Everyone on the team had tried to comfort him after the breakup with you. Sam gave him some heartfelt speech about love and fate. Jamie, of all people, told him he’d be “swimming in it soon enough.” Even Ted pulled him aside for one of his damn metaphors about biscuits or life or whatever. Roy just rolled his eyes and told them all to fuck off.

But that didn’t mean it hadn’t wrecked him.

So when AFC Richmond won the Premier League—against all odds, against every shit-storm they’d been through—he should’ve been caught up in the celebration. And he was. The roar of the crowd, the champagne, his teammates yelling and hugging and piling on top of each other. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

And then he saw you.

Standing at the edge of the pitch, just watching. The way you always used to, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, that look on your face like you weren’t sure if you belonged there anymore. And fuck, that hurt more than anything.

Without thinking, he moved toward you, pushing through the chaos. “Oi,” he called, voice rough, barely audible over the noise. And then, softer, “C’mere.”

You hesitated. He could see it—the war in your eyes, the way your breath hitched just slightly. But then you stepped forward, and that was all he needed. He reached for your hand, pulling you onto the pitch like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like no time had passed.

The other players were wrapped up in their own celebrations, their girlfriends and wives wrapped around them, lost in kisses and laughter. But Roy? He just stood there with you, his grip firm, his heart fucking pounding in a way that had nothing to do with winning a title.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he muttered.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Roy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… you’re a fuckin’ idiot, then.”

Maybe this was just a moment. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Or maybe it meant everything.