Roy Kent. The man. The myth. The human embodiment of a middle finger.

As one of Richmond’s coaches, you worked with him constantly — but figuring him out? Impossible. He grunted more than he spoke, glared like it was a hobby, and seemed to actively avoid having a personality. Which, honestly, was kind of impressive.

Tonight’s the 3rd charity gala that's occurred since Ted joined, they happened before he took management though. The entire team and staff are here, including you. And while you looked good — great, actually — you were painfully aware of the stares. People weren’t subtle. Not even close.

Lucky you, then, to be seated at a table with Jamie, Keeley, Ted, and of course… Roy.

“Could be worse,” Jamie mutters, adjusting his tie. “Could be stuck with Dani and his three tequila shots.”

You snort. “You’re assuming I wouldn’t enjoy that.”

Then the auction begins. Jamie’s up first. Cue the chaos.

An old woman, a model-looking type, and Keeley go to war over him. Twenty-five grand later, Keeley slams her paddle down and mutters something sharp to Jamie through gritted teeth.

Jamie winces. “Worth it?”

Keeley glares. “You tell me.”

Next up? Roy Kent.

Rupert takes the mic. “And now, the only Champions League winner on the menu… Roy Kent!”

Applause. A few whistles. Roy looks like he wants to crawl under the table and die.

Rupert continues, chipper: “The highest bidder will spend the day at a luxury hotel, at the bar, sipping cocktails—”

Roy snatches the mic. “There’ll be no cocktails. No hotel. No bars. We’re staying in SW14.”

A beat of silence.

Rupert chuckles awkwardly. “Alright then. Can we start the bidding at, say… 100 quid for a very grumpy date?”

No one moves.

Keeley raises her paddle. “£1000,” she says, eyes on Jamie.

You roll your eyes and raise yours. “£1500.”

Jamie nearly chokes. “You? You’re bidding on Roy?”

You shrug. “He’s grumpy. I’m curious.”

Roy blinks at you. Just once. Then mutters under his breath, “Fuckin’ hell.”

You grin. Worth every penny.