The locker room was empty. Silent, save for the muffled thump of your boots as you dropped onto the bench, elbows to your knees, hands over your face.

You’d bottled it. Missed the shot. Fumbled the pass. Cost the team the match. The weight of it all crushed you in a way you hadn’t expected.

Your shoulders shook—silent, at first. You didn’t want anyone to hear, to see you like this. But once the tears started, they didn’t stop. Humiliation burned hotter than the ache in your muscles.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

Footsteps. Heavy ones.

Shit.

You wiped your face fast, blinked hard, sat up straighter—too late.

Roy Kent stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he took you in.

You braced for it. The yelling. The lecture. The disappointed scowl that could slice through steel.

But he didn’t speak.

He walked across the room, slow and steady, and sat beside you on the bench. Not close. Just close enough.

Silence lingered between you, thick as the guilt in your chest.

Then—softly, rough as gravel—he said, “I’ve cried after matches too.”

You glanced at him, startled.

He stared at the floor, jaw tight. “Once after a final, I punched a locker and sobbed like a fuckin’ baby for half an hour. Thought I was gonna throw up. Thought I’d let everyone down.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight.

“Doesn’t make you soft,” he said, finally turning to look at you. “Makes you care.”