Chapter Text
“Alright, hear me out. It’s not just a box-ticking thing.”
Keeley stood in front of Rebecca’s desk, bright-eyed and persuasive, with Leslie trailing behind her holding three folders. Rebecca looked up from her coffee.
“I know it’s short notice,” Keeley went on, “but if we’re doing this, we should do it properly. Not just one season and done. We need a real team, a real squad — like, women who actually know how to play football, not just some models we put in jerseys.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow, amused. “I never suggested we sign models, Keeley.”
“Well, you did like the girl from the Nissan ad—” Leslie started, and then cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. Moving on.”
Keeley practically bounced on the spot as she opened one of the folders and slid it toward Rebecca. “We’ve got scout reports, shortlists, names for every position. Real players. Ones who’ve played for Chelsea, Arsenal, even Ireland. This could be massive.”
Rebecca took the folder, flipping through goalkeeper profiles. A name stood out halfway down the list: Ciara Quinn. Irish. Ex-Chelsea. 24. Strong command of the box. Vocal leader.
“I know her,” a voice said behind them.
Roy Kent stepped into the office, towel slung over his shoulder. “Well. Sort of.”
“You know her?” Rebecca asked.
Roy shrugged. “Played for Chelsea’s women’s side. About three, four years ago now. One of the best young goalkeepers I’ve seen.”
Keeley turned, eyes sparkling. “Wait, you rate someone?”
“She’s got presence,” Roy said simply. “And balls. Proper balls.”
He stepped closer and tapped the folder. “That one’s your captain.”
Rebecca looked at Keeley. Keeley looked at Leslie. Then they all looked back at Roy.
“You’re sure?” Rebecca asked.
Roy nodded. “She reminds me of… me. Only louder.”
—
Chelsea Training Ground, Four Years Earlier
Rain drifted sideways over the pitch, fine enough to blur the lines but not enough to cancel anything. Roy Kent’s knees were aching like bastardised clockwork, but he was still trying to train like he wasn’t nearly done.
Across the complex, the women’s squad was scrimmaging. Loudly.
A goalkeeper — loud, pale, all sharp elbows and bite — was yelling at her backline like she’d been personally wronged.
“Back post, back post! You can’t just leave her there like she’s on a f***ing picnic!”
Roy couldn’t help it. He watched.
She was a unit. Not just tall — commanding. Aggressive. Athletic. She made a near-post save look routine, then stood up and ripped into the positioning like a coach.
Later, when training wrapped, Roy was icing his knee on the pitch edge as she passed.
“You got a managerial complex,” he said, without looking at her.
She stopped. “Maybe I just don’t like getting scored on.”
Roy looked up. “You’re Ciara Quinn.”
“And you’re Roy Kent.”
“You a fan?”
She shrugged. “Respect you. Wouldn’t want to share a midfield with you.”
Roy huffed a laugh. “Smart.”
She eyed his knee, all wrapped in ice. “You always this cranky after training?”
“You always this nosy?”
She cracked a grin. “Only when people look like they’re auditioning for retirement.”
Roy barked a laugh. “Piss off.”
She gave him a lazy salute and walked on. But something about her — the bark, the swagger, the chip on her shoulder — reminded him of a younger version of himself.
—
A Few Weeks Later
Roy was in line for coffee, knee stiff, mood worse, when a tray bumped into his side.
“Watch it,” he growled.
“Relax, Grandpa,” came Ciara’s voice. “It’s just tea.”
He glanced over. She was carrying a stack of toast and fruit. “Tea?”
“Helps the voice. Can’t yell at my centre-backs if I’m hoarse.”
They sat at the same table.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty. Why?”
“You sound like you’ve been playing forty years.”
Ciara grinned. “Maybe in a past life.”
Roy smirked, but there was a glint of respect in it.
“You know,” she added, “you don’t have to kill yourself at training. You’ve already made it.”
“Don’t be soft,” Roy replied. “You want to last in this game, you never ease off.”
“Even when your knee’s screaming?”
Roy looked at her. “Especially then.”
—
Present Day:
Rebecca leaned back in her chair. “So. Ciara Quinn.”
Roy nodded. “She’ll give the team spine. Maybe a bit too much lip. But she leads.”
Keeley flicked through Instagram photos on her iPad. “And she’s hot. That doesn’t hurt the PR.”
Leslie coughed. “She… did have an injury last year?”
Roy nodded. “Shoulder. Nasty one. Kept her out for a season. Chelsea let her go when she didn’t bounce back fast enough.”
“But she’s healed now?” Rebecca asked.
“Fit and cleared. I checked.” Keeley replied
There was a pause.
Then Rebecca looked to Roy. “You know, with Ted managing the men’s team and me… generally running a football club, we’ll need someone full-time for the women’s side.”
Roy raised an eyebrow. “You offering me a job?”
Rebecca shrugged. “It’s more of a suggestion. You’d be good at it.”
Keeley added, “Think about it. You already know the captain.”
Roy looked down at the folder again. At Ciara’s name, printed bold. He didn’t smile, but his voice was softer.
“I’ll think about it.”