Chapter Text
Roy hates surprises. And birthdays. And short Mancunian strikers with attitude problems. And journos. And the acrid vanilla vodka that Keeley and the aforementioned striker with attitude problems keep trying to get him to drink.
But none of those are relevant except for the first one. Roy hates surprises. He hates being surprised and being the one surprising.
Which is why he was understandably peeved when the only preparation and warning he got was a short text from his sister saying:
*Don’t be mad. Please.*
That makes no fucking sense. Mad about what. Fucking Ruth with her vague ass texts coming in minutes before he had to pick up Phoebs.
He drums his fingers aggressively against the steering wheel of what Kelley liked to nickname his “gym goth monstrosity of a car”, engine idle, outside of his sister’s house. What could the little muppet possibly have to tell him before 7:30 that warrants a warning text. Before he could mentally scroll through all the possibilities a blonde piggy-tailed tornado in a school dress threw open the front door and headed straight for his car.
“Uncle Roy!” she squeals,but almost as soon as she says it her face sobers.
“Y’alright Phoebs?”
“I have to tell you something. Please don’t be mad.”
Roy nods slowly and starts to pull out from the driveway and onto the main street.
“So you know Matilda? Never mind, probably not. Well Matilda is Annie--wait do you know Annie? Never mind.--Annie’s step-sister and she said that Sophia told her that "I was really fast and really good at catching the goals during football”, so thank you Uncle Roy.” she breathed out, faster than any 8 year old should be able to.
“That’s it. That’s all you wanted to tell me.” he raised an eyebrow and grunted. “Fridges sake Phoebe I thought you were going to tell me something actually worth getting mad over, not just that your friend’s friend thinks you’re good at football.”
“Uncle Roy, you need to let me finish. So Sophia told Matilda and Annie about football and how you trained me-“
Shit do a bunch of random primary girls think Roy is playing favourites? Intensely training Phoebe to be better than them? Well he is isn’t he? Phoebe is his niece of course she’s his favourite, and Phoebe could be bloody incredible one day if she sticks to it.
He finds himself nodding along until he hears:
“- and then Annie said that it was a great idea, because they need more people on their team because you can play with 7 at a time, but because there are like 4 different quarters instead of halves like football you can keep swapping people off and on and off and on so you actually need like 9 or 10 but they only have 8 so they thought they would ask me because I’m really fast and they know I can catch and stuff but then I said yes and I told Mummy and she said it’s a great idea because she played it in primary school and thinks I would really like it and she offered to teach me but it turns out it’s every Wednesday.”
“What are you on about? Isn’t Wednesday football training? And what kind of football or rugby is played with 7 people?”
Roy is confused now. He has definitely missed something important. Ruth didn’t play sports in high school, she was too obsessed with getting the grades that would get her into med school and on her way to becoming a doctor, or at least that’s what Dad always said when they talked on holidays.
But primary school? Primary school was a weird time for his memory, the combination of his Grandad’s illness and getting shipped off to Sunderland with the random memories that come with childhood, like playground marriages under slides (he wonders what Lizzy is up to now) and kicking the ball around the oval playing a game with questionably rules.
One memory shines through though. Ruth was probably about 9 and he was home and sitting with his parents as they watched her twirl in her new sport uniform. He remembers yanking on her high pony, tied with a satin ribbon and laughing about the fact that her uniform was a mini dress. A mini dress for god’s sake! It was ridiculous.
And he had football that day so he couldn’t go watch her first game but he remembers his Mum’s chiding as she tells him not to make fun of her because she “played a tad bit of netball back when she was younger too” and the immense jealousy when he found out Ruthie had scored 8 goals. 8 Goals? The most Roy had scored in a game at that point was 6 and he was way better than Ruth.
It’s at that point in his bulldozer ride down memory lane that he comes to and realises that Phoebe is silent and still waiting for something. He’s not sure what the question is if that’s the case.
“Uncle Roy?” she asks quietly, “Is that okay?”
She stares at him with her big blue eyes and he really wants to nod along but he has to ask.
“Is what okay?”
She looks almost on the verge of tears. Alarm bells are ringing in his head.
She opens her mouth, takes a deep breath and word vomits:
“Is it ok if instead of playing football like I know you wanted me to play and I know I’m really good at but can I play netball with Tilly and Annie and other girls? I really want to play football Uncle Roy and I love when you and me and Uncle Jamie and Dani and Sam and Colin and Isaac all play and have kicks outs and I know I can’t do both, I already asked Mummy and they’re both on Wednesday night so I have to pick but the uniform is so pretty and it’s a dress and we get ribbons and it’s not muddy and they really want me to play Uncle Roy and I’m so sorry.”
She takes another, albeit smaller, breath and says in a near whisper.
“Please don’t be mad.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckung fuck. This is bad this is shit. He doesn’t know shit about netball, who does? Maybe he’d seen a grand total of 2 games of it over his entire life? One being part of a grand final that Ruth was playing in that he wasn’t allowed to miss (he had played football with the other girls’ brothers the entire time) and the other being a professional game his entire bloody Chelsea team had to go see as some promo for diversity by building fucking gaps or bridges or some other dumb shit like that.
But this is Phoebe for Christ’s sake. He would go to the moon for her (not happily it seems cold as crap up there), so he just hugs her and says placatingly:
“Of course it’s fine you numpty.”
And then sends her out of the car and through the school gates with as much of a smile as you can get out of the unmovable Roy Kent.
Once she’s finally out of sight and safely within the building he pulls his phone out of his leather jacket and texts Ruth.
*What the fuck Rue?*
As soon as it’s sent the text gets marked as read and the banner indicating an incoming call soon fills up his screen.
“Did she tell you the best part?” Ruth asks gently, not trying hard to mask her glee. Sisters.
Roy grunts in response.
“Normally Kristin Havers, Talia’s mum, coaches the younger girls, however due to her unnecessarily messy divorce she doesn’t have time to do it this year and-“ she breaks off to giggle inelegantly a little before continuing.
“Miss Bowen specifically asked me to ask you. She knows you might be busy but says you might be able to take a different aspect to the sport. Plus, you have a huge advantage. No one else really has that much experience coaching. Everyone was really impressed with you last year during Phoebe’s footie season. And if you dare say no, remember that they are 9 year old girls Roy. Imagine disappointing 10 Phoebes.”
Roy thought of ten different sets of sad doe eyes gazing up at him. He’d like to think his resolve would last longer than 10 seconds but knows that Ruth had found his weakness.
“Fuuuuuuuck. I hate you.”
“I know, but you love Phoebe. Think about how much this would mean to her. I could even give you pointers. God knows how long you’ve been bossing me around, now I can do it back.”
“I hate you. This is going to be a disaster.”
“What would you ever do without me?”
Roy hangs up and slaps his head right on the steering wheel with a loud and painful thunk and let’s the horn loudly ring through his head, his entire body and all the surrounding streets.
And if the drive to Richmond takes twice as long as it normally does? Well that's nobodies fucking business.