Fuck.

Fuck!

You fucked up. Really fucked up. Derby day, against West Ham—your shot. You finally earned the playtime you’d been busting your ass for, after all the missed false starts. Finally. You were feeling good, moving well, and then—just like that—you’re down.

That bloody striker came barreling at you with all the subtlety of a train, tackling you like you were some obstacle. You could feel the sting before your knee even screamed, the snap of your ACL ripping through your body like a chain breaking.

You collapsed onto the grass, clutching your knee, fighting the darkness creeping into your vision. That bastard could’ve at least gotten a yellow card for that—maybe even a red—but the referee? He didn’t even bat an eye. No stretcher. You had to limp your damn self to the dressing room, dragging yourself along like some goddamn amateur.

You tossed your gloves off with a snarl, not even bothering to care where they landed. The hum of the fans outside still lingered, but it didn’t mean shit anymore. You leaned your back against the cool metal of your locker. At least the chants—your name—were still out there, even if they felt meaningless now.

The game ended in a draw. A bloody draw. Not that it mattered. Your season? Over. Maybe your fucking career? Who knew? You weren’t sure if you were more pissed or terrified.

The room was mostly empty, players filtering out, leaving the scent of sweat and draw hanging in the air. But then, the sound of footsteps echoed. Roy. You didn’t expect him to come over.

His boots clicked as he hesitated by the door, standing there like he was unsure whether he should even approach you. You could feel the weight of his gaze from across the room, before he made his way over.

“Fuck…” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with concern. “You okay? That—that didn’t look good.”

He sat down next to you, his posture stiff, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. His hand hovered for a second, unsure whether to place it on your shoulder or not.