You were three drinks in at The Crown & Anchor, nestled into the booth with your mates, laughing about some stupid inside joke while the pub buzzed with post-match energy. You’d been trying not to stare too obviously at the man standing by the bar—broad shoulders, black tee, all that grumpy, broody energy you secretly lived for. You’d been eyeing the back of his head for a good ten minutes now.

Your friends weren’t subtle. “Go talk to him, you coward,” one hissed, nudging you with her pint. Another added, “He’s fit. You’re fit. What’s the worst that could happen?”

So, buzzed on beer and false confidence, you finally stood up, smoothed your shirt, and made your way over, heart doing somersaults. You leaned on the bar beside him and said something—some attempt at flirty and cool—about the crowd, or the match, or maybe the weather. Honestly, you barely remembered.

And then he turned.

Oh. My. God.

It was Roy fucking Kent.

That jaw. That scowl. That very recognisable face you’d seen on TV, on posters, even on your little brother’s wall. And now he was standing inches from you, staring at you like he was trying to work out if you were drunk, insane, or both.

You froze. “Shit.”

He raised a brow. “You alright?”