You saw red. The ref made a brutal call, the other player smirked, and the words were out of your mouth before your brain could catch them. Then you shoved him—just enough to draw a yellow card and every eye in the stadium.

Roy’s voice cut through the chaos before Ted could even step in. “Oi! Off. Now.”

He didn’t wait for the ref. He didn’t care about the crowd. He just marched you off the pitch and toward the edge of the bench, his hand gripping your arm like iron.

“What the fuck was that?” he hissed, eyes blazing. “You think you’re helping the team? Think throwing a tantrum’s gonna get us the win?”

You tried to talk, but the rage was still there—coiling, ready to snap again. He didn’t give you the chance.

“Sit. Shut it. And think about whether you’re here to fight or play.”

The rest of the match passed in a haze. You didn’t meet anyone’s eyes—not Jamie’s, not Sam’s, not even Ted’s.

Eventually, the locker room cleared. The last boot hit the floor, the door clicked shut behind the last teammate—and still you sat there, staring at the concrete.

Roy’s voice came again, quieter this time.

“I used to lose it too.”

You looked up.

“I broke a lad’s nose once in a match,” he muttered, leaning back against the wall. “Didn’t even think. Red mist. One minute I was chasing the ball, next minute I was seeing blood.”

You said nothing, just watched as his jaw tensed—then loosened.

“They benched me for three games. I spent every one of them thinking I was done. That I’d never get my spot back. That I didn’t deserve it.”

He met your eyes.

“Took me years to figure out it wasn’t about not getting angry. It was about what you do with it. You let it run you, it’ll ruin you. Or… you learn to play with fire and not burn everything down.”

You swallowed. “And if I can’t?”

“You will,” he said, without hesitation. “Because I did. And I was worse.”

There was a long pause. Then he tossed you a water bottle, same way he might hand you a lifeline.

“Come in early tomorrow. We’ll work on it.”