Roy Kent sat hunched at his desk, scribbling out drills on a notepad with the intensity of someone planning for war. His eyebrows—furrowed and utterly unhinged—twitched with every scratch of the pen. The silence in the office was thick, broken only by the occasional grunt of frustration as he crossed something out with too much force.

He didn’t need to look up to know someone was standing in the doorway. He could feel it. The air shifted.

“Fuck do you want?” he growled without lifting his head.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Roy finally looked up, eyes narrowing like he was trying to decide whether to throw the pen at you or just scream. “It’s 7AM. No one’s allowed to be cheerful.”

“I’m not cheerful,” you said with a shrug. “I’m just less angry than you, which apparently makes me suspicious.”

Roy grunted, sitting back in his chair. “Everything makes me suspicious. Especially when people come into my office without knocking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You left the door open.”

“Yeah, well. That was a mistake.”

You walked in fully, glancing over the notepad covered in furious arrows, formation sketches, and what looked suspiciously like a crude drawing of a player being punted across the pitch.

“New drill?”

Roy sighed. “Trying to sort out a defensive press that doesn’t make me want to bash my head into a goalpost. No one’s moving fast enough. No one’s thinking. It’s like watching fucking statues in boots.”

“Have you tried not insulting us during the explanation?”

Roy gave you a look that could melt steel. “Do you want to run laps?”

You smirked. “Just offering creative suggestions.”

He shook his head, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Get out before I assign you cone duty.”

“I live for cone duty,” you said, backing toward the door. “See you out there, Coach Grumpy.”

“Piss off,” Roy muttered, already going back to his furious scribbling.