Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, but I do own Addy

Notes: Yeah, so I sort of forgot to post this yesterday. My apologies to my lovely reviews, and readers too. This one's slightly longer, and we finally get to see some sort of plot forming. Not completely, but just the hints of a plot XD. I hope you enjoy :)

Chapter Three: In Which A Soccer Career Begins To Decline

On the Wednesday, when he was getting ready to go off to his next game, he asked her offhandedly if she was going to come with him today.

"No," she told him, a little absently. "I've called your parents, and I'm going to pick Addy up from school this afternoon." After watching him pick up his boots and kit bag to leave, she wished him a good game.

He meandered out of the house and down to his car. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. The media wouldn't pick up on one absence. No reason to. His reputation couldn't be meddled with just because she missed a game here and there. Right?

When he had dumped his gear in the back of the car, he twisted the keys in the ignition. There was no problem with just a few games. No reason to fuss. He twisted the keys again. Nothing to make a deal about. And again.

"Riza!"

When he burst back in by the front door she looked out of the living room doorway, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

"Car won't start," he grumbled. "Can you drop me at the game?"

She waved the idea off. "It's ok - borrow my car. I'll call someone to come around and fix yours. If they can't make it before I have to get Addy I can ride a bike. Your parents always walk to get her anyway."

If he wasn't wearing his soccer shorts, he would have stuffed his hands into his pockets. These pants didn't have any pockets for him, so he just stood with his arms hanging limply by his sides while she went to fetch the keys for him. A whistle sounded a moment later, and he looked up to see a bunch of keys flying at his face. He barely got his hand up to catch them in time.

She looked slightly abashed. "I thought you were already looking."

Muttering, he left again, swapping his kit into her car – which started up smoothly – and backing out of the driveway. After exiting their street, he flicked the radio on. The first song that was playing was some happy-go-lucky pop song. This, he was just not in the mood for. He played around with the stations, even going so far as to see if Classic FM had anything sulk-worthy playing, but it seemed that this was their Jazz Hour, and the music was a lot more romantically-toned than he could bear to listen to. The radio went off with a disdainful flick of his thumb.

By the time he pulled into the stadium parking lot and parked in the reserved section, he had had ample time to delve further into his mood. Picking his bag up out of the back of the car had become more of a snatch, and the finger he poked the automatic-locking button with had a distinct stab to it. There was no way that his walk to the change rooms could be seen as anything other than stroppy.

Setting his kit to one side of the changing rooms – and ignoring the team-mates laughing around the rest of the room – he sat on a bench and pulled his socks and shoes off to replace them with his shin-pads, soccer socks and boots.

"Oi, Mustang. You coming?" The rest of the team had slowly filed out of the room onto the pitch to warm up, and only he and Hughes were left behind.

"Yeah, give me a second to find my shirt," he muttered, fishing around his kit-bag.

There was a pause from the other man as he stood back and watched Roy's frustration grow. "Something wrong?"

Hughes was easy to talk to – hey, Roy spoke to him most days, even when they didn't have training or a game – and he considered telling the other man about the current issues he and 'the missus' were going through. "Nah, it's fine." With a growl of aggravation, he gave his bag an annoyed shove, as though to punish the thing for not yielding to his anger. "I can't find my shirt."

Hughes stepped forwards and calmly began searching through the pockets. "You didn't leave it at home to be washed?"

"No."

"Left it in the car by accident?"

"No."

"Gave it to some fan because they were so excited to meet you?"

"Don't be stupid," he snarled.

"So there's no chance that you're actually wearing it?" Hughes stopped rummaging through his bag, and looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

Oh. Yes, that blue thing he was wearing wasn't just some home shirt, but his soccer one. He must have put it on while he was thinking. With a discontented frown, he turned to stalk out of the change-rooms. He could hear Hughes' voice following behind him.

"And you say that nothing's wrong. Captain of the team or not, I think I'm going to have to have a talk with you after the game."

Hah – the game! Warming up alone was a travesty! As much as he kept his eyes on the ball, he found himself fumbling and almost couldn't be bothered going after the ball to keep it in play. He always roused himself to go and jog after it, but the usual enthusiasm wasn't there. After the third time it got past him, the coach gave a stare in his direction, almost as though he was looking for a visible reason why Roy's game was declining. Finally: "Mustang! Go for a run around the field until your feet realise what they're doing!"

Angry at himself, Roy circled the field, feet pounding out a regular pattern. What was going wrong? He was paying attention to the ball. He was watching the feet of the other players and noticing their feints and dodges, yet he still didn't seem to register when he needed to act. The fact that he was failing in his previous area of expertise was only disrupting him further, and at one step he stumbled, catching himself just before he fell. With a shake of the head, he continued on, more determined than before. Even if he didn't feel responsive to the game, he would force himself to be. He had to.

He returned to the team, this time watching even more carefully than usual. He was ready. He could do this – he had done it many a time before. And he didn't fumble. Didn't let himself stop to think "I wish someone else would get that ball", but just did it himself. Maybe not enthusiastically, but he did it all the same.

And so the game started. Pass, jog, receive the ball, dribble, pass, run – no wait, run back: the other team stole it. Tackle, dribble, pass, jog, receive, pass, jog . . . jog . . . run . . . receive, shoot . . . and . . ! Miss. Keep trying. Follow the other team, run forwards – Denny stole it from them – receive, pass, jog, receive, dribble, pass, receive, pass, jog, receive, shoot . . . another miss. And it started again.

All that he allowed his mind to be on was the game, the motions of the ball and of the players with it. The problem was that soon enough a few of his passes were substituted for 'kick it in the direction of a team member and growl in agony as it passes by metres from them'. And then a little later, a few of his attempts to receive the ball were replaced with the utter shock of having the other team swing by and just take it off him with no preamble. After a few fumbles, he was called off by the coach and another man took his place.

"What is going on?"

He shifted on his feet uneasily. "I don't know. I'm focussing completely on the game, but the ball keeps getting by me."

That time he did receive something without a single mishandling: a stony glare from an unimpressed coach. "Obviously you aren't focussing completely on the game. You're a good player, and you know that, Mustang. If you were focussing properly, we'd have two goals by now and the crowd would be singing our praises. As it stands, the crowd is restless, and we've got nothing. Luckily, because we have such a good defence, the other team haven't scored anything yet either, but if you don't pick up your game, it's only a matter of time. Is that clear?"

"Yes, coach," he mumbled.

"Good. Now sit down for five minutes, and after that I'll put you back on when there's a lull for Havoc."

What was wrong!? Why wasn't he able to do this properly?

He gritted his teeth. It must have just been residual tension from the week. Nothing was distracting him now, but that tension was still built up and it was still affecting him. He resolved quickly to go and make sure that there was no animosity between Riza and himself when he got home. If he managed to calm all problems then – and keep them calm during the week – then he might not be so distracted in the next game. Oh, how he hoped not.

Time passed, Havoc's lull came, and Roy found himself back on the field. Time passed, balls were lost, and Roy found himself back off the field.

"Get your act together."

This had to be the worst day of his soccer career.

This had to be the best day she had had in years. A whole afternoon of sitting about, reading her way through her book without interruption, and not having to worry about the screaming crowds, or the blowing breeze, or the chilly air – or the inattentive husband. Why couldn't more days be just like this?

She stretched out on the lounge and gave a passing look at the clock before returning to her book. In ten minutes, she'd have to get ready to go and pick up Addy. The car-repairman had finished working on Roy's car earlier – it was just a flat battery – but she felt like riding the bike anyway. She didn't remember the last time that she had ridden with Addy doubling up on the back, but the girl used to like it when they went for rides together. If she didn't like it anymore, they could always figure out something else.

When she turned up outside the school, Addy was waiting by the fence, one of a handful of kids who didn't catch the busses from the other side of the school. The girl gave her a curious look, but smiled and hopped up onto the peg of the back wheel, gripping the shoulders in front of her.

It was a peaceful ride. The road was filled with cars of parents and grandparents collecting children from various schools, and the traffic lights were jam-packed with impatient cars, but aside from one near miss by an irresponsible driver – who was put on the receiving end of one of the dirtiest glares Riza could muster – it was rather calm. She even stopped at a park for a while, where she pushed Addy on the swings for ten minutes.

Riding back up the driveway of their home seemed almost a disappointment. She hadn't ridden properly for so long. There was the exercise bike in the house, but that was never the same – there was no variance in slope, scenery or company. Just the same boring cream walls.

As she put the bike away in the garage Addy waited by her side, and they went into the house together for a few nice, quiet hours until he would get home.

When the thought struck her, she tried to push it from her mind – he wasn't so bad all the time, after all, he had consented to let her stay at home rather than come to his games – but as soon as she started trying to think well of him, it was as though something just kept pushing back. Consented? Almost as though she needed his permission to do anything. She resolved not to think of him at all, and to enjoy the rest of the day, whether he was at home or not.

Still, it wasn't entirely her imagination when a rain cloud settled over their house just before he trudged in through the door, eyes narrowed, mouth set as though he had just been forced to eat meat, appearing slightly rain-splattered and with a look on his face as though he was just about to hit something. She didn't know what would be worse – asking him how the game went and being yelled at, or leaving him for a while and enduring his reaction later when he decided that she was ignoring him. Either way, it looked as though the next few days were going to be nothing to boast about. She decided to stay quiet.

Dinner was, again, an awkward affair, and she didn't dare speak with the way that he was spearing his tomatoes. While she and Addy ate quietly, he seemed mainly to be torturing his food, and the few pieces that made it to his mouth were mangled before they so much as reached it. He had barely eaten four mouthfuls by the time that he threw his fork down onto his plate and got up from the table, leaving Riza and Addy to finish up with the residue of his mood hanging over them.

When she tucked Addy into bed that night Riza didn't bother going to get Roy so he could say goodnight – she didn't want him around her daughter if he was still acting the same way that he was at dinner. Instead, she grabbed her pillow and a few blankets, and made up a quick bed for herself on the lounge. She wasn't going to put up with sleeping next to that.