Chapter Text
"You're telling me," Roy grits out, hands nearly shaking with rage, "that some fucking idiot had the magical equivalent of explosive fucking diarrhea, and because of your stupid fucking trip to the sewers, the whole team is now on medical fucking observation in case someone manifests years late and blows up the fucking club?"
Ted glances over at Beard, who arches his brow in a silent "got-it-in-one".
"Pretty much."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
Roy throws his hands in the air, apparently having ascended to a state of rage so pronounced that he's exhausted all mortal opportunities to express it. "You're doing the fucking paperwork," he snaps, and Ted glances over at Beard once more.
Unfortunately, this time Beard doesn't seem to know exactly what paperwork Roy's talking about, because he just gives Ted a one-shouldered shrug. Darn - looks like he's on his own here.
"Paperwork?" Ted tries, and Roy straight-up growls at him. He's angrier than usual, which is definitely saying something, but Ted's not quite sure if it's actual, honest anger or if it's just that kind of anger that comes from fear. He likes to think he knows Roy a decent amount, and he knows a heck of a lot of guys like him even better, so he can tell that all this bristling isn't from anger. When Roy's angry, he tends to break things, and this Roy looks more like he's expecting something to break in front of him.
It's not something Ted's ever seen before. Even back in Wembley, there wasn't any of this kind of anger in Roy's eyes - but that might actually be a bad example, now that he thinks about it. The Roy of that moment looked more open than Ted's ever seen him, and the Roy of this moment looks like he's trying to hide the source of his feelings under a hundred layers of concrete.
"Look, I don't fucking know how they do it in fucking America, but it's fucking illegal to have an unsuppressed ability in the Premiere League," and that's a completely different thing, Ted thinks, surprise setting off sparks in his mind. "That means anyone who manifests needs to be registered and fitted with suppressors- did you never look at Colin's file?"
"Colin?" Ted asks, and Roy growls again.
"Yeah. The little prick actually manifested normally like people are supposed to," and darn, that gaze really can cut through steel, "so he's got suppressors for playing on the pitch. He can manipulate probability or summat - fuck's sake, how out of the loop are you?"
"I'll be honest with you, Roy," Ted replies, leaning back in his chair to stare at his assistant coach, "I'm more out of the loop than a bull at a rodeo."
The metaphor clearly doesn't translate across oceans, because Roy just lets out a particularly loud growl and stalks back into his office, slamming the door shut hard enough to rattle the photos on the walls. If that isn't a silent command to do his own research, Ted doesn't know what is.
"Yikes," Beard states, and Ted glances over at him, watching as his partner coach slowly shuts his book and places it on the table. "You know anything about this, coach?"
Ted considers this for a moment - turns Roy's anger over his head along with Beard's simple question - and decides the best policy is honesty. "Gonna be honest with you, coach, I don't quite get what all the fuss is about. Heck, you remember Jason Moore? Kid once blew all our plumbing straight out of the walls and we didn't need to fill out any paperwork for him."
"Different sport," Beard simply shrugs, and Ted frowns a bit at that. It feels almost like Beard is trying to push him into some kind of realization, which is a lot nicer and more productive when Ted's not trying to figure out the entire thing himself. It feels like he's trying to grab a big bouncy ball, but it's so huge that he just keeps slipping off it instead of getting a good handhold.
"I got that, yeah, but it seems a bit weird that they're not just trustin' folks to do the right thing. I mean, it's a hell of a lot nicer just being sworn not to use your manifest than havin' it suppressed, y'know?"
"Different country," Beard adds, and Ted's frown only grows.
"Yeah, y'figure? Hey- do you know somethin' about all this?" Beard looks back at his book at that, and Ted can tell he does - he might've never been great at pulling information from books, but he can read his friends easy as pie.
"I don't know, coach," and Beard glances up at him, dark eyes flat and expression firm, "but this seems like something you should figure out for yourself."
For one of a few times in his life, Ted can't figure out how to read him at all.
"Ted! So good to see you!"
Rebecca actually looks a bit unnerved, which is strange, to say the least. Bits of hair are falling out of her bun, and there's a slight tenseness to her smile which speaks of overwhelming exhaustion and worry. It's not a look Ted likes seeing on her, much less when he still doesn't seem to be quite sure of what's going on.
"Hey, boss!" he greets, and Rebecca's smile turns a bit relieved. "What's goin' on? Someone go partyin' a bit too hard last night and you need them outta the papers?"
"God, I wish," Rebecca sighs, reaching up to massage her temples. "No, no, it's quite a bit more complicated than that. Do you have a minute?"
"I've always got a minute for the boss," Ted grins, hoping to bring Rebecca some kind of real smile. She looks wrong-footed right now - almost like she did at the gala way back when, now that he thinks about it. He's never liked seeing her look so powerless, and right now is no exception.
Much to his dismay, Rebecca just gives him a wan half-grin that doesn't even try to reach her eyes. That's more of a red flag than anything, and Ted banishes the joke-and-a-half floating nebulously around his mind in favor of taking a seat in front of her. "Hey," he tries, doing his best to keep his voice calm, "what's goin' on?"
Rebecca pauses for a moment, opens her mouth, then closes it. Ted waits patiently as she repeats the process a few more times, and nods sympathetically when she just lets out a long sigh. "Is it about the manifest thing Roy told me about?" he offers, and Rebecca nods, gratitude evident.
"Yes. Well, Ted- are you aware of how these things work in England?" When Ted shakes his head, Rebecca gives him a short nod before continuing. "Yes, well- I was informed recently that a concentrated amount of magic made its way into the sewers, and there is a large chance that you and the team were contaminated during your sewer tour."
"Oh," Ted exhales, calling Roy's sewer-based grousing to the front of his mind. "Well, heck, I'm sorry, boss. Guess I should've thought a little more about that kinda thing before I flushed all my problem-thinkin' down the toilet."
"It's already happened," Rebecca dismisses with a calm far too strong to be real. "I've already released an official statement, but the press want to hear from you as well. We've also contacted some doctors who're familiar with this kind of magical contamination - they should reach out to you shortly."
"Whoa," Ted interjects, raising his hands in the universal symbol for surrender, "there's no need to make this a huge deal, is there? Heck, people manifest all the time! It's not like someone turned all the walls into cheese or somethin'!"
"As much as I'd like that," Rebecca sighs, "things like this are a lot more... complicated. I don't know how they address manifests in America, but the U.K. has recently passed a number of bills restricting manifests, which means we have to publicly announce and acknowledge any of our players who manifest-"
"-which means some folks aren't gonna like that," Ted supplies, and Rebecca gives him a relieved nod. "I see. Well, heck, if all I gotta say to the press 's that none of this matters a whit to me, then that'll be a heckuva lot easier than tryin' to answer some question about Richard's love life."
That manages to pull a laugh from Rebecca, and Ted grins at her, joy sparkling in his chest. "There y'go!" he laughs, and Rebecca laughs in turn, a bit of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders as she leans back against her chair. "See, it'll be alright," he assures her, ignoring the niggling worry starting to creep up his spine. "We'll be just fine."
Roy likes to consider it a point of personal pride that he only needs to shout once for the entire room to shut up.
It's before training still, so the lads are either lacing up their boots or chatting about some stupid thing Roy really can't be bothered to give a shit about. Sure, maybe he sometimes listens to them talking about whatever stupid game they're all playing, and maybe sometimes he listens to them ooh-ing and ah-ing over the latest news, but that's just sometimes. He'll die before he ever says it makes him feel anything close to endearment. Endearing things are cats and dogs and his niece dressed up like a dragon, roasting any dastardly princes who dare to come his way. The fucking puppy-pile that is the group of idiots he gets paid to babysit is not endearing.
"You all better fucking pay attention," he starts, folding his arms over his chest and turning his glare on every member of the team in turn, "because I'm only gonna say this once. Don't you start fucking chatting before I'm done."
He waits for the low murmurs of "yes, coach" to subside before continuing. "Some stupid fucker dropped a huge burst of magic in the sewers," and there's the tittering, "so everyone who went to the sewers better check in with the physios. If you start feeling anything weird, you better fucking tell someone, you hear me?"
This time, the "yes, coach" comes with conviction, and Roy smirks. "Go warm up," he dismisses, gaze roving over the lads in front of him. "And Hughes- you stay back."
Colin freezes, eyes widening like a deer in the headlights. The others clap his shoulders or nudge his arm as they head out, and Isaac manages to silence Jan's impending comment with a sharp glare and a warning "bruv". Roy's almost glad to see it - it's a stark contrast to the kinds of locker rooms he was in during his career.
"You wanted to see me, coach?" Colin asks, tone the vocal equivalent of a man tip-toeing on razor-thin ice. A quick glance proves that the rest of the boys have cleared out, so Roy grunts an affirmative, flicking his gaze over Colin's face once more before glancing at his ear.
They've made the suppressors more stylish, at least - let people cover the government-issued gray with stickers and colors and such. Colin painted his earcuff in Richmond colors, invisible from every angle but for a bit of plastic curling around the shell of his ear. It's hard to see, but it still reminds Roy eerily of locker room jests and hip-checks which he saw but never shut down the way he should've.
"None of the boys are giving you trouble?" he asks, opting to forego the beating-around-the-bush that Lasso loves. Best to get straight to the point, in any case.
Colin's eyes widen further at that, and he folds his arms over his chest as if to protect himself from some invisible assault. "About my manifest?" he ventures, and when Roy nods, some of the tension seems to seep out of his bones. "Ah, yeah- no, they've all been great about it. Never had any issues. Only ones who really seem to care are the paps."
"Right," Roy acknowledges, and Colin does a weird sort of stop-shuffle that activates the second-hand embarrassment Roy doesn't even really have. "Get going," he dismisses, and Colin nearly sprints out the door, clearly grateful for an out.
Truth be told, Roy didn't expect much of anything to come from that conversation. Locker rooms aren't quite like they were in his day - and even saying "his day" makes him feel old as hell, shit - but it's nice to know that he won't have to expect any trouble from the boys. Not that he's morally opposed to breaking a few skulls, of course, but he would rather not deal with the inevitable headache.
Thinking about the whole thing makes him feel some weird kind of squirming guilt, which is something he's not quite used to. Sure, he's used to feeling regret - god knows almost all his life choices have led him there - but he doesn't often feel guilt. Fucking awful emotion, really.
It's just- fuck. Something about those stupid not-endearing puppy fuckers reminds him of the kids back at academy, all of them still growing into themselves and some of them stuck with magic they never asked for. There's a reason there aren't many footballers with manifests, after all, and part of it is that for a long time, nobody wanted anyone with a manifest. Back when Roy was coming up, it was just seen as a liability at best and an active danger at worst.
He saw that - saw the harassment, saw the tripping and shoving and kids coming onto the pitch with broken noses and black eyes - and said nothing.
Now, though - now that he's far enough removed to realize just how fucked up the whole thing was - he wants to make sure it won't happen again. If the only way he can do that is by babysitting a bunch of twats and making sure they don't fucking knife each other in the showers or some shit, so be it.
On the heels of both life-changing information and Roy doing his very best with the whole "feelings" thing, Colin decides the best course of action is to go home and get absolutely wasted.
Oh, sure, he's relieved. When Roy asked him if the others had been giving him trouble, he saw his worst fears flash before his eyes - images of slurs written on lockers in movies and article after article on the position of gay men in soccer. For a horrible minute, he thought he was about to have to hash that out, but then Roy stared at him for a second longer and Colin figured it was about his manifest, which-
Really, it's a pretty shit manifest. It's class two, which in normal people terms means basically useless, and it's done absolutely fuck-all for him in the past ten or so years. The fancy technical term the doctor told him when he was thirteen was "passive positive probability manipulation", but there's not much of a difference between that and good luck, is there? Who's to say if him not spilling his entire drink over his shirt last time he tripped on a root was his own luck or some force in the universe looking out for him?
He considers this, considers the dregs of beer left in his glass, and decides to call Isaac.
It takes him a try or two to unlock his phone, but he finally fumbles his way over to the contact screen. It's probably not helped by the fact that he's currently mashed on the table, come to think of it, but he's already committed, and actually sitting up sounds like completely unnecessary extra work. Besides, there's no training tomorrow - he can splurge on such delicacies as lying around like a slug.
He taps "call", and Isaac picks up on the second ring. He's a good friend, Isaac.
"Hey, bruv," Isaac greets, and Colin can hear the distant sounds of an engine in the background. He must be driving, then. "What's up?"
"Do you want," Colin asks, careful to enunciate every syllable, "to come over and play FIFA and get absolutely wasted?"
"You alright?" Isaac replies, and wow, okay, Colin didn't ask for this kind of personal question at the tardy hour of - he checks the clock - nine thirty in the evening.
"Prolly," he shrugs, then adds, "just wanna play FIFA. Can't play against an AI, y'know, 'cause it's shit n' all."
"Bruv, the AI beats you half the time we play."
He can hear the smile in Isaac's voice, and Colin can't help but smile himself. He flops back on the carpet of his living room floor, spreading his legs out like a starfish, and he floats for a moment on the comforting high of not being alone in the world.
"I lose on purpose," he insists, "because otherwise the computer might get sad."
Isaac snorts, and Colin snorts with him. "If you say so," he replies, and before Colin can repeat the question, adds "I was actually already coming over."
That- that's both surprising, startling, and mildly terrifying. The horrible ordeal of being perceived and understood haunts Colin once again, it seems.
"What if I didn't want you to show up?" Colin protests, though both of them know it's just for the sake of drama.
"What else would you be doin'?" Isaac asks, and because he apparently wants to shatter Colin's self-esteem, adds "it's not like you're gonna be out with anyone else."
"You are wrong," Colin insists, doing his best to sound angry but just sounding mildly bewildered instead. "I have loads of friends. I have so many friends- so many you don't even know. I am the king of having friends."
"Bruv, a woman once ran away from you 'cause you wouldn't shut up about Wales."
"She said Wales was the least important part of Britain!" Colin protests, always ready to defend his country's honor. "I can't just- just- just take that lying down!"
Yeah, he's lying down now, but that's not the point. He is a proud Welshman, thank you very much, and he's not going to take any insult to his motherland.
Isaac snorts on the other end, and Colin vaguely processes the distant sound of an engine turning off. "Alright, bruv. I brought booze."
"You are the best," Colin insists, then repeats it because it's incredibly important that Isaac knows this. He is the best, actually. Who else would bring booze to a mental breakdown session if not Isaac? It's just friendmanlike.
"Lemme in," Isaac insists, and then the line cuts. It's an arduous process to actually drag himself over to the door, partly because Colin really didn't feel like moving, but once he opens it, he's greeted by Isaac holding a six-pack and a bag of the tasteless crisps Roy insisted they all try.
Any joy he felt upon seeing his friend immediately sours when he sees the crisps. Fuck those crisps. They taste like absolutely nothing, they don't even crunch well, and they look soggy. Those crisps are an abomination, and don't deserve to even be in his house.
"Fuck those crisps," Colin states, and Isaac clutches the crisps even tighter as if he thinks Colin's going to take them away from him. He might, actually, but it's all about secrecy and making sure he doesn't know that.
"What the fuck'd they do to you?"
"They're awful," Colin insists. "Awful fuckin' crisps. Horrid. Hate those crisps."
Instead of responding, Isaac just shifts the crisps to his other hand and drops the six-pack on the counter. Colin snags a can before he can protest and flips the tab, downing a solid quarter in one gulp before slamming it on the table.
"Shit," Isaac simply states, and he's looking at Colin like he's some kind of booze god right now. Maybe that's the beer talking. Colin is a booze god, though, and it's good that people know it.
"I am so drunk," Colin states, then stares at his drink for a couple seconds. Isaac waits for him to finish his thought, but Colin just decides to chug more booze instead.
If that's how the night is going to go, then fuck it. Might as well suffer together.