or final. That’s fucking for sure).

(But Sam’s at least right about the accident part. He’s not trying to do this, not at all; he wants to be the best captain in all of football, because that’s what these lads deserve, but all he’s done this season is drag them down. But he’s not trying to, honest. He just can’t help it. He can't help being bad).

(It’s like that one painting that one of his sisters had hung above her bed; Ophelia lying in the river. She’s lying there all by herself, dead because the weight of her dress pulled her down into the murky water).

The five of them walk through the bustling streets of the city, bursting with so much life and vibrancy that Isaac remembers from a while ago, an old friend who he’s got memories of, but not many recent experiences.

That’s why he allows himself to be pulled back into the conversation that the quartet are having just behind him to distract himself from the raging sirens inside his head.

“I hope that the others are having a wonderful time with whatever they are doing in this ciudad muy divertida!” Dani sighs, staring up at the star-lit sky like it’s listening and will make his wish come true.

“Michael says the red light district round here’s a fucking shithole.” Colin replies, nibbling on a fingernail even though he’s apparently given up the habit. “He lived here for his gap year.”

“Michael says, Michael says.” Jamie mimics, waving his hands in the air and doing an incredibly shrill and prissy (and very shit) impression of Colin, which earns him a light shove in the stomach.

(He’ll never tell a soul, but he did it to divert the topic of conversation away from any mention of any red light district and towards literally anything else, even if it's him being a prickish nuisance).

(And, to his relief, it works).

“Isaac,” Colin hollers ahead, “where are we goi-”

“Stop fucking asking me!”

The heated but frosty tone in Isaac’s voice, coupled with the unusual sharp edge to his words, shuts all four of them up, and as he turns around to look at them he’s met with four sets of eyes, each wide with disbelief, and he suddenly feels like someone’s squeezing his heart.

(Nobody says anything or moves for about two minutes).

(Isaac’s taken back to right before their game at home against Sheffield Wednesday two years ago, when he’d felt this shit before, like he was doing everything fucking wrong and the team were playing for his mistakes, and Jan Maas, that’s shit defending and we need to get our shit together and we need to stop playing like shit and-)

“Captain?”

It’s Sam’s voice that cuts through the thick haze in Isaac’s brain. He looks down to see Sam staring up at him, still looking very surprised by what’s just happened, but concern and care is etched over his features, and Isaac knows he doesn’t deserve a bit of it, and-

“S-sorry.” He grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Just tired. C’mon. Let’s keep going.”

He turns around briskly and keeps on walking, watching the four of them give each other concerned looks before they slowly follow behind him in complete silence. Isaac stomps his feet harshly against the cobblestone path; they’ve left the main area of the city and are now in a park, Körnerpark, where there’s far less people and shouting, joyous crowds.

Isaac hears the lads’ conversation start to bubble again from behind hi, though with far less enthusiasm from earlier, and that makes him feel even more like the biggest fucking dickhead in the whole entire universe because he did that, it’s his fucking fault.

(Can’t seem to do shit right these days, innit).

(The world seems to agree).

(Seems that all previous expectations for Richmond going into this season have gone out the drain).

(Same old Richmond, still a shit show!)

(@GeorgeCartrick: Wonder why Richmond are doing so shit. Has to be captain Isaac McAdoo’s clear lack of direction. The man’s got no idea what to do, and it’s showing through the performances from him and the rest of the team. Utter shit, they all are).

(Another shattering loss for Richmond at the Emirates, wonder if they can possibly pull one out of the bag by the end of this season?)

(I doubt it, Chris. I really do).

(@richmond-fan-007: why the fuck do we keep losing??? hope the team know they’re fucking letting us all down here. bunch of twats, they all are).

(Listen, I know I’m French and expected to say things like this, but it seems like Richmond might have to get ready for a one-way ticket to the Championship).

“Shut up, Thierry Henry.” Isaac hisses, teeth gritted with both the cold weather and how pissed off he is at the world.

“Isaac?” He hears Colin’s wavering voice from behind him, thick and heavy with uncertainty like whenever there’s a plot twist in the movie that he doesn’t get and Isaac needs to pause it to explain it to him.

“Fine. I’m fucking fine.” He lies, having never felt more shit in his life. “Come on. We’re taking a shortcut.”

His legs suddenly start taking him in the opposite direction to where he’d been leading the four of them, his head not really fucking on anymore and just blindly following whatever his body’s deciding, and he’s striding through the park so fast that he knows he should be out of breath, he’s not thick, he fucking knows he should be, but he’s not, because all he can hear is boos and hollers and chants of rebuke and you’re a disgrace to the badge and it’s all his fault and-

(Isaac doesn’t actually see what happens, ‘cause he’s ahead, but he fucking hears it alright. And he feels it too, in a way, a sharp shard of glass cutting into him).

Isaac’s neck snaps around so quickly it cricks, which doesn’t hurt at all as soon as the scoops up the sight in front of him.

And… and… and it’s fucking-

(He must be standing inside a time machine because he’s suddenly back in the Wembley locker room two years ago, and there’s a lad standing up a few feet away from his cubby, clenching and unclenching his fists, face completely blank and eyes darting around all over the place, though he’s not really seeing anything around him).

(And, just like Wembley two years ago, Isaac’s not doing shit).

(He’s kind of like Jamie, completely static. It’d be poetic if it wasn’t so fucking tragic).

(But then Isaac sees the blood, and he belatedly realises where it is, and it’s- and it’s-)

(And it’s exactly where Sam’s was, back in the Huddersfield match and-)

(He’s gonna be sick).

“-amie? Jamie? C’mon, Jam, it’s us, mate.” Colin’s lightly patting both of the man’s cheeks, but there’s no response.

“Si, mi hermano,” Dani adds, squeezing his mate’s shoulders to try and bring him back, “it’s okay, we are here.”

And it’s only when Sam, devastatingly says-

“Yes, Jamie, yes; it’s Sam, Dani, Colin and Isaac. Nobody else. I promise.”

-that the penny drops for Isaac.

And Dani and Colin must have similar realisations, because their faces twist from confusion to bitter realisation at the thought.

(The thought of the angry man who will always haunt the outcome of their 5-0 loss against Man City. The thought of the angry many with that fucking sky blue scarf around his neck, the fucker, barring his yellow teeth and icy cold eyes. The angry man who manages to not be around but always fucking be around, in every one of the flinches or jerks or jolts that Jamie tries to hide behind laughs or shrugs).

(And he’s here now, that twat, he’s here in the pale tint to Jamie’s skin, his dull eyes, his parted lips, his tight fists).

(And, goddamnit, Isaac did that. Isaac’s the one who let him in. Isaac’s the reason they’re here, why they’re doing this, all of this. And-)

It must take the blood from the cut splashing against his top lip to make him react, as suddenly Jamie’s hands start flapping and he lets out a sob, tiny and choked and strangled, and they really must be back in Wembley because suddenly Jamie starts crying, he starts fucking sobbing and-

Sam throws himself at him without a second thought as soon as hot tears stream from his eyes, squeezing him tight and whispering something into his shoulder that Isaac certainly can’t hear and is pretty sure Jamie can’t hear either.

(Jamie places his hands on Sam’s back one at a time, like he can’t fucking believe it, and Isaac’s windpipes must be in knots because he can’t fucking breathe and this can’t be fucking happening, not now, not because he’s fucked up, he’s sorry, he really is, but he can’t, he just can’t fucking-)

And then Dani’s face scrunches up and he joins the hug too, wrapping his arms around the two of them, and visions of dogs named Earl and extended showers fill his head, and he tucks his head in between Jamie and Sam’s shoulders, long hair flowing down past his shoulders.

Colin’s the final member of the four of them to join in, cheeks dry but eyes bulging with horror. And he looks so fucking much like he’d done last year when Isaac had left him sat there, phone in hands. He looks so fucking much like I was ninety-nine percent sure that you’d support me, but the one percent chance that you wouldn’t, it scared the shit out of me and he looks way too fucking much like he always does whenever they’ve had a bad loss and the crowd have been a particular bunch of foul twats, and the people - he looks like he does when he says it’s alright, boyo, it’s fine when it really fucking isn’t, and Isaac knows it, ‘cause-

(‘Cause people are gonna be dickheads and all about stuff like that, aren’t they, but it doesn’t make it any less shit, does it).

And then Colin adds himself to the hug, which leaves only Isaac standing there.

He hasn’t moved since he’d turned around after hearing that sound, and he doesn’t even know if he fucking can now, or whether he’s merged with the ground because it seems to be what he does, now; in Wembley, after Sam’s restaurant, after Earl, after Colin had held out his hand for a chat - it’s always been the same.

(He’s always been fucking letting them down, ever since the start).

(Would almost be comforting, the notion that some things never change, if it weren’t so fucking cruel).

So that’s why, as he feels a single raindrop hit his head, Isaac clenches his fists and starts to cry.

~~~~

(The world does seem to just want to make him eat shit tonight, doesn’t it).

The twat looks exactly the same as when Roy had last seen him, last May right before the end of the season; that same annoyingly fabulous hair, that same navy blue blazer jacket, even the t-shirt of The Supremes that he’d worn to last season’s Burnley match away.

(They’d beat them 2-1 then. When they played them this season they lost 1-2. Isn’t that fucking ironic).

But the thing that’s fucking… grinding Roy’s gears the most about seeing him is his face. The way his features aren’t sharp and cold like whenever he’d been trying to squeeze a story out of sadness (like Roy would honestly far rather him do at the moment) but instead they’ve softened with fucking… concern and… care.

(Fuck).

Roy quickly realises that his face is still hot pink and dripping wet and he scrubs it furiously, even though it’s too fucking late now and he’s probably going to start laughing at him; which Roy hopes, to be honest, he’s far more used to that, especially from this prick, even after last year at Stamford Bridge.

“Roy,” Trent says his name again, soft and collected, “are you alright?”

(He can’t fucking deal with this. Help him, please. He’ll pray to a god that he doesn’t fucking believe in if it means this torture will end).

“I’m fine. Fuck off.” Roy snaps.

(He knows he’s being the prick here, and he’s doing it on purpose to drive him away, so that he can be left alone, because no one needs to see this, no one should see him be reduced to this fucking pathetic state).

But, because he knows him, and he knows what those words in that time translate to, Trent sits down next to Roy, and then Roy realises that he’s sitting underneath the Brandenburg Gate with Trent Crimm at night after having just cried his fucking eyes out.

(Something that was never on his non-existent bingo card for things that would happen in Berlin).

(He suddenly starts wishing for the gate to crumble and fall on both of them, ending what he knows will be a gruelling conversation. It was built a fucking long time ago, it could happen).

(But, because the universe is out to fucking get him, it doesn’t).

“You know,” Trent speaks up, pointing above the both of them at the gargantuan gate, “this gate was built in the eighteenth century, by the then-King of Prussia, and it only just survived being completely annihilated in the Second World War.”

“How’d you know that?” Roy asks, grunting into his hand, asking the question to divert Trent’s attention away from him making a fucking embarrassment of himself.

Trent raises a brow, his smile not diminishing the slightest.

“I’m writing a new book.” He says. “It’s about the most famous landmarks in Europe. These last three months I’ve seen the Colosseum, Schönbrunn Palace and the Eiffel Tower. I take it I don’t need to ask what brings you to Berlin, Roy?”

(Prick).

Roy flares up at him, though he can tell Trent’s humoured by it given the man’s knowing grin. Fuck’s sake.

“How the fuck did you know?” He replies dully.

Trent laughs. “I haven’t lost my Holmesian powers of journalistic deduction, Roy. Though I am curious to know what you’re doing out here, at this time in the evening, the night before your big match.”

(Ever the observant one isn’t he, Trent fucking Crimm, Independent).

(Roy wonders for a brief moment whether he should actually tell him).

(He wonders whether he’s done such an impossibly stupid thing that it’ll only serve to make Trent think he’s a stupid idiot who shouldn’t be coaching any team, let alone one that’s in the Champions League).

(But Trent must already know how much he’s fucking up so badly already; the man doesn’t live under a fucking rock, or at least Roy doesn’t think he does anyway, and he can see that he’s out here, can’t he, so there’s no point in trying to save himself at this point. May as well rip off the whole fucking plaster).

“I let them go out.” Roy grunts into his palm, sounding so much more pathetic than he’d intended. “I let them go out and see the city.”

(He’s expecting laughter. He’s expecting disbelief. He’s expecting the man’s face to twist into bitter anguish and tell him that he really is a big piece of shit, that he’s letting down the whole team, that they made a mistake hiring him as the manager, because he’s got no fucking clue, and-)

(What Roy doesn’t see, because he’s hanging his head, is the way Trent’s eyes glint. A smile, a proper smile, splits his face and he looks almost like a completely different man to the cold, calculating one, hanging around in press conferences, sucking poison out of people and putting it into words).

“Well.” Trent muses. “That’s different.”

The simplicity of his tone, like they’re talking about the weather or some show on telly, and like this isn’t the hundredth time Roy’s fucked up this season, makes Roy turn his head to face the man so quickly that an audible snap comes with the movement.

“Seriously? You too?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’re not going to tell me how much I fucking suck at this managerial shit and how I’m letting the whole team down?” Roy spits, his voice wavering a little at the last part - something he fucking hopes Trent doesn’t notice.

(But, of course he fucking does. Because the whole world likes to fuck him in the arse, doesn’t it just).

Trent shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe that would help either of us. But you seem to think it would. Why’s that?”

Which is… he’s being a cheeky fucker for this, making Roy fucking… explain his own problems to him and shit. The audacity.

(Roy sure as fuck hopes the lads are out having a better time than he is right now).

“Because…”

(This’ll keep you warm and remind you of home, Roy. I love you).

(Sorry, dear, but we can’t let you come home now - we’ve spent a lot of money for this. Come on, you’re not a baby, just try to understand).

(Newcomer Roy Kent is an overhyped, so-called prodigy whose unbridled rage and mediocre talent rendered his Premier League debut a profound disappointment).

(You know, I had a poster of you on my wall when I was a kid. Used to love watching you play. But you’re not the player that you used to be, and just because you won a few trophies you walk around here expecting everyone to kiss your ring).

(The great Roy Kent. You're old now. And slow. And your focus drifts. But your speed and your smarts were never what made you who you are. It's your anger. That's your superpower. That's what made you one of the best midfielders in the history of this league. But I haven't seen it on the pitch at all this season, Roy. I mean, you used to run like you were angry at the grass. You'd kick the ball like you'd caught it fսcking your wife, for Christ's sake. But that anger doesn't come out anymore when you play. But it's still in there. And I'm afraid of what it's gonna do to you if you just keep it all for yourself).

(As Kent comes off, he claps the fans in gratitude. Kent has been a fan favourite because he always left everything he had out on the pitch, and he did so tonight. Chris, does this almost feel like a farewell to you? Well, you have to wonder, Arlo. At his age, with that injury... Personally, I'm sorry to say, I think this may be the last time we ever see the great Roy Kent lace up his boots).

(No, I see it. Can’t get hurt if you don’t try).

(Bet you don’t miss the cold, Roy).

(Hello, Coach).

(Anything for me, Coach?)

(You know the influence you have on her. Use it).

(Uncle Roy, you teach me great things).

(Roy. I love you, we’ll be fine).

(Chelsea fans letting their former captain, Roy Kent, know how they still feel about him).

(Is that the plan for the rest of your life? You're just gonna walk away from everything the second it isn't fun or easy? You're just so convinced that you don't deserve anything good in your life, that you'd rather eat a bowl of shit soup and then complain about the portions. Get out of your own way, man. 'Cause this whole "woe is me" thing you've got going on is just fucking ponderous).

(No, get out, Roy. I don't... I don't need you to come in here. Just leave me alone. Just fuck off, yeah? I fucked it up. Just fucking fuck off. Just leave me alone. I don't need you to start yelling at me).

“Because I’m unhappy. Because I’ll never be like Ted.”

(Neither of them notice, but it starts to rain. Good job they’re directly underneath the gate, or else they’d get soaked).

(His voice is raw and hollow, like the words have left behind wounds inside of him, ones that will never heal).

(Neither Roy nor Trent notice, but the busker stops playing).

“You know,” Trent says after a long while, tone not revealing how he’s feeling, “I remember feeling like that. Not long after Rebecca organised for me to spend a whole day with some wanker American football coach who didn’t have a clue what he was doing. And it sort of… awakened something in me.”

Roy turns his head and raises an eyebrow.

Trent groans, cheeks pink. “Come on. Don’t pretend you didn’t fucking notice. I wasn’t exactly very… subtle about my feelings.”

(No the fuck you weren’t is what Roy would say if he was capable of speech, and he’d also text Will and tell him he owes him a tenner - they made a bet years ago in the boot room - because he managed to clock it first. Visiting Phoebe’s school had really been quite obvious).

“Anyway.” Trent continues. “It definitely explained some things for me. But I felt very lonely. I felt like even though I understood myself more, there had to be something wrong with me because I’d taken so long to find out. That maybe I was faking it somehow. That I wasn’t… right.”

“And then one day, when I was sitting at my desk trying to write, my daughter came into my study and told me she had something to tell me. She told me that she was my daughter.”

(It takes Roy a couple of seconds to work out what Trent means, but he eventually gets there. The look on Trent’s face reminds him of the way he looks when he’s talking about Phoebe).

“And she said that she believed that she was a girl, and that she wanted to live as a girl, and that she wanted me to know. And that she made me realise that I could live as a gay man, even at my age, and that it’s okay.”

Trent smiles, staring down at a bracelet on his left wrist; blue and pink and white leather plaited together.

“She told me she wanted a new name, so I suggested Minerva; one of the most powerful and strong goddesses in all of mythology. Minnie.”

“And then I began living life as myself, as the real Trent Crimm, and I felt something inside of me grow that I’d never known existed. I’m closer than ever with my ex-wife, I’ve learnt to let people in, even me and my father are better than we’ve been in years.”

Trent turns around to face Roy.

“My point, Roy, is that you’re right; you’re not like Ted. You’re not like Beard, or Nate, or anyone else, and you never will be. And you have to accept that, or else you’ll kill who you are inside.”

“You’re not a bad coach, Roy. But you need to be open with your players, and trust that you - not anyone else you - can help them be the best versions of themselves, on and off the pitch. Because you can, but you can’t if you’re trying to push away who you are.”

Roy stares at the man, at the culmination of certainty and kindness in his eyes, and the smile that’s not cruel or icy in any way and it… it suits him, being out of the press conference room. It does.

(Roy finds himself smiling back at him).

“Now,” Trent clasps his hands together, “I might not be a journalist anymore but I’m dying to know, Roy; now that you’re manager, which one of the players is your favourite?”

Roy snorts. “Fuck off. I’m not telling you that, how do I know you still don’t have friends working for The Independent?”

“No comment.” Trent replies. “Fine. Have it your way. If you won’t tell me which one’s your favourite, then which one’s your least favourite?”

(After a period of laughter that’s only attainable when it’s the dead of night and you’re not sure whether you’re laughing or still crying or both, the busker starts to sing again).

(It’s still Billy Joel).

(Trent starts to sing along, tapping his hands against his knees, and Roy joins in, and finds that he knows all the words).

~~~~

None of them really react at first, ‘cause it’s such an unusual sight to see. It’s sort of like watching a movie and thinking something’s gonna happen but the movie decides to say fuck you and something that you hadn’t even considered contemplating happens instead.

(And, sure, they’ve seen Isaac cry before. During the end of Marley and Me and Never Let Me Go and the Tiny Tim scenes of The Muppet Christmas Carol, though he’d firmly argued that it was just indoor hay fever. Yeah fucking right. Or when after that dickhead fan in his dickhead Dubai Air shirt had said the other f-word and all of his anguish had been practically visible).

(But not like this).

Isaac lets out a penetrating keen, a sound all of them including him hadn’t even known was in his vocal range. And then they realise that it’s not just the wind howling or the sudden rain falling from the sky.

It’s Colin who raises his head from the pile first, hair already wet from the rain, and his eyebrows furrow with concern.

“Isaac?” He says, voice cautious.

(And for Isaac, who’s got his eyes squeezed shut and face scrunched up and is pretending that none of this is fucking going on because it can’t be - he can’t have fucked up this badly - hears his best mate in the whole world say his name like that, with worry and care and love, so much fucking love, it makes his throat hurt even more).

(And he can’t tell whether the wetness on his cheeks is caused by rainwater or his own tears, but it’s most likely a mixture of both, as the thunderous storm rages and Isaac can tell his crying isn’t gonna fucking stop anytime soon).

“Isaac?”

It’s Sam’s voice this time, which makes him feel even worse, because Sam sounds like he’d sounded after he’d come back into the locker room after his dad had shown up, and had told them all about what’d really happened to the restaurant. Hollow and just so fucking sad.

(Though he’s probably sad about Jamie and Isaac and everything that’s going to fucking happen tomorrow. Which’s gonna be all Isaac’s fault).

(He just prays he’s not gonna cause them any more harm than he already has).

Isaac opens his eyes, feeling more tears welling up inside of them and needing to release them and… and-

-and he wishes he fucking hadn’t. He really, really, really wishes he fucking hadn’t.

Because he’s met with four sets of eyes on him, all bulging with worry and disbelief at the sight in front of them.

(And it’s Jamie’s eyes, red-rimmed and puffy and still twitching, but still on him, that make him wish the ground would just swallow him up and take him away from all of this fucking shit).

(The rain suddenly becomes much heavier).

(Isaac starts to cry even harder, making little hiccup-sounds - the same ones he’d heard in the Wembley locker room - and he hates it).

“Isaac,” Colin says again, unfurling himself from where he’d flung his arms over the shoulders of Jamie and Sam, walking towards his best friend and holding out a hand.

Isaac jerks violently away from the touch, because no one should touch him now, or be near him, he’s ruining everything, on and off the pitch, and he deserves to lose tomorrow but they don’t, they deserve a million fucking times more than what he’s giving them and he’s sorry, he really fucking is, but he doesn’t know how to fix what’s broken inside of him-

(Isaac tries to ignore the sight of the hurt that flashes over Colin’s eyes at his action).

“Okay, it’s okay,” Colin holds up both his hands, “I’m not gonna touch you, boyo. Promise. But what’s going on?”

(Memories of running up to the stands and yellow paper signs falling down and walking away, leaving his best mate sitting by himself and it was nothing to do with you, it was to do with me and i don't know what happened out there, but i do know whatever it was isn't what you're really angry about. is it? so then trust me. you got to go deal with that... or you're gonna fuck up whatever it is you actually do care about and we need to get our shit together fill his head and he lifts his chin up to look past Colin, who’s standing close to him, still with his hands up in the air, and towards his three other players and…)

Sam and Dani still have their arms firmly wrapped around Jamie tightly, with one of Sam’s hands splayed across Jamie’s back, but their eyes are all directed Isaac’s way, even though it fucking shouldn’t be, even though he’s the reason they’re out here, the reason Jamie’s got that cut that’s still slowly bleeding, the cut that must’ve taken him back to being with the angry man years ago. The cut that’s in the exact same area as the one he gave Sam by belting the ball too hard, too fast.

“Capitán?”

Dani’s voice sounds so different than the cheerful, joyous chirp that it always is; he now sounds grave and wary, and it’s not fucking fair, and it’s all Isaac’s fault and-

“Isaac?”

(Fuck. Jesus, Mary and fuckface Joseph).

(Jamie sounds exactly as he’d done in Wembley, after he’d pulled away from Roy. His face looks exactly the same too; salmon-pink, scrunched up and eyes bright red. And his voice is like one of those avocados that Dani likes to eat, the ones with the insides scooped out so there’s nothing left. That’s what Jamie sounds like, like someone’s gone in and scooped out all of him and taken it out, so that all remains is hollow emptiness).

(And in a metaphorical sense that must be the last fucking straw, because then he can’t fucking help it and his mouth’s open and he’s talking. Oh fuck).

(Can’t imagine this going anything but well).

“I-I’m sorry,”

(The words should sound like they’ve been forcibly ripped out of him, but they don’t. They’re tiny, mewling sounds that surprise the quartet even more).

“Wha-”

“I-I fucked up tonight.” Isaac interjects Sam. “S’my fault we’re o-out here, s’my fault Jamie got hurt, just like s’my fault Sam got hurt in the Huddersfield game.”

(Sam and Jamie share a puzzled look at his words, until Sam’s features release with realisation. Isaac doesn’t notice the heartbroken expression on his face).

“And, and m’sorry we’ve had such a rough season, I know… I-I know I should be doing better, ‘cause you all deserve better than me, a-and it’s gonna be my fault that we’re gonna lose tomorrow, and-”

Isaac’s abruptly cut off by a body slamming into his, and he looks down to see Colin wrapping his arms around him tightly, shaking his head and making sounds that Isaac can’t tell are sobs or laughs.

“You fucking melon,” Colin’s voice is muffled, “you absolute fucking melon, Isaac Atlas McAdoo. You really fucking are. How d’you get off saying a thing like that?”

“He is right, Captain.” Sam adds from where he’s standing, a bitter grin on his face. “How the hell could you possibly think that? It’s all bullshit, all of it is. You always tell us to not listen to what people online say, you need to take your own fucking advice.”

Colin, Isaac, Dani and Jamie are all unnerved by Sam’s use of expletives, so much so that Isaac’s too stunned to reply to Sam’s question.

“But I,” he wipes the remainder of his tears away, “I-I’m supposed to lead you guys, ain’t I, and if we’re having a shit season, then-”

“There is no such thing.” Dani cuts him off. “There are only matches. And we just have to go on from one match to the next, mi amigo.”

“That were real poetic, muchacho.” Jamie replies, and even though he sounds like he’s just had both a cold and internal throat damage he still manages to sound pleased.

“Si, Capitán, listen to me! Poetry is life!”

That gets all four of them giggling, bar Isaac, who’s still standing with his jaw dangling open like a fucking muppet, unable to process what he’s hearing.

(Why the fuck aren’t they mad? Why the fuck don’t they agree with him? Why the fuck can’t they see that they deserve better than him?)

“‘E’s right, Isaac.” Jamie adds, rubbing the rest of his own tears away with his sleeve. “You’re not shit, none of us are. And sure, Hertha Berlin are a big club, but so are we, right?”

“For once, he’s right, boyo.” Colin nods, earning him an endearingly angered ‘oi’ from behind him. “And you’re such a fucking idiot for thinking otherwise. You know that, right?”

Isaac can’t really reply, but he feels the lump in his throat begin to rise as the other three join in on the hug and he can feel them all pressed against him, warming him up, their arms tightly secure around him.

(None of them notice, but the rain begins to calm down).

(Isaac’s not sure how long he keeps crying for after they start to hug him, but it’s long enough that he’s drenched Dani’s shoulder).

(Though what does surprise him is that when they pull away after God knows how long, he feels surprisingly okay. Not perfect, but not absolute shit).

(None of them can really remember that they’re playing in the Champions League quarter-finals tomorrow anymore).

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Isaac laughs, wiping away the last of his tears. “Sorry about that.”

“Do not be,” Dani replies immediately, “crying is life!”

“An orgasm for the soul.” Jamie adds, causing all eyes to fall on him, and everyone looks fucking confused for a moment until they all burst into uncontrollable laughter, and-

-and it’s the best type of laughter; the kind that’s only attainable at night after you’ve just sobbed your eyes out, the kind that makes your throat hurt, the kind that makes you forget what you were actually laughing about when it’s done.

(Isaac sure can’t remember. Must’ve been something funny he’d said, for sure).

“Christ alive,” Colin sighs, after they’ve all calmed down. “D'you wanna take us to where you were gonna take us Isaac?”

Isaac's smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. "Nah. S'not important."

“Probably past Roy’s curfew, though. D’you wanna head back to the hotel and get gut like fish and thrown into a canal?” Isaac says.

Jamie clasps his hands together. “Looking forward to it already, mate.”

Dani laughs. “Jamie, when Coach Roy sees your cut he will tie you down to the bed and force an antiseptic wipe and a plaster on it.”

“Sounds sexy.” Jamie replies, and they all roll their eyes.

And they’re about to all link arms and walk back to the hotel together like they’re not about to play a big game tomorrow, when Sam stops them.

“Wait!” He hollers, which gets all of their fucking attention.

Four heads all turn towards him, and Sam’s on his phone, and there’s a grin splitting his face, one that would cause Isaac a great deal of worry were it on the face of Jamie or Bumbercatch.

“What is it, bruv?”

“I have a better idea than going back to the hotel.”

~~~~

“So,” Isaac says, allowing Colin to put a piece of chopped currywurst onto his tongue, “you guys didn’t go to the red light district after all, then?”

“Nah,” replies Zoreaux, “kept getting lost around the city, anyway. Turns out O’Brien can’t read signs for shit. Good job Sam texted us when he did, or else we’d’ve gone back to the hotel early.”

“Yeah,” Isaac narrows his eyes towards Sam, who just shrugs back with a cheeky grin, “good fucking job indeed.”

(Isaac really does forget how he can be as much of a smart little twat as the rest of them).

(Of course Sam would fucking find an outdoor screening of Lilo and Stitch in Berlin on the night they all just happened to be there, and of course he just happened to text the other lads to ask them to come. As well as ordering enough currywurst to sink a fucking ship).

“Well, I am not complaining, Capitán.” Dani shouts from behind, and Isaac turns his head to see the man sharing a currywurst with Jamie and Bumbercatch.

He also takes note of how Bumbercatch is applying gauze to Jamie’s cut, and how there’s a whole fucking box of it by his feet in different colours.

“Bumbercatch,” Colin gasps, “you carry around strips of gauze?”

“Yeah, man.” He replies, not breaking his concentration from his impossible task of trying to hold Jamie's head still. “Three years of medical training to my name.”

“Medical school is usually around five to seven years.” Jan Maas points out, because of course he fucking knows that.

“Didn’t say school, did I. Said training.”

“And he’s doing an excellent fucking job of it, I must add.” Jamie replies with a giggle, mimicking one of those rich women getting pampered in a movie.

(Isaac puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t even want to know who taught Bumbercatch, let alone whether or not it’s legal).

(And he’s been wary to not ask him any questions about where the fuck he’s been tonight. Though he’s heard no word on the street so far about any break-ins to spy museums or parliament buildings, so everything’s good so far).

Isaac turns back around to face the front and he notices Richard not eating any of the currywurst in front of him.

“Gonna eat that, bruv?” He asks. He knows what’ll happen to it if he says no.

“Non.” He snaps back, arms crossed and gaze furious. “As a Frenchman, I would rather murder my own family.”

“Right.” Isaac replies, having known the man far too long to be surprised by his dramatics. He just simply takes his currywurst and moves on.

“Shhh!” Sam shushes all of them. “It’s starting!”

(There’s another five minutes of bickering, mostly from the back row; Jamie and Bumbercatch fighting over the last currywurst and Dani getting caught up in the commotion instead of mediating it, but then they all settle down and begin watching properly).

(Ohana means family, family means nobody gets left behind, or forgotten, the movie blares, causing several bouts of hay fever amongst the group).

Isaac feels Colin nudge his arm. “You feeling alright, boyo?”

(And Isaac… he thinks about that question for a while. Then he looks around at all of them, all of them together, and tomorrow’s match feels so fucking pointless because he’s got this, and even if they lose by ten fucking goals he’ll still have this).

“Yeah.” Isaac grins at him. “I am.”

Colin smiles, wrapping an arm around Isaac’s. “Dwi’n caru ti, boyo.”

“And also with you, bruv.”

~~~~

It’s quarter past fucking two in the morning when they arrive back at the hotel.

(Isaac doesn’t known how the fuck he keeps letting these lads get away with shit like this. Though, in fairness, he’s equally as guilty this time).

“Alright,” Bumbercatch hisses, as they creep up the stairs and across the corridors, “be very quiet.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherman.” Jamie replies, far too fucking loudly, causing all of them to shush him.

(Which, Isaac realises, is actually louder than what Jamie had said).

“Well we’ve gotta be quiet and get into our rooms without waking Roy up.” Colin whispers.

“Easier said than done.” Sam replies. “Roy is quite a light sleeper.”

(Isn’t that the fucking truth. It’s not like he was woken up last year when they were away at Stoke by their Studio Ghibli movie marathon - and they were banned from movie nights for the following two games, crabby old shit).

“Si, that is true.” Dani says, even louder than Jamie’d been, which earns him a round of shushes.

“Shut the fuck up, all of you!” Isaac demands, keeping his voice as low as possible. “If we all keep shushing each other as loud as we are we’re gonna fucking wake him up anyway. Just don’t say a word.”

“Isaac-”

“Not a fucking word, alright?”

“Captain-”

“What?” He frowns. “What the fuck is it, why’re you all looking at me like that?”

“Mate-”

(Oh, shit. He really doesn’t know why he tries).

(The universe always did have a fucking sense of humor, didn’t it).

“McAdoo.” Roy’s low grumble fills the air of the deadly silent hotel corridor, and Isaac turns around to see the man towering right behind him, and-

-and he doesn’t look fucking impressed.

“Roy, it was not Isaac’s fault,” Sam quickly jumps to his aid, desperate, “it was all of us-”

Roy’s menacing glare shuts Sam up, as well as the rest of the group, even Isaac, ‘cause only someone asking to get their arse kicked would do such a profoundly stupid thing such as talk right now.

“McAdoo.” Roy says his name again. “You stay out here with me. Rest of you, fuck off.”

“Roy-”

Another low rumbling sound from Roy, like fucking lightning, and the ballache of lads all scurry away into their respective rooms; Sam with Jamie, Dani with Bumbercatch, and Colin on his own, as his roommate is about to get murdered out in the hall.

(Ah, well. It was a fucking good run, anyway).

Roy stares Isaac down before directly wrapping both arms around him, and-

(Wait).

(What the fuck?)

And it takes him about a minute to realise it, but Isaac’s being hugged by Roy Kent. Big, scary, Roy Kent. Roy Kent who uses swear words the same way others use adjectives.

“I’m sorry, Isaac.” Roy says, into Isaac’s shoulder, and Isaac’s too stunned to give an intelligible reply, so he just stands there with his mouth open.

(Like a goldfish, innit).

“I’ve been all up in my fucking head all season, and I’ve put a lot of pressure on all of you. Especially you. I’m gonna do better, I promise.”

“I- Roy,” Isaac stammers, unable to quite believe what he’s hearing.

And it’s suddenly over as soon as it began and Roy pulls away, and Isaac looks up at the man to see him smiling down at him. Roy Kent. Fucking smiling. At him.

(Jesus, this really is the night of unexpected events).

Roy puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze, and even though he’s got no fucking clue what just happened, Isaac finds himself smiling back, too.

“Thanks, gaffer.”

Roy lets out a grunt. “Cheers. Now fuck off to bed.”

(And he does. And when he opens the door and doesn’t look like he’d had the shit kicked out of him Colin is flabbergasted, but Isaac just gives him a smile and a shrug).

~~~~

(They win 3-2).

(After being two nil down after half an hour, Jamie, Dani and Colin all scored and no one was hit so hard in the face by the ball that they bled).

(They’re gonna play Paris Saint Germain in less than three weeks in the semifinals. Richard went fucking mental when he found out).

(When they get back on the coach on the way home, Colin gives Isaac’s face a poke and says ‘yep, you’re still here’).

(Roy also asks Higgins if Dr Sharon is still around - or at least if she hasn’t been hit down by any more cars - and if she fancies coming back to Nelson Road).

(But, what neither Isaac nor Roy nor anyone else knows, is that after they ran into their hotel room the previous night, Jamie told Sam about what happened in Amsterdam when he was fourteen).