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The Halftime of It

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“You disappointed they didn’t start up the ol’ Roy Kent cheer when you walked in? Is that what this face is?” Ted guesses.

Roy maintains his scowl, staring out at the pitch, though maybe the skin around his eyes tightens a little in annoyance. He fucking came here to watch, not be watched.

“No,” he says gruffly.

“I reckon there just wasn’t time before the start of the match to squeeze it in,” Ted says, apparently choosing to go ahead and console him anyway.

“That’s fine.”

“Well, they’ll get to it though. These folks love the heck outta you. Our old pal Jamie wasn’t anywhere near as much of a hit when he came back to play for us, but soon enough this stadium was ringing with ‘Jay-mee Tartt, do do—’”

“FUCK!” Roy roars.

“Let it out,” Coach Beard mutters from Ted’s other side.

Nate jumps and tries to cover it by looking stern, like that’s fucking fooling anybody.

“I forgot I was going to hear that fucking song all the time,” Roy explains. “I’ve changed my mind. I resign.”

“Oh no,” Ted counters, having the fucking nerve to chuckle, “you’re back, baby. I’ve got a few witnesses.”

He points around at the fans currently yelling their heads off as Sheffield Wednesday make a dash for Richmond’s goal only to be met by Dani Rojas’ lightning-quick sliding tackle.

From where Roy stands, the ref’s body language suggests he’s about to award a free kick to fucking Sheffield Wednesday.


“You know,” says Ted, “that is a great reminder. I’ve been over here how long now? And I haven’t made the time to find myself an optometrist. Now, that’s a little shortsighted of me, dontcha think?”

Grinning, he bumps his elbow into Roy’s arm. Roy growls under his breath.

But he says, “I met a shitload of optometrists on Sexy Christmas. I’ll get you some numbers.”

“Optometrists? I would be just fascinated to know how that fit into y’all’s plans, but I’ll let you keep that between Keeley and yourself.”

“It was only because we couldn’t find a fucking dentist.”

Roy sees Ted open his mouth to respond to that, so he fully puts his back to him to concentrate downfield. Looks like either the ref got his head out of his backside or heard Roy’s voice, remembered the legendary Roy Kent anger, and decided to live another day. To override whatever that prick may have said to Dani, Roy calls out, “NICE TACKLE BACK THERE, ROJAS!” the next time play halts for a throw-in. Dani beams.

“Way to support your players there, Coach,” Ted says.

Roy turns so they’re side by side again and crosses his arms.

“Just feels right, havin’ you back,” Ted goes on uninvited as Roy observes his team’s passing pattern. “Like the cherry on the top of a triple-decker sundae. ’Cept I don’t really like those cherries they put on sundaes. They look so gooey. Blech. Hey, Coach, what’d be a better fruit to top a sundae with?”

“Chocolate-covered strawberry,” Roy answers instantly.

His mention of Sexy Christmas brought a few of Keeley’s special touches to the front of his mind—the strawberries, the martinis, the sheer fucking dress thing she was wearing. He releases a heavy breath. Sure enough, that outfit made a reappearance on December 28th, but that doesn’t mean Keeley’s out of his system. She’ll probably never be out of his system, and Roy’s alright with that.

“Chocolate-covered strawberry!” Ted says in excited agreement. “Boy, to quote that review you wrote on your signed picture at the kebab shop, ‘Yum.’”

Roy jerks his gaze away from the pitch, which really hurts him because Jamie’s just gone down after what looked like an accidental kneeing in the balls. (He doesn’t bear that knobhead any ill will, but he’s just got to enjoy shit like this when it happens. Wouldn’t be human not to.)

“How the fuck do you know what my picture says?”

“I went back and ate there again. Like I said at the time, best I ever had. What was I supposed to do, not go back?”


Looks as though Jamie’s now attempting to talk the ref into red-carding the player who kneed him. Roy, rolling his eyes, has no interest in that; he doesn’t mind taking his focus off the match for a few seconds when his phone vibrates inside his jacket pocket.

It’s a text from Keeley.

Um hi? First of all, proud of you. Second, you look delicious in that suit. Come to my office at the half.

Delicious. At least she didn’t say yum.

What for? he texts back.

I think you know what for, gorgeous.

With a flustered huff, Roy tucks his phone away. Why the hell would she do that to him? It’s his first fucking match as a coach. How’s he supposed to focus now?

“Who was that?” Ted asks.

“No one.”

“Ah, so you were just pretending to text. I get it. People do that sometimes, when they’re feeling nervous. Helps ’em avoid talking to somebody they don’t wanna talk to, or confronting their own loneliness in a roomful of strangers. But just so you know, everybody in here’s your fr—”

“I’m not fucking nervous.”

Ted blinks expectantly and Roy stares hard back at him for as long as he can stand, but Ted’s not giving up.

“It’s one of the assholes from Sky Sports. Contract stuff.”

Ted laughs.

“I gotta call your bluff there, Roy. You’re looking forward now. I don’t think you’re gonna give the people at your old job the time of day until Keeley twists your arm about it. You heard the term ‘ghosting’?”

When Roy ignores him, Ted pushes.

“Who was it really? Was it Keeley? I think it’ll be real nice, the two of you working in the same building…”

Roy allows Ted to prattle because getting him to stop would take too much energy. He’s going to have to get used to this again.

At halftime, the boys march off the pitch, eyebrows raising and smiles widening as they approach Roy. Who turns on his heel and wrenches open the door between the stands.

“I think he’s just a little overcome with emotion right now,” Roy hears Ted telling the team before the door shuts behind him.

He takes a few controlled breaths, like he learned to do in yoga, and walks quickly in the direction of Keeley’s office. When he arrives, the door’s open and she’s inside, pulling her desk forward.

“You need help?” he offers, striding forward.

“Nah, you’re alright,” Keeley promises with a big smile. “You could close the door though.”

Roy hesitates.

“Babe. We don’t have long.” He twitches his sleeve up to consult his watch. “No more than ten minutes. I’ve gotta get back before the half’s up.”

“You will,” Keeley says sweetly.

She goes to the door herself, closing it securely, then running her hand across his chest on her way back. A little tug on his tie and he’s already going rigid in his pants. She rounds her desk, stands with her arm draped along the top of her chair. And how the fuck is he meant to turn this down?

All business, Roy exhales and shucks his suit jacket.

“You better get good and wet for me, ’cause I’m gonna be rubbing your clit so fast my hand cramps if I’m gonna get you off in time,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling his sleeves.

It’s wonderful how Keeley can let her mouth drop open and still be smiling.

“I think I just came from that imagery alone. But you’ve misunderstood.”

“’Course I haven’t. Sit down.”

He nods at the chair she’s framing, but Keeley coyly shakes her head and moves away, motioning for him to sit instead.

Roy takes the seat, holding his arms away from his body; he expects his girlfriend to climb onto his lap any second. That’s what has his heart thumping so fucking hard.

Only, she sneaks around to the chairs she has for visitors and grabs a pillow that has the look and texture of a dyed and sheared poodle. Dangling the pink thing from one hand, Keeley circles around and tosses it at his feet. Then she kneels on it.

Fuuuck,” Roy growls, and it’s not a damn thing like the growl he gave Ted.

“Mmm,” Keeley hums in agreement.

Eyes locked on his, she reaches for his belt. It’s no fucking accident that her hand skims over his crotch on the way.

“Do you know what I was watching before the match?” she asks.

Roy shakes his head, then clears his throat to answer.


“Come on, you do.”

“Me quitting the pundit job you talked me into?”

“Yep,” Keeley says. He feels good when she tells him he guessed right. He feels really fucking good when she unzips his trousers and roughly yanks his shirttail free.

“But you’re not mad. Clearly.” His girlfriend smiles and grips the waist of his trousers. He feels the dull edges of her nails and then she’s hooking her fingers around the band of his underwear as well, scratching softly at his bare skin. She negotiates the elastic over the head of his erection and he lifts up from the chair so she can bring his clothes down past his knees. “You said you were proud of me.”

She nods, kneading the tops of his naked thighs with both hands, and then leaning forward to kiss the inside of his left one.

“I am,” she says. “I think you’ll be a brilliant coach.”

He shifts, uncomfortable with the compliment and restless with her mouth so close to his straining cock.

“Don’t see why it isn’t you up here and me between your legs,” he says, meaning it, even when her hands slide higher and Keeley wraps him in the loose, warm hold of her fingers.

“Because of what I saw on that broadcast.”

“Me quitting?”

Keeley scoffs and grips him more firmly, working up and down his full length in sure strokes.

“Guess again.”

“Me getting emotional,” Roy says.

His girlfriend beams and scoots closer. Her hand drops to encircle the base of his cock while her tongue slicks the head. To stay sane, he focuses on how the thick hoop of her gold earring swings against her jaw.

“Me caring about the team,” he chokes out as Keeley’s other hand comes up to cradle his balls, her thumb massaging him. “About my job and my future. Me being… fuck.” He can feel her lips parting, dragging over him, probably getting a smudge of shiny lipstick on his cock. He’s no longer giving any thought to the time, but it doesn’t matter—he won’t take long.

“Me being passionate,” Roy says when he can get the words out.

Keeley’s head sinks over his lap and, after that, all he says is a whole lot of nonsense.

“Any tips, Coach?” his girlfriend checks cheekily, lifting off of him a couple minutes later while her hands continue to work. His jaw is clenched, maybe too clenched to speak.

“You’ve never…” he ventures when he can. “…needed any.”

“Alright. Well, just don’t mess up my hair.”

Roy looks at the tight blonde swirl on top of her head and smiles. He knows better than that; his hands have been clasped around the sides of the chair since she dropped the fucking pillow.

“Feel like a bit of an idiot,” he grunts, as Keeley’s lifting his shirt to kiss his abdomen, palm smearing precum around the head of his cock until—hopefully—her mouth returns to wet him properly.

“How come?”

That hot breath on his skin. He can tell she’s panting. Fuck, he gets the same way when he’s doing this for her, tongue or fingers buried inside her, totally caught up in her pleasure.

“I thought ten minutes wouldn’t be enough time.”

“Oh.” Keeley pulls back and grins. “You gonna come? You gonna have an orgasm because I’m on my knees for you?”

Roy closes his eyes, head falling back.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“You want me to keep going or you want me to help you last longer? Just tell me which one, babe. We can do this however you want.”

He nods as he thinks, then tips forward to look at her. Cheeks flushed, lipstick gone. Heat surges to his groin and he pulses in the fist she quickly slackens.

“Help me last,” Roy gasps. “Please.”

Keeley nods seriously and says, “The other reason you’re up there and I’m down here is that you put on a damn good show, but I could tell your injury was killing you when you turned up. No way am I letting you get down on your shit knee.”

Her bluntness makes him smile.



“You know I am gonna be on my knees for you as soon as it feels better though, right?” he says. “I plan on making Sexy Christmas up to you for the rest of the year.”

“Until next Sexy Christmas?” she asks, eyes bright. There’s something painfully hopeful in there too that makes his fucking chest squeeze with how much he adores her.

“Maybe tonight. Even if it’s only… fucking… Sexy Saturday.”

“Sexy Saturday has a pretty nice ring to it,” Keeley points out.

To show her praise is genuine, he guesses, she takes him deep into her mouth. So much for helping him last. He swears and shouts, counting on the team making enough noise down in the locker room and the fans chatting at full volume in the stadium to essentially render his girlfriend’s office soundproof. Hand cupped around the back of her neck, he rolls his hips gently to the pace set by her eager tongue.

His free hand isn’t free for long—it locates hers to link their fingers, the soft back of Keeley’s hand resting on his thigh when the muscle goes taut. He’s so close he can fucking taste it. She knows too, her hand doing short, quick pumps low on his shaft. When she emits this devastating, brain-shaking moan, mouth full of him and eyelashes fluttering, Roy loses it, locking their hands together. His gaze floats to the white ceiling, then his eyes roll back at the feel of Keeley swallowing around him.

He loves her, he loves her, he probably tells her somewhere in all his mid-bliss babbling.

Sitting there as he gets his breath back, with his shit knee and his bare ass on her chair, Roy turns tender eyes on Keeley. She rises and winks at him, backhanding her lower lip. Fluffing the pillow back into shape, she returns it to its chair. She comes back to his side of the desk and opens a drawer. Once she’s extracted a mirror and a tube of lip gloss, she dabs shimmery pink dots across her lips before smoothing them with the applicator. He wheels up behind her and hugs her around the waist, forehead pressed to her back.

“You gonna get dressed?” she asks.

“In a minute. Do I have time to hold you?”

Keeley must have brought her phone with her, but she plucks his arm, tilting it—presumably inspecting his watch.

“Not really,” she says.

“I’ll run.”

The discomfort’ll be worth a little more time with her, he thinks, sighing in contentment and inhaling his girlfriend’s perfume.

“You will not,” she informs him. “I’ve got a better idea.”

So after he’s swiped a few tissues from the box on her desk, and righted his suit—with Keeley playfully fighting to leave him at least a little disheveled (“No.”)—and scowled at the Roy Kent decal stuck to her wall (“Prick gets to spend all day with you.”), and accepted the kiss she gives him when she sees he’s jealous (“I’m not jealous.”), he yields to this “better idea” of Keeley’s.

Which ends up being to have him remain seated in her chair while she pushes, running full tilt in her heels and giggling madly.

He should make her stop when they get to the first closed door.

He lets her do it until they’re right outside the locker room.

Standing, he straightens and rebuttons his jacket. Keeley bites her lip, grinning, and pulls the chair away. She steps close and wiggles the knot of his tie into place. Roy breathes, preparing to go in and catch the end of Ted’s halftime pep talk. At the last second, Keeley grabs his arm, stretches up, and plants a sticky kiss on his neck.

Roy gives her a wry look, eyebrow cocked, then strides into the locker room. He has his head held high when his team spot the pink print of Keeley’s lips and start OOOHing their fucking heads off.