Rain hammered the stadium roof like it had a personal vendetta, thunder rumbling so loud it shook the lockers. The match had been postponed just before kickoff, and now the entire team was crammed into the changing room, half of them in kit, the other half already in towels.

Roy was pacing.

You were seated on the bench, boot tapping, clearly just as restless.

“You could at least pretend you’re not enjoying doing fuck all,” Roy muttered, arms crossed.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to get out there and warm up the lightning too?”

A few snickers echoed across the room. Jamie whispered something to Sam, who barely hid a smile.

Roy turned, squinting at you. “You’ve got that smug look on your face again.”

You smirked. “And you’ve got that constipated one. Balance.”

Laughter now—open, full. Ted leaned over to Beard and muttered, “Fifty says one of ‘em storms out before the rain stops.”

Beard raised an eyebrow. “Double if it ends in a physical altercation.”

“You want to run laps?” Roy barked, pointing.

“I’d love to,” you shot back. “But apparently I’ll get electrocuted.”

“Worth it,” he grumbled.

It escalated—fast. Banter turned bickering turned mock insults flung across the room like dodgeballs. The team had fully tuned in now, gathered like an audience in a sitcom studio, waiting for the final punchline.

But then, just as Roy opened his mouth to deliver what looked like a truly withering response, something in your face made him pause.

And instead of yelling, he snorted.

You blinked.

“Did you just—laugh?” you asked.

“No,” he muttered, reaching into his bag. “That was a tactical grunt.”

He tossed you a protein bar. You caught it.

“Cheers,” you said, tearing it open. “Still think your resting face is terrifying, by the way.”

“Good,” Roy replied. “Means I’m doing my job.”

And with that, the team groaned—no fight, no storm-out. Just two grumpy bastards sharing snacks in the rain.