Work Text:
Newcomer Roy Kent is an overhyped, so-called prodigy whose unbridled rage and mediocre talent rendered his Premier League debut a profound disappointment.
It had been a lie. Almost twenty years since and Trent still remembers. Roy Kent had indeed been full of unbridled rage, but even to Trent’s young, cocky, hyper-critical eye, there was no way he could fairly be called mediocre. Not then. Not ever.
When he gets home on the day of the excruciating conversation with Roy in the locker room, he shuffles through his desk drawers until he finds the bulky external hard drive where he stores all his old work. He plugs it into his laptop, drumming his fingers on the desk as he waits for it to open. He scrolls through the folders, each one labeled by year. He is fairly certain he’s still got what he’s looking for.
Yes. There it is: the first draft of his article about Roy Kent’s debut.
He pauses for a moment, steeling himself; he remembers the gist of what he wrote, but not the words themselves.
He reads, sentences here and there snagging his attention. It is as damning as he feared. Perhaps more so. A flash of memory comes back to him—a night like this, a desk, a lamp, a beer, his fingers flying across the keys of the heavy desktop computer he’d lived off beans and toast for months in order to afford. He’d felt possessed by the words, high on the elation of what he had just witnessed. Of being someone who got to tell the world what he had seen.
He’d come down hard and fast once he’d finished, staring at the screen, the blinking cursor, thinking: oh, no. Oh, shit.
He prints it out. He keeps it in his bag for a week. Then, early one morning, he places it on Roy’s desk, with the words scrawled at the top: This was my first draft.
He manages to avoid being alone with Roy all day. He can feel the man looking at him across the locker room, across the pitch, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. He is not certain he hasn’t made a terrible mistake.
But he lingers in his office as the day wraps up, wondering if Roy will come, and if so, what he will say.
“Oi.”
Trent’s body jumps without his mind’s permission. It’s an instinct born of long, though mostly long-past, experience—with footballers, with coaches, with angry men.
He turns in his chair, schooling his expression into something calm and neutral.
Roy is holding the printed-out article draft. His face is hard to read. His eyebrows are drawn, his mouth a flat line, but there’s something curious in his eyes, something Trent can’t pin down.
They look at each other for a long, silent moment.
“Is this real?” Roy asks.
Trent nods, slowly.
Roy’s eyes flick down to the page. He stares at it. Then he clears his throat and starts to read.
At rest, the seventeen-year-old Roy Kent looks ill at ease in his body, muscled limbs almost gawky as he crosses his arms and shifts his weight from foot to foot. A scowl rests permanently on his face, which seems to be constantly at war with its own handsomeness. He is an awkward, burning ball of energy, a coiled spring, an elastic band ready to snap.
And when he snaps, he transforms: wild, kinetic, astonishing, Roy Kent tears down the pitch in pursuit of the ball, limbs suddenly lithe and graceful, all his youthful uncertainty vanished in the face of the undeniable truth that this is what he is born to do.
A flush creeps up the back of Trent’s neck as he hears the words spoken aloud. The tips of his ears burn. An attempt at panic starts to claw its way up his throat; he shoves it down.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Did you turn this in to your editor?” Roy asks.
Trent blinks. “No,” he says dryly. “I did not.”
Roy cocks his head questioningly.
“Lithe limbs?” Trent says, voice light but a little scathing. “Handsome face? I’d had enough journalism professors telling me to ‘tone down the pouf’ by then to know better than that.”
Roy’s brow darkens. “That’s bullshit.”
“Yes, well.” Trent swallows, suddenly looking anywhere but at Roy’s face. “Perhaps. In any case. I just wanted you to know. What I really thought.”
“Hm,” says Roy.
The silence fills up the room till Trent can’t stand it anymore. He gathers his things, shoving laptop and notebook and pens into his bag. Roy stands there impassively. Trent hesitates in the doorframe.
“Night, Roy,” he says.
Roy is looking at him, face still inscrutable. “Night,” he grunts out finally as Trent turns to go.
Trent makes his way out to his car, heart beating fast, feeling odd, and anxious, and strangely pleased. It feels good, he is surprised to find, to have been totally honest for once in his life.
He is happy at Richmond in a way he is not sure he has ever been before. He has spent his fair share of time at football clubs and none of them have felt like this. It’s Ted, of course. A truly baffling man, whose success Trent would never have predicted in a million years. Zava has shaken things up, certainly, but there is still a warmth between the team members and the coaching staff that is so palpable that Trent feels himself very nearly drawn into it at times. He lingers on the edge of the laughter and camaraderie, basking in what’s left of the glow to reach him in his little office.
He is genuinely touched when he’s invited to the opening of Sam Obisanya’s restaurant. He drops his daughter off with his parents for the night and finds he is able to relax enough that halfway through he stops taking notes. Afterwards, loose and warm with wine and good food, he heads out into the mild night. Reluctant to go straight home, he finds a little nook in an alley beside the building where he can lean against a wall, out of sight of the street, and breathe in the fresh air.
There had been a moment partway through the evening where he and Roy Kent had caught each other’s gaze across the restaurant and Roy’s face had softened, the lines around his eyes smoothing out for a moment. He’d raised his glass in Trent’s direction and Trent had thought: he really doesn’t hate me anymore.
He is so used to being hated. He had courted hatred for so long. It is incredible how good it feels to see someone smile when they notice him instead.
He thinks about heading home and cranes his neck to look out at the street. Roy has just come out of the restaurant.
He isn’t sure if he makes a noise. He might. He might not. Either way, for whatever reason, Roy glances around, and his eyes land on Trent, the sliver of him that’s in view of the street.
“Oi,” he says. “Lurking in the shadows?”
Trent swallows.
“Thought you’d done with that,” Roy says.
Trent freezes. “I—” he stutters. “I wasn’t—watching anyone, just—”
Roy crowds into the narrow alleyway, suddenly there, all of him, taller than Trent and smelling of sweat and spices from dinner, the strength and heft of him impressing itself upon Trent all at once. Trent steps back involuntarily, flattening himself against the wall, looking up into Roy’s eyes with fear suddenly tangled in his throat.
“I—” he gasps out as Roy’s arms come up against the wall, bracketing him in. His blood is pounding in his eardrums. “I—”
Roy suddenly rears back, the predatory gleam in his eyes receding.
“Trent,” he says incredulously, “what the fuck do you think is happening right now?”
Trent stares at him. His rationality swims back. His white-knuckled fingers unclench. The memory of locker rooms past, footballers looming angrily over him with hateful words on their lips, dissolves into the night. Roy Kent is crowding him into an alleyway and he doesn’t mean him harm.
Disbelief crashes through him, replacing the fear: no, absolutely not, this is not happening. But Roy—Roy laughs, and steps back in close, and presses the upper half of his body against Trent’s.
“Weren’t you coming onto me?” he half-growls in that extraordinarily hot way of his. Trent can admit it now: Roy Kent is extraordinarily hot. “Giving me that thing you wrote?”
“I…” Trent gapes. “No, I…”
“Or do you not think I’m ‘wild, kinetic, astonishing’ anymore?”
Roy is laughing at him. Roy is laughing at him and quoting him and pushing him up against a wall, and obviously Trent is wildly turned on, he was wildly turned on by Roy when he was a junior reporter, which of course is why he wrote that scathing pile of bullshit about him being a profound disappointment, it’s just that the usual response from footballers when he betrays even a hint of attraction does involve shoving and walls but it doesn’t involve strong hands running over Trent’s chest like they want to touch every other part of him too and—
“Of course you’re astonishing,” Trent rasps out, and Roy crashes his mouth against Trent’s in a ferocious kiss.
Trent’s brain short-circuits but his mouth moves, hungry, needy, wanting Roy’s tongue and teeth and spit in a ferocious animal way that’s entirely at odds with the ironic detachment he’s worked so hard to cultivate. He gets his hands on Roy’s ass, pulls him in so their bodies are entirely flush and he is pinned between Roy and the wall. He can feel evidence of both their arousal and has to wrench himself back under control, panting, seeing stars.
“We can’t do this here.”
Roy growls.
“We can’t.”
“I know.”
They’re both breathing raggedly. Roy knocks his forehead briefly against the wall and steps back.
“You wanna do this, Crimm?”
Trent swallows. Dire warnings from his past self rise up in an alarmed chorus. This is a terrible idea.
“Yes.”
“Good. My flat, one hour.”
“Where—”
Roy gives him the address and then digs into his pocket and hands him a key. “I’m going back inside. Gotta thank Sam and make the rounds. There’s beer in the fridge if you want it.”
“I…all right.”
“See you soon.”
“Yes.”
Trent watches him go. Astonishing about sums it up.
Roy’s flat is nice, but not at the level of luxury Trent has seen from footballers of his caliber. He’s done the odd profile of star players here and there, and bigshots tend to like chrome and metal and gaudy statement pieces that reveal their owners’ humble beginnings more than any scrubbed-away accent or dropped aitch could. There’s none of that at Roy’s place.
Trent switches on a single light over the kitchen counter and sits at the table to wait. He has a lot to think about. A lot to revise in his own head. About Roy. About the anger of certain football players, and their self-protective arrogance.
About Colin Hughes and what Trent saw him doing on the way here. God, all that hiding. All the damage it does. All the damage it makes them do to each other.
He’s sunk himself into a melancholy reverie by the time the front door slams open. He jumps at the sound.
“Fuck’s sake, Crimm,” Roy says.
Trent laughs, heartbeat evening out. “I was thinking.”
“Thinking?” Roy asks, swinging the door shut behind him. “What the fuck were you doing that for?”
Trent smiles a bit. Roy’s brow creases.
“What?” he says. “Having second thoughts?”
“No. Not at all. It’s…” He hesitates. It is very much not his secret to tell. But he is not sure he can not tell it. Not here, under these circumstances. “Colin Hughes. I saw him on the way here. With his—friend. They…”
“Shit.” Roy rubs his face. He slides into a chair next to Trent. “That guy he was with at the restaurant?”
“Yes. Did you know that…”
“No. Yes. I suspected.” Roy grins a little, but it looks more like a grimace. “I know the signs, obviously.”
Trent waits.
“I just dated women instead,” Roy says. “And that was fine. For me. Not sure that’s an option for Colin, though.”
Trent nods slowly. “Was it?” he asks. The question comes out tentative, a little uncertain. Miles away from the sharpness of his pressroom manner. “Was it fine?”
Roy looks at him. “No,” he says. “Yes. I dunno. I like women. But.”
“But.”
“Fuck, I gotta figure out what to do about Colin.” He looks tired for a moment. Then he shakes his head. “Not tonight, though.” He edges closer to Trent, who just stops himself from flinching back.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” Roy asks.
Trent looks at him. “Actually,” he says slowly. “I do.” He shrugs very slightly. “Some things are…hardwired, at this point.”
“Mm.” Roy is looking at him oddly. Trent feels himself flush.
“So…”
Roy hooks him by the collar and pulls him in, kissing him hard on the mouth. “Shut up.”
“I…”
“Shut up.”
His mouth is hot and his teeth are sharp. Trent gives himself over to it, letting himself be led. Roy inches closer and closer till his leg is slotted between Trent’s, till he’s almost straddling him. Trent’s chair rocks back slightly and Roy growls, grabbing Trent by the lapels of his jacket and pulling them both bodily to their feet. He drags them across the kitchen, down the hall, manhandling Trent in a way Trent is wildly embarrassed to admit is the stuff of his most cherished fantasies. In the bedroom he backs Trent up till Trent’s legs hit the bed and he sits with a thud, and then he kisses Trent some more.
“I thought you were such an asshole,” Roy breathes out, hands at Trent’s collar, his throat.
“I was,” Trent manages, feeling himself get harder with every passing second.
“Nah. You just wanted to fuck me.”
Trent stiffens. Roy pulls back and there’s a twinkle in his eye. Relaxing, Trent smiles up at him, feeling a little loopy. “Can you blame me?”
“Yes. I was a huge prick back then,” Roy says, starting to unbutton Trent’s shirt.
“Like calls to like?”
“Hm.” Roy gets Trent out of his jacket and his shirt and pushes him back on the bed, clambering over him. He licks up Trent’s neck and bites his earlobe, not gently. He says, low in Trent’s ear, “What was it, Trent? Little gay nerd has a hard-on for the hotshot footballer?”
Trent gasps. The words go straight to his gut, like a punch, knocking the wind out of him.
“Yes,” he grits out, shame spiraling through him.
“Anybody ever tell you that’s the real reason you got into sports journalism?”
“Yes,” Trent says, barely audibly, heat prickling at the corners of his eyes.
“They can go fuck themselves,” Roy says calmly, then curls a hand over Trent’s prick where it is straining at the seams of his trousers. “Anyway,” Roy continues, rubbing firmly, “joke was on us. You had us all dancing for you, you know.”
Trent lets out an incoherent noise.
“We all hated you, but we all secretly wanted to impress you.” He unzips Trent’s trousers and gets his hand down his pants. Trent shudders and gasps at the feel of Roy’s fingers on his skin. “Still wanna impress you, if I’m being honest,” Roy says, and slides to his knees, taking Trent’s cock in his mouth.
Trent doesn’t even remember that Roy has knee problems until he’s balls-deep down his throat, and by then there’s not much he can do about it. Roy squeezes his thighs and fucks his mouth on Trent’s cock. Trent’s arousal crests, wave after wave of it, each wave tinged with shock and disbelief. “Stop,” he gasps out. “Not—not yet, I’m too close—”
Roy pulls off. His face is spit-slick, his lips puffy. Trent hurriedly grabs the base of his prick; it’s twitching at the sight.
“You wanna get fucked,” Roy asks, voice hoarse, “or you wanna fuck me?”
Trent shakes his head helplessly. “If I had a clear answer to that question…”
“Jesus. Just—strip off, okay?”
Trent’s nearly naked already, but he fumbles all the way out of his pants and trousers and kicks his socks off his feet. Roy goes from fully clothed to entirely bare in a space of time Trent wishes he could prolong indefinitely, as dark hair and muscles and scars appear, as he sees in full the strong and battered body of this no-longer-so-young man.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” Roy says, and Trent nearly laughs at the absurdity of the statement, coming from him. “Just—get back on the bed.”
Trent does. Roy straddles him and ducks down to bite his lip. He runs his hand up into Trent’s hair, grabs a handful of it, and pulls. Trent gasps in pain and precome spills out of his cock.
“Oh,” says Roy, “yeah, that’s it,” and he scrabbles wildly at the drawer beside the bed, hand emerging with a travel pack of tissues, a tube of lotion, and a green army soldier before he comes out with a condom and lube. He sits back on his haunches as Trent looks up at him, lust-addled, and gets the condom on himself with practiced ease.
Then he grasps Trent by the hair again, pulls him up, and shoves him over onto his stomach.
“Oh my god,” Trent says faintly, voice muffled by the mattress.
He hears Roy slicking himself up behind him. Then Roy’s fingers are at his asshole, slippery and warm. Roy pushes his thumb against Trent’s hole, and it goes in without much resistance; Trent gives himself a good rogering with a dildo a couple times a week and he’s never been all that tight. Who knew that would come in so handy?
Roy gets his other hand in Trent’s hair and pulls till Trent’s eyes water, then pulls some more until Trent realizes what he wants. Clumsily, he raises himself to his hands and knees.
Roy doesn’t let go of his hair. He just uses his other hand to line himself up and, as he pushes slowly in, tugs at it in short, sharp bursts.
“God, you can take it,” says Roy, and the note of admiration in his rough voice almost sends Trent over the edge. He is, thankfully, too old to come untouched, so he finds himself suspended in an almost unbearable state of arousal as Roy fucks him and pulls his hair. He revels in the sting of it and the hot submission of being on all fours and the fact that it is Roy Kent on top of him grunting with desire.
“Am I good enough now, Trent Crimm?” Roy pants. “Would you say I’m a mediocre talent, or…”
Trent groans in disbelief. “Oh my god.”
Roy shoves in a little harder. “Tell me.”
“Roy…” He can barely breathe, for fuck’s sake.
“Tell me.”
Holy shit. “You’re good,” Trent gasps out. “You’re so good, fuck, Roy, you’re incredible, I’ve never—I’ve never had it like this, you’re so goddamn good—”
Roy lets out a garbled yell and Trent feels him coming. Hard. He braces himself as best he can and rides it out. His scalp stings and his asshole stings and he is going to have the biggest orgasm of his life once Roy is finished having his.
Roy pulls out and flips him over and kisses him hard on the mouth and gets Trent’s cock in his fist. He pumps fast and tight and sharp, using Trent’s precome as slick. Sweat shines on his forehead, the way Trent has seen so many times on the pitch, and thinking this thought, Trent comes. He spills all over Roy’s hand, gasping, unable not to vocalize his pleasure. He is louder than he means to be.
After, Roy is very gentle with the warm washcloth he fetches from the bathroom, which Trent perhaps should have anticipated but didn’t. Both of them wince at the creaks of their bones and aches of their muscles as they resettle themselves on the bed.
“Huh,” says Trent, after a long moment.
Roy glances at him sideways. “Regretting it?”
Trent actually laughs. “Hardly. Just…surprised.”
“You’re fucking hot,” Roy says.
“I’m an odd-looking middle-aged man with big glasses and a streak of gray hair a kilometer wide.”
“That’s what I said.”
They fall into comfortable silence.
“Thank you,” says Trent.
Roy shoots him a look. “Do you usually say thank you after sex?”
“No, but I’ve never had sex with someone who had every reason to hate me before.”
“I don’t hate you,” says Roy.
“I know,” says Trent.
They go quiet again. Trent thinks that, just maybe, this is the beginning of something.