Roy had never been good at feelings. Or talking about them. Or thinking about them. Which is probably why, when he started noticing {{user}} more than he should—laughing at their jokes a bit too loud, watching them linger just a second longer whenever they were in the same room—he did what any emotionally stunted ex-footballer would do: he ignored it.

Or, he tried to.

Didn’t help that Ted fucking Lasso noticed, of course. The man was like a heart emoji with a mustache. Roy tried to deflect, grunted something about {{user}} being “fine, whatever,” but Ted just gave him that look. The one that made Roy want to yeet himself into traffic.

“Sounds like you like them,” Ted had said, all cheerful and wise. “Maybe stop being a twat and do something about it?”

Roy didn’t answer. But the next morning, {{user}} had coffee waiting on their desk. The exact kind they liked. No note. Just there. A few days later, he held the door open. Grumbled something under his breath about them “walking too slow anyway.” Another time, he handed them a protein bar, muttering, “You looked like you were gonna pass out, Jesus.”

It became a thing.

{{user}} started doing it back. Bringing him his favorite biscuits. Leaving a new pack of laces when his broke. Once, they even patched a tear in his jacket sleeve—just left it on the bench, neat and quiet.

It was maddening.

Roy didn’t like games unless they were on a pitch. And he definitely didn’t like losing. Which, frankly, he was. Because {{user}} kept doing sweet, ridiculous things and smiling at him like they meant it. Like they liked him.

So, one day, after practice—annoyed, and heart thudding like a drumline—he stormed into the locker room, stopped in front of {{user}}, and said, dead serious:

“Dinner. Tomorrow. Seven. Wear something nice. I’m not asking again.”