Before I begin this thing, I know many characters that are mentioned aren't English, but for the sake of this story let's pretend that they're all either English or have the nationality so are allowed to play for England's national team and don't mind please how OOC they are. Also, not all characters are from the MW series and let's lower the ages of like, er, almost everyone bc everyone seems to be a fit af old dude especially Merrick, my God
Also, this is more to kinda test out the idea and see if anyone likes it, so reviews would seriously be appreciated! You also don't really need a detailed knowledge of soccer by the way, so have fun reading!
On a scale from one to ten, MacTavish was at least worth a nine. That is, of course, if you ask Simon to ate him solely based on looks. Personality? A solid five. If he also has to express how big the chance is he's going to get punched by the midfielder within five minutes in percentages, Simon was going for at least ninety percent. That angry scar told him so.
Perhaps that's why Simon was enjoying this interview so much. He was already known for being an incredible asshole who can make even the most self obsessed people insecure, but despite that he was good at his job. Some kid a few years ago who was dubbed the next Iker Casillas? Simon saw all his weaknesses and people became aware of how incorrect they were. Kid begged his manager to get him a job in Kazakhstan maybe two days after the interview.
That had been a fun day.
Not to mention all the Ballon D'Or winners he has made cry or the time he made Bayern Munich look like the shittiest team on earth— which at the time, for a matter of fact, they were. All of those were fun things and he'll do it again if someone asked him to do so, but that isn't the point of this entire story. The point is that Simon Riley, no matter how correct he is, has no brain-to-mouth filter, not even when talking with England's captain.
The interview started off great, honestly; polite handshakes, a few smiles here and there and some joking around to make it less tense as both had a reputation for being intimidating people for totally different reasons. Simon even managed to make no comment about how extremely tight MacTavish's jeans were because Jesus Christ, who allowed him to go out in that? Or even buy it? Surely the team's coach has seen him, but then again Shepherd is kinda known for not caring about how his players act, dress or whatever scandal they get themselves in as long as they win.
Kinda led Simon to the next question; they've lost for almost five games in a row, why the fuck wasn't Shepherd doing anything?
The longer the interview went on, however, the less civil it became. It was slow at first, but escalated quickly after MacTavish began about their last game and Simon had to compare the entire team to headless chickens. Not exactly untrue, not really, but not quite the kindest thing to say. You can expect that with Simon though.
Simon found it very interesting how after that comment the scar on MacTavish's face began looking even scarier than it already does, but how the man himself was speechless. Well, what was an appropriate response to such comment? Maybe a death threat, Simon thought, but unlike the many people he has received death threats from, MacTavish was a professional and was supposed to keep his composure.
And it was exactly that composure that Simon wanted him to lose. He was intent on doing so, he had what he wanted anyways so he could pretty much quit the interview now, let him go forty minutes earlier than planned, but forty minutes. That's how long it took to hit on a girl, convince her that dating him is worth it and then proceed to dump her while sober; surely he can piss someone off in that same amount of time.
"So, based off your answers, you think England is capable of winning the upcoming World Cup?" Simon asked for a confirmation that he already got minutes ago, but he wanted to literally hear it come out of his mouth.
"Yes, I do," MacTavish answered with a hum at the end, throwing one hand on the couch rest and a leg on his knee. Oh God, Simon was already sensing an explanation. "Everyone on the team has had a great season; Sanderson and Logan Walker even won the league with Manchester City—"
"—before getting their asses beat in the FA Cup final by Tottenham Hotspur, but go off."
"But who plays for Spurs? Exactly, our goalkeeper. Now, who was the man of the match?" MacTavish stated. Simon could only roll his eyes and wondered if this guy ever read the article where he talked about that. Or his articles just in general.
"You know, I was thinking of writing about how you aren't as much of an asshole that people assume you are, but I don't like to lie," and that was a fact. Sure, Simon is an asshole, one of the most impossible people to deal with, but at least he was an honest asshole.
MacTavish's response to that didn't go further than crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. Good, he's smart enough to take his threats serious. Okay, maybe it wasn't just a threat, but an actual promise. Simon will see later; listen to the interview a few times and decide on a scale of his intern Toad, zero, to FC Barcelona, ten, how much he wants to toss him out of the window. Not as if he doesn't want to toss Toad out of the window, but he isn't going through the struggle of writing how he wants a different intern only for Toad to change it to how much of an angel he is and how he deserves chocolate and feet massages.
It remained silent for a few minutes, the only sound that was being made came from Simon's constant tapping on his laptop, already drafting his article and deciding if he should tear down MacTavish first or have a bit of mercy on the man and tear down England first. Again, the scale will make the final decision, but it doesn't hurt to think about how he should do it.
"Excuse me, but are you always content on offending people during interviews?" MacTavish asked and if Simon didn't know any better, he'd think he was seriously trying to keep this interview somewhat civil. "I agree that despite having won many trophies this season, some of the players individually may not have had their greatest season, but—"
Simon held up his hand, signalling for him to just shut up. "If you're going to tell me that at the World Cup they'll try their hardest to deliver the best performances they can, please leave the room now."
Oh shit, he was so close to pissing him off. The scar was now just screaming at him, telling him to go fuck himself and threatening to end his life in the very next minutes. Frankly enough, that encouraged Simon further and he's willing to bet good money that it's going to take less than three comments before he'll get a punch coming his way.
"Well then, mighty Simon Riley, tell me exactly why you think England won't win the tournament," MacTavish said. Poor guy was probably expecting Simon to be left speechless and not be able to say a single word without doing any research, but oh—
—oh little does he know the research has already been done. "Well, let's start off with England's history of sucking and unfortunately I'm not talking about the sexual kind, but if we were I'd be kinda worried about how high the percentage of gay men on the team is," Simon started off and was surprised to hear a quiet chuckle coming from MacTavish before a mutter about how slightly homophobic that sounded. "But let's take the Euros back in 2016 as example; you guys barely went through the group stage and most of the goals you scored were because of stupid mistakes made by the opposition. Those exact goals are what got you to the World Cup to because miraculously both Holland and Spain made many mistakes. Not as if you guys didn't, but the difference is that even if you guys make no mistakes, the other team will still be able to crush you."
If only it wasn't to piss MacTavish off more, Simon would've told him to read some of his articles, but that silent growl that left the man's mouth; another reason why this unnecessary rant is so worth it.
"But let's imagine everyone got their anger management classes in time - which I highly recommend getting, by the way -, that you're the captain this tournament isn't such an earth shattering thing. It doesn't change you guys lack an attack and, for a team whose defense resembles a barricade in terms of appearance, can't defend at all. Or that your striker has hit the goalpost more than he has hit his wife—" okay, maybe an insensitive comment, whatever, "and that your goalkeeper is still the type to flirt with a cute girl on the stands midway the game; man really loves girls half his age way too much. And, as last, it doesn't change that you hate Shepherd."
"We don't hate Shephe—"
Once again, Simon interrupted MacTavish's sentence by holding up his hand. "Finish that sentence and I'll toss you out the window," he threatened, shoving his laptop aside and rolling up the sleeves of his sweater as if to show he'll seriously do it and is now preparing for it.
"The only argument you can use now is that FIFA's current vice president is the father of the Walker brothers and that the president is their godfather, but we both know that isn't the smartest thing to say despite it being true," Simon said finally. Honestly he should've passed on the offer to follow England's journey to the World Cup and write about their chances of winning it; he's sure he can talk more about it with MacTavish than he has done in his articles.
It seemed as if MacTavish had no comeback to what Simon said, so a satisfied smirk settled on the Englishman's lips. Ah, the sweet taste of victory. If anything tastes better than getting punched in the face by some guy whose panties are more knotted than some dreadlocks, it's the taste of victory.
Sadly enough, MacTavish couldn't shut up, "Who died and made you Mourinho?" he said and Simon could hear a bit of desperation in his voice, as if he was holding himself back from either crying or hurting someone, in this case Simon.
"Assuming from the way you're talking, the same person who died and made you Zidane. You're barely on Klopp's level," Simon replied and that seemed to have been the final straw.
For the first time in years though, Simon was caught slightly off guard by the fist connecting with his jaw.
Sitting down with a pack of ice pressed to his forehead, Simon thanked whoever was listening for gifting him with the ability to dodge punches like a professional. Sure, you can move as quick as MacTavish just did, but it doesn't change the fact that Simon always has more experience with getting punched than the other has with punching people. By now it was an automatic reflex to dodge when he feels a fist coming his way, even when he isn't paying much attention. It's rare he gets hit though, not new, but rare.
But it doesn't matter, it was only his forehead anyways and it doesn't change a thing about his attitude, may it be a good or bad thing. "So, what would you rather hear; the rest of my chicken analogies or a full analysis of your punching abilities which, just so you know your feelings will be hurt, are more saddening than Mariah Carey's singing abilities, may it rest in peace," Simon said and leaned back in the couch, deciding he might as well relax now he's holding ice against his head and the interview is almost over.
"Honestly you and Merrick would get along so well; you both are unbearable assholes," MacTavish sighed, seemingly having calmed down while Simon was pretending to be in the wild scavenging for food - probably chicken -, but in reality he was just sneaking around the building in the search for some ice.
Simon was sure that MacTavish intended it to be insulting, but c'mon, Merrick; that guy's a legend. He's the sugar daddy everyone needs in their life because fuck, that beard only made Simon wet and he's a dude. "I'd die only to be mentioned in the same breath as the Thomas Merrick, so thank you," Simon simply answered.
"Yeah, definitely Merrick's ty—" MacTavish's sentence was interrupted at the end by the noise of Simon's phone going off, indicating that the interview was over. Finally, some good news after this entire interview. As funny as it was for Simon, it was tiring to be in the same room with someone like MacTavish for more than five minutes.
Both men gathered their stuff, which meant for MacTavish only his phone and jacket while Simon had to also shove his laptop inside the bag he brought along, but fuck if he even knew where his bag was. It remained silent and both were happy with it, never wanting to hear the other's voice ever again in their life. At least, not in the way they just spoke. Simon could handle MacTavish if he's less of a stupid person.
For some reason he also seriously thought that it may be a good idea to see if he can deal with him outside of interviews, so while MacTavish was waiting for someone to come pick him up for whatever he's supposed to be doing after this - Simon was betting some good money on shooting some male underwear advertisements - he simply held his hand out. MacTavish didn't seem to get it, however, so with a sigh Simon just took his phone out of the man's hand.
"As much as you dislike me, I'm an easy man; pay me and I'll tear down whoever needs to be teared down. When you decide you want Shepherd sacked - God, don't look at me like that, we both know the team hates him - Shepherd sacked, I'll even do it for free and make sure he's sacked the very next day," Simon said as he entered his phone number into the player's phone. He quickly decided to also put MacTavish's number in his own so he knows who it is when he gets texted.
When he handed back the phone, he noticed the confused stare on MacTavish's face. "If you ever get in a scandal or anyone else on the team does, pay me and I can make sure you won't get called this generation's John Terry, alright?" Simon offered and that seemed to be enough for MacTavish as the confusion disappeared from his face. Of course, no man wants to be compared to John Terry except, well, John Terry.
"I find it both terrifying and interesting how you went from insulting me to offering to save my career when needed," MacTavish chuckled as he changed the Simon's name on his phone from Future Mrs. Merrick to Merrick's fanboy. "Or my reputation; if Grinch can punch his wife and get away with only a bit of a damaged reputation, so can I."
"Are you saying you're going to punch your wife or girlfriend? I mean, I have it on tape now and I will use it against you in court," Simon said, ignoring how the wifebeater got called Grinch which was a name he was completely unfamiliar with.
"Isn't that how you met your last girlfriend, Riley?" MacTavish asked and Simon only snorted.
Ah, Ilona, so he's familiar with the story. How amazing was that relationship; Russian woman with a lot of spice, exactly how he likes his partners. Nice body as well, Simon had a great time with her when he didn't get punched which was only in bed, sometimes not even then.
"Ilona is quite an unique character, you can only meet unique characters in an unique way," Simon retorted, but received a snort as reply.
As a woman walked in to get MacTavish, the originally Scottish man opened his mouth for one last time that day. "I have no idea which is worse; your past relationships or chicken analogies," he smiled, but Simon doubted he was really joking. "Maybe until another time, Simon."
He watched the Scot leave, the woman who was accompanying him asking constant questions about the interview and Simon could hear them until they got to the elevator, most likely.
Simon is sure he must've been some kind of saint in a past life because damn, his day went great.
