Cheryl Barnaby wins the bidding on Roy for the players' auction at Richmond's 10th Annual Charity Gala (for the children).
(The way she did at Richmond's 8th and 9th galas.
And prior to that, at the 17th, 16th, 14th, 13th and 12th Chelsea F.C. fundraisers for Breast Cancer, Prostate Cancer, UNICEF, Red Cross, and World Hunger).
Fandom: Ted Lasso; Oneshot, 1149 words, Set post S01E04 "For the Children"
Characters: Roy Kent, Cheryl Barnaby, Doug Stashwick (mentioned), Jamie Tartt (mentioned), Keeley Jones (mentioned).
Read on Ao3
"You know Roy," Cheryl clinked their glasses together, "much as I enjoy these annual little rendezvous of ours, one of these galas some pretty young thing who's taken a fancy to you is going to beat me at the bidding !"
Roy slurped morosely at his frozen strawberry daiquiri. "Don't remind me."
He and Cheryl Barnaby had a good thing going. Had been partners-in-crime, of sorts, for years now. A terrifically shrewd businesswoman, Cheryl had long since figured that the sort of charity events which hosted football player auctions were full of the sort of tipsy rich person who wouldn't think twice about spending thousands of pounds on a very fit but limited conversationalist, or equally, a Shetland pony for which they'd typically have very little use.
Oh they'd have estates and horse paddocks alright, excellent facilities for the animal, which would live out its days fat and happy while rarely being ridden by its new owner, or at most, their grandkid who'd wanted a pony for their birthday.
"I'd never sell any of my wee darling Shelties to someone who wouldn't take the very best care of them," Cheryl had confessed in an undertone to him and Doug Stashwick more than a decade ago, at some-or-the-other fancy rich person event. Cheryl had just rescued won the bidding on Doug, saving him (newly engaged) from having to go on a date with some heiress who looked ready to dig into him with her dessert spoon.
Infact, Cheryl had been Doug's regular deliverer at these ridiculous events, until in a show of rare and remarkable fondness, Doug had bequeathed her saviour services to Roy upon his eventual retirement from Chelsea's roster. Having carefully cultivated a reputation for being a consistent bidder at these auctions, Cheryl was now guaranteed an invite year after year to these galas across Premier League teams, where she could solicit buyers for her ponies way less exacting or skilled at haggling than her usual clientele at horse shows and races.
"Heard from Stashwick lately?" Roy enquired in a bid to change the subject.
Cheryl snorted. "Funny you should mention Dougie." She drew out a postcard from the depths of her purse. "Is he unaware of your mailing address, Roy ?" She sniffed. "That's rhetorical, my boy. Because I know for a fact that you've been living at the same place since you started at Chelsea. So why is it that he keeps sending his mail intended for you, to me instead?"
Roy checked the postcard No-Knees had sent him from– ooh, Cornwall. It was a photograph with Cheryl's address scribbled on the back, with Roy's name on the top however. A couple of stamps were slapped on crooked. There was no salutation, but the picture showed Doug and his wife Clarissa looking brown and happy on a beach, their couple of wee hellions brandishing buckets and spades, grinning ear-to-ear.
"He does it on purpose." Roy snorted, taking the 'postcard'. "Stashwick knows I'm more likely to actually read any mail from him if it comes through you. Fucking hate the bloke." Roy tucks the postcard into his pocket, making a mental note to add it to the rest of the album of all the pictures he's got together with Doug and their families over the years.
Cheryl rolled her eyes at him and threw back her drink, signaling for a refill to a discrete waiter. "Well, I'm not quite sure of the replacement that you've chosen for me once you retire. A magnificent specimen, yes, but he certainly didn't seem to require any rescuing."
Roy choked on his daiquiri. "Excuse me?" he spluttered.
"Oh I'm sorry if that's a sore topic for you my dear boy, but you're no spring chicken-"
"No," Roy tried to get the smell of strawberries out of his sinuses, "what are you on about me 'choosing my replacement'?"
Cheryl levelled him with a long look. "Why, that Jamie Tartt, of course. The lad is to you what you were to Dougie back when we first started this little arrangement of ours, and to me you're all my reasons for dolling up for these tiresome galas ! Do keep up, son."
Roy set down his glass firmly. "That little prick is no replacement of mine. You know you're my girl, Cheryl. I wouldn't hand you off to just anybody."
Cheryl smirked at him over the rim of her fresh drink. "Very smooth, dear. But would that be because you want him all to yourself instead?"
It's a good thing Roy hadn't been mid-sip at the moment. As it is, he nearly does himself in choking on his own spit.
"I think we skipped several essential paragraphs in this conversation here," he wheezed.
"Oh come off it!" Cheryl exclaimed, slapping his back heartily as Roy slowly turned blue in the face. "That tension at the table between you boys– and that stunning Ms. Jones too– couldn't cut through that with a hacksaw !" She chortled. "Take it from me love, there are some situations which can only be resolved by a tactical ménage à trois." she winked at him, and Roy just about managed to hold back a shudder.
Because a threesome with Keeley and Jamie...was not a scenario he was willing to think about in public. And certainly not in front of Cheryl Barnaby (who already knew him too well), whilst wearing loose swim trunks and lounging out on the pool deck of the Bingham Riverhouse Hotel.
"Who knows," she continued, her smile impish, "the next time you visit me with that darling niece of yours up at my Aberdeen estate, perhaps the only studs out there won't be the ones with four legs and a tail."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Roy gruffed, only for Cheryl to cackle.
She patted his check fondly. "It's high time you found someone to be happy with, my boy. Being the most prolific breeder of Shetland ponies in the UK will always remain my first love, and shall last me until my dying day. But football won't be enough for you forever, Roy." She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and raised her glass in toast to London's evening skyline. "Call it a breeder's instinct, but I know when two animals will bring out the best of each other in a harmonious union."
"That," Roy sighed, "is by the far the most disturbing metaphor for Tartt and I ever getting along while we play on the same team."
"Who said anything about playing football," she sipped her drink smugly. "Coincidentally, if memory serves right– and mine does better than Roger Federer on a grass court at Wimbledon– that's almost verbatim what Dougie once said to me about you. And look how that turned out."
Roy drains his daiquiri and shuts his mouth. Afterall, he still sort of owes Doug a thankyou for the best hatesex of his life.
