She's the Man / Roy Kent

** Chapter three.

Maybe a bit too much.

And she didn't.

Not at all.)

    So, yeah, Ada had been helping out a bit. Whilst she still spent her days committing to brand campaigns and posing for magazine covers and dodging casting calls, her nights were now all about football. And sometimes it truly felt like those hours she'd spend sat around Ted Lasso's kitchen, with ink blotted fingers and scrap sheets of paper, offensive and defensive strategies on her mind and tongue, were the only form of respite she ever had.

   Although, as Ada watched the photographer let out another pained sigh at her obvious lack of cooperation, she was struck with the realisation that she probably didn't deserve any respite.

  It wasn't like Ada was ever doing her job. You know, the one that paid her bills.

At least she wasn't throwing a fit or walking out of the studio, though. Ada hadn't done that since the day of the bikini shoot, when she got severely scolded by London Abara and Keeley Jones.

Well, it was more like she got scolded by London Abara whilst Keeley Jones stood off to the side, nodding or humming or occasionally coming to Ada's defence whenever the other woman got too aggressive with her words.

Which London was prone to doing.

That wasn't to say that Ada's manager was a wicked thing of a woman. It was just known that London's method of chiding typically involved a lecture; the sort of lecture that had to rip you apart in order to truly touch your heart.

A few years her senior and of an age with Keeley, London Abra was almost like an older sister to Ada -- if your older sister worked for you and didn't particularly like you, that is. But, maybe it was because of that (the fact that London didn't like her and was therefore never biased with her compliments, and the fact that she was like a sister and therefore was always genuine with her intentions) that Ada actually took her words to heart.

Of course, the words had to first tear her insides to shreds before actually finding their way there.

As way typical of a London Abara lecture.

"You were one of the greats." Her manager had said to her that day she stormed out of the shoot. "But you're not anymore. You're not what you were. You're not number nine. This is your job now. And you can sill be great, but great at this."

   Ada had tried telling her that she didn't want to be great in any other way. That she did not care to be the next top model, and wouldn't mind being dropped completely – but the older woman had a way of putting things into perspective.

   "Women who leave their sport usually do so at an age that most deem undesirable." London had responded her in a clipped tone. "They're not even old, barely halfway into their thirties. And still they're being told they're not good enough for a job like this."

   "So, what? I should be grateful that I left before they did? That I quit whilst me tits were still perky?"

Ada remembered the feeling of her eyes stinging. If asked about it now, she'd blame the redness on the fog machine and the hairspray fumes which had contaminated the studio.

   "You didn't quit football."

    "You're right. I fucking lost. And you want me to be happy that I did, because now I get invited to fucking fashion week."

Keeley had done something with her hands then. Had gestured for London to be gentler. It was as though the good cop was loaning the bad cop her gentle touch, creating some sort of chimera who would slap you with the truth and wipe your tears with the same hand.