Chapter Text
First training
Evan
The light at St. George’s Park fell clean and merciless, the kind of grey-white glare that made every blade of grass look sharper than it had any right to be. Like nature itself had shown up to inspect them, ready to catalogue every flaw before a ball had even been kicked.
…Least that was how it felt to him, in his, admittedly, paranoid state.
Evan Rosier stood at the touchline with his arms folded, the captain’s armband sitting snug against the muscle of his left bicep.
A simple piece of elasticated nylon that weighed nothing and everything all at once.
One that bore the hope of an entire nation.
Sixty years. Sixty years since England had lifted the World Cup, and in all that time, only two semi-finals to show for it — 1990, undone by the Germans on penalties, and 2018, undone by Croatia in extra time, that long, cruel unravelling replayed on classic-match repeats every summer since like some ritual self-flagellation.
Not this time.
We’re bringing it home.
Twenty-four years old, and this was it. The thing he’d dreamed about since he was a scrawny kid in Bermondsey, using a bin bag full of jumpers for goalposts, calling his own commentary under his breath.
He’d earned this. Not through luck, but through the unglamorous accumulation of every training session, every recovery day, every tactical debrief he’d sat through twice because the first pass hadn’t stuck. Three years ago, Liverpool had paid a club-record fee to bring him back from Dortmund, and he had never once looked back, even when Real Madrid came sniffing, even when Bayern dangled a number with too many zeroes in it during a particularly bruising January. Loyalty wasn’t a marketing slogan to him. It was closer to bone.
See, football, to Evan, was never about individual shine. It was about the shape a group made when it moved as one organism — eleven minds bent toward the same impossible geometry, the pass before the pass, the run that existed only because someone else’s run had pulled a defender two yards out of position.
What England had lacked for decades wasn’t talent. God knew they’d produced enough of that, a production line of wonderkids anointed and discarded every cycle. What they’d lacked was cohesion. Premier League rivalries bled into the national set-up. Egos arrived pre-inflated from Champions League nights, still carrying the swagger of a different badge. The dressing room became an uneasy truce masking as a team.
He had every intention to change that.
It was, he suspected, the real reason the FA had handed him the armband over players with better individual numbers — not because he was the flashiest name in the squad, but because when the pressure mounted, he made the ten around him larger than themselves.
Because he cared. Because caring, in this sport, had become almost embarrassing to admit to, and he’d stopped being embarrassed a long time ago.
We’re bringing it home.
Football was never won on paper. He knew that in his bones, had learned it the hard way in a Merseyside derby two seasons back that they’d lost 3-0 as heavy favourites. But on paper, the assembled roster made the trophy feel less like a slogan and more like a spreadsheet of probabilities finally tilting their way.
The selectors had done their job, and the spine was strong.
Peter Pettigrew marshalled the goal — his closest mate from Liverpool, a stocky, undersized keeper who’d been told his whole career he was too short for the position, right up until his reflexes made fools of strikers a foot taller. On top of that? An ability to remain calm under a barrage of shots in a way that defied all common sense.
Further up, James Potter provided the directness — Arsenal’s explosive forward, all pace and finishing instinct, absolutely clinical when it came to taking corners. He wasn’t the only Gunner in the squad, either. Sirius Black, a winger with a left foot people described, only half-joking, as a lockpick, had been scouted as well. The two of them were near-inseparable, on the pitch and off it, their understanding so instinctive that pundits had taken to calling it telepathy rather than technique.
Remus Lupin anchored the back line, a Manchester City centre-back whose positioning was so unshowy it was easy to miss how good he actually was — no lunging challenges, no last-ditch heroics, just a man who always seemed to already be standing where the danger was about to arrive. A quiet and cerebral one.
And Frank Longbottom, Chelsea’s box-to-box engine, the kind of tireless eight who covered blind ground so the more decorated names around him didn’t have to.
Good lads. Hungry. Wanting it, Evan thought, almost as badly as he did.
Almost.
Because then there was him.
Barty Crouch.
Everyone in football knew the story by heart, could probably recite it better than they could their own family history. Eighteen years old, exploding into a mid-table Championship side and scoring a hat-trick on his full debut. Nineteen, already gone to PSG, breaking Ligue 1 scoring records that had stood for over a decade. Then the headline transfer back across the Channel to Bayern for a fee that made back pages combust — and already, barely a season into that contract, the whispers had started again. Real Madrid, apparently. Always somewhere else. A nomad with a release clause instead of a home.
But the numbers didn’t lie, and that was the maddening part. Thirty-plus goals a season across three different leagues and three different footballing cultures. Assists when it suited him — which, admittedly, wasn’t often, but when it happened it was usually a killer ball no one else on the pitch had seen. A dribbling success rate that bordered on statistically obscene. He played with a low centre of gravity and a first step that seemed to break the sound barrier, a left foot that could curl a free-kick around a four-man wall or thread a ball through a six-inch gap from thirty yards, and — infuriatingly — a right foot that did the exact same thing.
Twenty-three years old, and already a legend of the game.
His reputation, though?
A nightmare.
Arrogant. Mercurial. The archetypal stats merchant who’d rather force a low-percentage shot from a tight angle for the glory of it than lay off the simple ball that actually broke the defensive line. He didn’t play for anyone. Clubs tolerated it because the end product justified the friction; teammates learned to work around him rather than with him. There were stories — dressing-room bust-ups, a referee he’d allegedly called something unrepeatable in two languages, a training-ground shoving match that had made it, somehow, onto grainy phone footage online. And that was before you got to his life outside the white lines: a rotating cast of women, a paparazzi trail, the kind of tabloid ubiquity that made him feel less like a footballer and more like a rockstar who happened to also play football.
Evan’s jaw tightened just thinking about it.
He’d watched hours of clips ahead of these call-ups, breaking down every player’s tendencies the way he broke down an opposition’s shape — where they liked the ball played to feet, which foot they favoured under pressure, what their body language gave away in the ninetieth minute of a game already lost. He knew Barty’s positioning better than most of Barty’s own managers probably did.
There was no denying it.
Barty was a genuine, once-in-a-generation talent.
He was also a prick who had yet to show up to the first training session of the entire campaign.
The squad was already through their activation drills when the clock ticked past the scheduled start time. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes past the hour, cones set out, rondo already underway, and still no sign of the last piece of the puzzle.
Evan’s patience, never infinite to begin with, curdled into something quieter and more dangerous.
“You alright, mate?”
He turned. Peter had jogged over, breathing easy, a half-smile already in place like he knew exactly what was coming.
“He’s late.”
Peter shrugged, going for levity. “Traffic, maybe?” Then, catching the look on Evan’s face, he raised both hands. “Relax. It’s fifteen minutes.”
“It’s not about the fifteen minutes, Pete. It’s the principle of it.” Evan gestured at the rest of the squad, jogging through their pattern of play unbothered. “Everyone else managed to be here. Being Barty Crouch doesn’t buy him a different call time.”
“Yeah, no, I know, but—” Peter’s gaze slid past Evan’s shoulder, and his mouth twitched. “Well. Good news is you get to tell him that yourself.”
Evan didn’t need to turn around to know, but he turned around anyway.
There he was.
Barty jogged across the pitch in a black compression top that clung to a lean, coiled frame, ink trailing down one forearm, dark hair swept back like the delay had cost him nothing at all — like the entire national set-up existed on his schedule and not the other way around. He dropped his kit bag at the sideline without breaking stride and dropped into a stretch, unhurried, like a man arriving fashionably late to his own party.
The nerves on this guy.
Evan was moving before he’d fully decided to. “Crouch. Nice of you to join us.”
Barty looked up. Green eyes, sharp, already amused, like he’d been waiting for exactly this. A slow smirk climbed one side of his mouth as his gaze dropped, deliberately, to the armband.
“Now, that’s not a very warm welcome for a teammate, is it.” A beat. “Captain.” He said the word like it was something he’d found on the bottom of his boot.
“You’re late. Squad’s nearly through the warm-up.”
“Are they?” Barty’s eyebrows lifted, all false innocence. “Good for them.” Another smile, slower this time, needling. “They did say you were the uptight sort. Didn’t realise that stretched to giving timekeeping lectures on day one.”
He was baiting him. Evan knew it, could see the shape of it from a mile off — the same way he could read a runner peeling off a striker’s shoulder before the pass was even played.
He had no intention of giving him the confrontation he so clearly wanted though. He was supposed to be the captain. Composure was quintessential to his job. On the pitch, off it, and especially in front of an audience.
“We start on time because every session counts between now and the tournament,’’ he replied, firmly. “This isn’t one of your club carousels, in and out whenever it suits. This is England’s national team. We get one shot at this every four years.”
By now the drill had slowed around them, players drifting closer under the pretence of stretching, ears very obviously tuned in.
Barty clocked it instantly. Of course he did. He rose to his full height, unhurried, rolling one shoulder and then the other, loose as a boxer before the bell. He had two inches on Evan, maybe three, built lean and dense like a coiled spring rather than a gym-built wall of muscle. Close enough now that Evan caught the collision of an expensive cologne with the sweat already on him.
“Already rehearsing the pre-match team talks, I see.” He tilted his head, mock-considering. “Cute. I’d give it a five, generously. Want to poll the lads, see if they agree?”
The intent landed clean: not just to wind Evan up, but to do it with a crowd, to carve at the armband itself in front of the very people it was meant to command.
Evan felt the atmosphere shift, felt his teammates’ eyes flick between the two of them, waiting to see whether their captain would bite.
He didn’t. Instead he stepped in — deliberately inside the line most people would’ve respected — and clasped Barty’s shoulder, the gesture landing somewhere between matey and unmistakably condescending.
“Listen, big shot.” His voice dropped, pitched for the two of them even with an audience listening. “Just because you act like one doesn’t mean you get princess treatment. Not here.” He squeezed once, let go, and turned his back on him — a small thing, but a statement in itself — to address the rest of the group.
“And this goes for every single one of you. We’re equals in this squad, whatever anyone’s club salary says otherwise. Someone cocks it up, we all wear it. Someone scores the winner, we all lift it. Clear?”
A breath.
“We don’t get another crack at this for four years.” He let his eyes travel the group, one by one. “Let’s make this one count.”
“Aye aye, Captain!” James called out, grinning, and a ripple of laughter followed him.
Evan allowed himself a small nod of thanks, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get this session started.”
———
They ran through the opening drills —possession circuits first, tight rondos designed to choke space and punish sloppy first touches, then small-sided games that began to expose the shape of things to come.
As expected, Barty was undeniable. The ball seemed to arrive at his feet already obedient, like it had been briefed beforehand. He glided past Remus in the rondo as though the defender were a cone rather than a Manchester City centre-back with fifty caps to his name, dropped his shoulder, and threaded a pass through a gap that shouldn’t have existed, one that nearly split the back four clean in two. Two minutes later, in the very next phase, he ignored a perfectly timed overlapping run from Sirius — the kind of run that screamed give it here — and instead cut inside onto his favoured foot and curled one into the top far corner from twenty-five yards, the ball kissing the underside of the bar on its way in.
The finish was exquisite.
The decision behind it was pure selfishness.
Evan watched it all with a mounting pressure building behind his eyes, the particular ache of watching brilliance and waste arrive in the same three seconds. When the squad broke for water, he crossed to where Moody stood at the edge of the technical area, arms folded, weight settled back on his heels like a man who’d seen every possible version of this exact scene play out before.
“What do you think?” Evan asked, keeping his voice low, eyes still very much on Barty across the pitch.
Moody grunted without turning his head. “About the boy genius? Talented. Obviously.”
“Too talented to pass, apparently.” Evan dragged the hem of his shirt across his brow. “We’ve got real quality here, coach. Actual cohesion is possible, if everyone buys into it properly. But not if one man plays like the pitch is his personal showreel.”
Moody nodded slowly. “Took the words out of my mouth.”
A short silence settled between them. Moody watched Barty jog back into shape, dark hair stuck damp to his forehead, entirely unbothered by the sixty pairs of eyes that tracked him whenever he touched the ball.
“Listen. Is the kid an arsehole? Probably.” Moody shrugged, the gesture of a man who’d stopped being surprised by anything decades ago. “Most of them are, at that level.” He gave Evan a nudge with his elbow. “But you’re the captain, Rosier. Damn good one, too. I reckon you’ll find a way through him.”
“Oh, I will.” Evan said it like a vow rather than a hope. “Whatever it takes.” He turned to face Moody properly. “We’re getting to the final this year. I mean that.”
Moody let out a low chuckle, the sound of gravel shifting underfoot. “I know you do.” His hand landed heavy on Evan’s shoulder, brief, grounding, the closest thing to affection the old coach ever allowed himself. “That’s why you’ve got the armband.” A pause, and then, gruffer: “Now get back out there. We’re working corners.”
Evan nodded once, decisive, and jogged back into the fray.
The session wore on, and Evan catalogued everything, the way he always did, filing it away for later like a man building a dossier. James was clinical from set pieces, the sort of finisher who made near-post runs look almost insultingly simple. Remus, all six-foot-four of him, owned the first post like a small building had been dropped there. Frank was excellent in the duel, tracking runners with a doggedness that never let up even in the session’s dying minutes. They’d need to sort out the communication between the back four and Pete — a few too many crossed signals, a few too many half-shouted calls that arrived a beat too late — but overall, the foundation was solid. Which mattered. At this level, most goals came from set pieces, not open play, and a defence that could handle a corner under pressure was worth more than any amount of midfield flair.
He also, very reluctantly, felt a pull of something like admiration when Barty scored again — a second goal, from an angle so absurd it drew actual laughter from two of the coaching staff on the touchline.
A star. No arguing with that.
But stars, in Evan’s experience, had a way of burning all the oxygen out of a room, leaving everyone else gasping for whatever was left.
When the final whistle went and the squad started drifting toward the tunnel in twos and threes, Evan peeled off and went after him.
“Hey, Crouch! Got a minute?”
Barty stopped short, turning with that same slow, arrogant smirk already loading. “What now, Captain?”
Evan jogged the last few steps, pulling up a metre short. “Just wanted to say—” He lifted his chin. “Great session today.”
Barty blinked, and for one unguarded second something like genuine surprise crossed his face — there and gone so fast Evan almost doubted he’d seen it — before the mockery slid back into place.
“You trying out some positive reinforcement on me?”
He propped a hand on his hip, cocking it out.
“Gonna tell me I’m a good boy next?”
Evan rolled his eyes, unimpressed.
Jesus Christ. Why does he have to make everything difficult?
“Okay. Here’s the thing.” He raised both hands, half-surrender. “We got off on the wrong foot this morning. But I’ve got nothing against you personally. So let’s just—start clean, yeah?”
He stepped in and gripped Barty’s forearm, fingers closing around lean muscle still warm from ninety minutes of exertion. The contact came out firmer than he’d intended.
“Don’t be late next time.” No bite left in it now. Just firm. Steady. “That’s all I’m asking. We start together. We finish together.”
Barty’s eyes — unsettlingly direct and intense up close — dropped to where Evan’s hand held him, then travelled back up, slow, deliberate, the smirk sharpening into something almost delighted.
“Careful, Captain.” His voice dropped, low and easy, edged with something that wasn’t quite mockery. Well, not fully. “Grab a bloke like that and he might start getting ideas.” He tilted his head, gaze doing a slow, unhurried sweep, up and down, like he was appraising livestock. “Didn’t peg you for the hands-on management style. I like it.”
Evan scoffed. “It’s called a team talk, Crouch.”
“Sure it is.” Barty’s tongue dragged briefly over his teeth, watching the effect land. “You’ve got a sweet grip, though. For a midfielder.”
“What?” Evan blinked, thrown for exactly one second before he caught himself.
Barty stepped back, laughing it off, hands raised like he hadn’t just said anything at all. And then, softer, almost lazy:
“Relax, pretty boy. I’m just messing with you.”
The nickname landed somewhere Evan didn’t have a ready response for. He felt his jaw tighten before he could stop it.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Barty’s grin widened, delighted at having found a nerve on the first try. “Suits you. All cheekbones and that butter-wouldn’t-melt face.” He leaned in an inch, conspiratorial, mocking, eyes dragging over him slow. “Real good church boy look you’ve got going. Bet the FA loved that in the interviews.”
A beat.
“Bet you practice it in the mirror, too.” A snort. “The stern one. The ‘I care deeply about English football’ one.” A beat, head tilting. “Wonder what the other one looks like.”
“You’re impossible,” Evan huffed annoyingly. “You know that?’
“That’s me.” Barty spread his arms, unrepentant, stepping back out of Evan’s grip on his own terms rather than being released from it. He tilted his head, considering Evan for a moment like he was deciding how far to push it.
“Tell you what, though. Since you asked so nicely.” A slow smile, all teeth. “I’ll behave. Turn up on time, run the drills, play the good little soldier.” He let that sit a beat, savouring it, gaze dropping deliberately then back up. “I’m very obedient, when I feel like it.”
Evan gulped, forcing himself not to rise to the obvious shit talk. Christ. He was twenty-four years old, captain of his country, and this was what undid him — a smirk and thirty seconds of nonsense from a man he’d known less than a day.
“Sure. You do just that.”
Barty leaned in, closer than the conversation warranted, and the smirk dropped for half a second into something almost tender, which was somehow worse than the mockery.
“Anything for you, Captain.”
He punctuated it with a wink, slow and deliberate, eyelashes fluttering with theatrical, saccharine excess — the whole performance so absurdly overdone it should have been funny.
It wasn’t.
Evan felt the words land somewhere he had no intention of examining, his brain short-circuiting somewhere between is he taking the piss and why does it matter if he is.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Barty’s grin widened at the silence, reading it perfectly, filing it away for later use.
Evan’s hand curled at his side, empty now, the ghost of that forearm still warm against his palm. He didn’t answer. Just held Barty’s gaze, steady, refusing to hand over whatever reaction he was fishing for — even as his ears burned and his pulse did something traitorous and entirely unwelcome.
Barty laughed, low and far too pleased with himself, and sauntered off toward the tunnel, hair falling loose over his forehead, hips rolling with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once doubted he was the most interesting thing in any given room. At the mouth of the tunnel he glanced back once, just to catch whether Evan was still watching.
…He was.
Barty’s grin turned positively feline before he disappeared into the dark.
Evan stood on the pitch a moment longer, the turf torn in ragged patches around him, the evening air cooling fast now the sun had dropped behind the stand. He exhaled slowly, squared his shoulders, and followed.
This was going to be a long tournament.