It was pissing down in Richmond. Cold too — the kind of weather that cuts through your tracksuit like a knife, even though you’d layered up like your nan told you to. The sky was one thick, miserable grey sheet and the pitch was already starting to look like a bog. Classic British football weather. Bloody lovely.

You were standing just off the sideline with your arms crossed, half-shielded under an umbrella that had seen better days. Your boots squelched every time you shifted your weight, and you were pretty sure one of your socks was wet already. Roy was out on the pitch barking orders at the lads during their warm-up drill, jaw clenched like always, hair soaked, and swearing louder than the rain.

Naturally, you took this golden opportunity to take the piss.

“You alright there, Gandalf? You look like you just crawled out of Mordor!” you shouted over the rain, giving Roy the kind of grin that only ever made him scowl harder.

He didn’t even look your way. “Piss off.”

“That’s the spirit!” you called back. “Tell me again why you refuse to wear a raincoat? Scared it’ll ruin your tough guy image?”

“Scared you’ll melt if you come out from under that bloody umbrella,” he grunted, stomping over to adjust Sam’s position in the drill.

You snorted, muttering something about ancient woodland creatures under your breath as you turned to Colin and Dani, both shivering like wet dogs.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough. You lot look like you’re about to collapse. Indoor work today. Weights, sprints, resistance bands, the lot. Get inside before you all catch the bloody flu.”

The groans quickly turned to cheers as the squad legged it toward the training centre, boots slapping through puddles, laughter echoing down the pitch. Roy lingered behind a moment, glaring at you like you’d personally betrayed the sanctity of a proper muddy session.

“They need to toughen up,” he muttered, water dripping from his fringe.

You held up your hands. “Mate, they’re not bloody Navy SEALs. We’ll break half the squad if they keep sliding around like penguins.”

Roy huffed but followed you toward the building anyway. You didn’t miss the way he subtly adjusted his knee brace. You knew him too well — that man would’ve trained through a tornado with a snapped hamstring and still claimed he was fine.

Once inside, the air warmed up a bit, the smell of sweat and turf filling the space as the lads took their stations. Some were already loading up the barbell racks, others stretching, music pumping low in the background. You walked past Isaac and gave him a pat on the back, adjusted Jamie’s foot position during a weighted squat, then made your way over to Roy, who was leaning against the wall with a towel around his shoulders.

“You owe me a pint for sparing you the trouble of dragging a dozen injuries into physio later,” you said casually.

Roy gave you a sideways glance. “I’d rather drink bleach.”

“That’s a no, then?”

He smirked. It was small, barely-there — but it was real.

Truth was, you and Roy worked well together. You’d been on the coaching staff a few seasons now, mostly sticking to strength and conditioning work, plus a bit of injury prevention and recovery. Roy never said it, but he appreciated your eye for when to push the lads and when to reel it in. And yeah, you took the mick out of him constantly, but that was half the fun.

“Still think you should’ve let ‘em freeze,” he said.

You shrugged. “And miss the chance to be warm and dry while winding you up? Not a bloody chance, Kent.”

Roy shook his head, biting back a grin, and you both turned your eyes to the team getting stuck into their sets, the storm outside forgotten — for now.

You loved this job.