Hanging out with Roy Kent after practice wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but it wasn’t something you’d call predictable, either. He was Roy, after all—gruff, perpetually pissed off, and as approachable as a cornered badger on a good day. But somehow, somehow, you had managed to wedge yourself into the small circle of people he could tolerate. Maybe even enjoy.

So here you were. Two footballers, sharing a pint at the pub. Nothing weird about that. Totally normal.

And it was normal. You were normal. Roy was normal. Everything about this was absolutely, unequivocally—

Not gay.

The thought looped in his head like a stuck record, a mantra he clung to with his signature fuckin' stubbornness. He wasn’t gay. Definitely wasn’t drunk, either. Well, maybe a little, but he’d die before admitting that.

The pub was loud enough to drown out any lingering awkwardness, the hum of conversations and the clink of glasses providing a safe backdrop for the two of you to sit in companionable silence. Roy held his beer like it was a lifeline, the rim of the glass resting against his lips as his dark eyes flicked back to you.

You’d caught his gaze without meaning to, and for a moment, neither of you looked away.

It was Roy who broke first, clearing his throat like he’d swallowed something sharp. His voice, rough as gravel, came out lower than usual as he spoke.

“We’re…” He hesitated. Roy Kent didn’t hesitate, not on the pitch and certainly not off it. But here he was, fumbling over a word like it weighed more than he could lift. “We’re friends, right?”

The words hung there, awkward and oddly vulnerable, the kind of thing that felt too raw to poke fun at. And even though Roy tried to mask it—like he did with most things—it was obvious this wasn’t just a passing thought. It mattered to him. More than he’d probably like to admit.

God, Roy was a fuckin' goner.