Roy Kent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thelittlegirl) wrote2021-07-06 10:04 pm
thelittlegirl) wrote2021-07-06 10:04 pm
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(no subject)
Even before he steps out onto the pitch, Roy knows his career is over.
It doesn't matter what the gaffer says, doesn't matter how much optimism Ted throws his way, Roy knows. Between his age, the loss of his speed, how much trouble he's been having with his knee this past season, there's no fucking about. Roy Kent's career is over, but that doesn't mean he's going to go out like a whining fucking baby.
No, he's going to go out chasing down Jamie fucking Tartt and make that fucking shit little prick remember why he's a legend in this league. This final game of his career, this last moment, he's going to make it count, he's going to make it matter, and as Ted sends him out onto the pitch to start the second half, Roy feels that rage, that wonderful, all encompassing fury that has powered so much of his career.
Christ, he's missed this.
Jamie has a breakaway and Roy knows the arrogant little prick will score if no one stops him, but he's the only one. The only bloody one close enough to do it. Roy runs, putting all that anger into the moment, focusing on his speed, pushing himself like he hasn't been able to in years. And when he slides, when his boot connects with the ball and it goes spinning out of Jamie's control, when Jamie falls, tripping over him, there's a blaze of fiery pain that rips through Roy's left knee and sends him to the grass as well.
But fuck it. He stopped Jamie Tartt.
Sam crouches over him, asking if he's okay and Roy rolls onto his back, looking up at the faces of the teammates as he shakes his head.
"Fuck," he breathes. "I fucked my knee."
"Do you want me to call for the stretcher, Roy?" Colin asks and he shakes his head again, then reaches for Sam's offered hand.
"No," he says. "Just help me up."
But Sam pushes Roy back down, a smile blooming and when Roy asks, "What the fuck are you doing?" Sam only nods his head toward the crowd.
"Listen," he says.
Ringing through the stands, across the pitch, sung by every Richmond fan in the stands, Roy can hear the song he hasn't heard in bloody years.
"He's here, he's there, he's every-fucking-where, Roy Kent, Roy Kent!" they scream and Sam grins down at Roy, then finally helps him up. The crowd cheers as Roy stands, then turns back to find Ted. The gaffer is there on the side and Roy catches his gaze and nods. Ted nods in return.
Turning back, Roy begins to limp off the pitch, applauding the crowd as they scream for him, sing for him, serenade him like he hasn't been serenaded in years. This is over. This is all over and he's leaving on his own terms, by his own rules, after one hell of a career.
It still hurts. Not just his knees, but the whole bloody thing, and Roy pauses for a moment as he limps toward the locker room, wanting to give himself a second just to breathe. He has no idea what the fuck else he's going to do and he can't even begin to untangle the life ahead of him and he needs to just catch his breath. Just for a moment.
In a split second, the sound of the crowd disappears. It doesn't die off as people stop singing; one moment it's there and the next it's gone, and Roy's eyes snap open at the sudden change. He turns back toward the pitch, catching himself on a lamp post as his injured knee buckles and nearly sends him to the pavement. A lamp post. Pavement. He's standing on the side of an unfamiliar street congested with stalled vehicles rather than the door that leads off the pitch and toward the locker rooms.
"What the fuck?" he blurts in an angry voice, fingers curling around the post to keep himself upright as his knee threatens to give out again. The crowd is gone. In fact, Roy can't see a single living person nearby and he peers up, trying to read the nearest street sign, but even if he squints, he can't make out the words.
"Swear to fuckin' Christ, if I need bloody reading glasses now, too," he mutters angrily, then begins to limp down the street, trying to work out where the fuck he is.
It doesn't matter what the gaffer says, doesn't matter how much optimism Ted throws his way, Roy knows. Between his age, the loss of his speed, how much trouble he's been having with his knee this past season, there's no fucking about. Roy Kent's career is over, but that doesn't mean he's going to go out like a whining fucking baby.
No, he's going to go out chasing down Jamie fucking Tartt and make that fucking shit little prick remember why he's a legend in this league. This final game of his career, this last moment, he's going to make it count, he's going to make it matter, and as Ted sends him out onto the pitch to start the second half, Roy feels that rage, that wonderful, all encompassing fury that has powered so much of his career.
Christ, he's missed this.
Jamie has a breakaway and Roy knows the arrogant little prick will score if no one stops him, but he's the only one. The only bloody one close enough to do it. Roy runs, putting all that anger into the moment, focusing on his speed, pushing himself like he hasn't been able to in years. And when he slides, when his boot connects with the ball and it goes spinning out of Jamie's control, when Jamie falls, tripping over him, there's a blaze of fiery pain that rips through Roy's left knee and sends him to the grass as well.
But fuck it. He stopped Jamie Tartt.
Sam crouches over him, asking if he's okay and Roy rolls onto his back, looking up at the faces of the teammates as he shakes his head.
"Fuck," he breathes. "I fucked my knee."
"Do you want me to call for the stretcher, Roy?" Colin asks and he shakes his head again, then reaches for Sam's offered hand.
"No," he says. "Just help me up."
But Sam pushes Roy back down, a smile blooming and when Roy asks, "What the fuck are you doing?" Sam only nods his head toward the crowd.
"Listen," he says.
Ringing through the stands, across the pitch, sung by every Richmond fan in the stands, Roy can hear the song he hasn't heard in bloody years.
"He's here, he's there, he's every-fucking-where, Roy Kent, Roy Kent!" they scream and Sam grins down at Roy, then finally helps him up. The crowd cheers as Roy stands, then turns back to find Ted. The gaffer is there on the side and Roy catches his gaze and nods. Ted nods in return.
Turning back, Roy begins to limp off the pitch, applauding the crowd as they scream for him, sing for him, serenade him like he hasn't been serenaded in years. This is over. This is all over and he's leaving on his own terms, by his own rules, after one hell of a career.
It still hurts. Not just his knees, but the whole bloody thing, and Roy pauses for a moment as he limps toward the locker room, wanting to give himself a second just to breathe. He has no idea what the fuck else he's going to do and he can't even begin to untangle the life ahead of him and he needs to just catch his breath. Just for a moment.
In a split second, the sound of the crowd disappears. It doesn't die off as people stop singing; one moment it's there and the next it's gone, and Roy's eyes snap open at the sudden change. He turns back toward the pitch, catching himself on a lamp post as his injured knee buckles and nearly sends him to the pavement. A lamp post. Pavement. He's standing on the side of an unfamiliar street congested with stalled vehicles rather than the door that leads off the pitch and toward the locker rooms.
"What the fuck?" he blurts in an angry voice, fingers curling around the post to keep himself upright as his knee threatens to give out again. The crowd is gone. In fact, Roy can't see a single living person nearby and he peers up, trying to read the nearest street sign, but even if he squints, he can't make out the words.
"Swear to fuckin' Christ, if I need bloody reading glasses now, too," he mutters angrily, then begins to limp down the street, trying to work out where the fuck he is.
no subject
But if all the other people are gone, no matter how mad that still sounds, he figures he's shit out of luck in that regard. It's probably going to be a boatload of ice and painkillers for him until he can figure out what to do to get it properly looked at.
"I'm Roy," he adds after a moment. "Roy Kent."
There's a warring part of him that sort of hopes this guy recognizes his name, fighting with the side of him that really bloody doesn't.
no subject
It was a fucked up thought, and suddenly, my whole this isn't a big fucking deal attitude was out the fucking window.
"Neil," I said, "McCormick."
Sitting up straighter, I arched a brow and said, "Wanna see what we can find at the pharmacy?"
no subject
"Yeah, alright," he agrees. What the hell else is he supposed to do? Sit here like a sad fucking prick on a bench until the sun sets and he's still alone and confused and in pain? Seems bloody stupid.
"You don't know who I am," he says, just to be sure. He braces his hand on the back of the bench and levers himself to his feet. "Just... no bloody clue who Roy Kent is, right?"
no subject
"Chances are, you don't exist where I come from." I gave him a sideways look. "Or maybe it's just that I'm more into baseball."
no subject
That's how it's going to be now, it seems.
"It's just I was sort of famous," he admits as he lets Neil lead him in the direction of a chemist. "Really famous, actually, at least in England. It's fine that I'm not. Being famous is shit. It's just..."
Now he's just Roy.
"I figure retirement's shit, too, is all."