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Jamie hadn’t meant to do it.
He was trying to be good was the thing. He was really fucking trying, but everywhere he turned, something was fucking testing him. His water heater shit the bed, and while Jamie was grateful he could easily write a check to have it fixed, he’d gone the last three days with cold showers while he waited. His knuckles were still bruised from punching his father at Wembley, and every night came a different nightmare to disrupt his sleep. He spent the waking hours wondering exactly when his father would show up and teach him a lesson for disobedience.
The humiliating loss at Wembley still hung heavy over the team, and drawing their next match hadn’t helped morale or their place on the table. They were so close to being promoted, but they needed points to do that. And to add injury to insult, Jamie tweaked his hamstring in the most recent match. Nothing would cause him to miss any time, but it was enough that he was spending extended time with the physios.
So when the team was tied at Luton Town with only injury time left, Jamie knew he had to do something to secure the win for the team and himself. He just needed a fucking win.
Sam passed the ball, and Jamie pumped his legs as fast as he could, dribbling up the pitch. He darted around one defender, then another. He saw Dani from the corner of his eye, back after missing a match after Wembley, but his eyes drew to the vastness of the empty net more. He wanted to hear the crowd chant his name; the echoing nightmare of the Wembley attendant asking it had replayed repeatedly in his mind, and he needed to replace it. He desperately needed to replace it.
Sam shouted something, but Jamie didn’t hear it; didn’t even glance over as he closed in on the penalty area. Dani was still open in the box, but Jamie’s eyes were locked on the goal. He didn’t even see the defender coming; he just felt his legs taken out from him as he was sent unceremoniously sprawling to the turf.
The ball trickled loose, and the Luton Town midfielder picked it up, immediately launching a counterattack. Jamie struggled to his feet, agony slicing through his hamstring as he hit the pitch again painfully. But he laboured upright again, limping down the pitch after the ball, only reaching midfield as he watched Luton Town score.
As the final whistle sounded, Jamie felt any remaining adrenaline leave his body, and his leg gave out. From the ground, Jamie saw Roy wring his hands together, the outrage evident on his face. Even Coach Beard’s normally unreadable expression cracked as he threw his hat to the ground.
Jamie couldn’t find the strength to get up, rolling onto his back and covering his eyes with his hands, unwilling to face his injury and the distraught faces of his teammates and elated faces of the crowd. It wasn’t until well after the final whistle that someone noticed Jamie hadn’t moved from the pitch.
“You alright there, Jamie?”
A familiar moustache swam into view.
Jamie winced, more from shame than the pain.
“Should’ve passed it,” he mumbled as he tried to sit up, belatedly realising he and Ted were the only Greyhounds left on the pitch.
“Wasn’t gonna say it just yet, but–”
“Fuck!” Jamie gasped and clutched at the back of his thigh, the pain striking fast and hot at his sudden movement. A groan escaped his lips as Ted’s eyebrows knit together in further disappointment.
Shit.
Not only had Jamie tried to cover himself in glory rather than passing, he’d fucked his hamstring in the process. Ted was going to be pissed. Gritting his teeth, Jamie pushed himself to stand. He better get his arse into the dressing room, he was already making Ted late.
“What the fuck was that, Tartt?” Roy yelled, storming into the pitch.
Jamie shifted his weight to his good leg, prepared for what Roy was about to throw at him.
“Told me I needed to score more,” Jamie said quietly.
“Easy there, Coach,” Ted said, stepping between them. “Jamie’s hurt. Why don’t we save the thunder and lightning for when he’s not so under the weather?”
Roy clenched his fists, his anger seemingly dissipating like a lid shifted off a pot to vent: boiling water ready to overflow to simmering.
“Go on. I’ll help Jamie inside.”
With one last steely look at Jamie, Roy nodded and set off for the treatment rooms and Jamie began to limp after him.
“Careful there son,” Ted said, catching Jamie halfway to the tunnel when his leg gave out on him.
Ted quickly pulled Jamie's arm around his shoulder, a steadying hand wrapped around his waist.
“I know you boys would usually only agree to a stretcher if your leg has fallen off, but you sure I can’t get you off this leg now? Not that I’m not happy to help you along on the Lasso Express here.”
“’m fine, Coach,” Jamie mumbled, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
“You are a lot of things, Jamie Tartt, fine is not one of them. Let’s get you into a treatment room.”
“But—”
“The only butt I want is yours, sitting on a treatment table getting that very not-fine leg looked at.”
Jamie knew better than to piss Ted off a third way and argue with him. At least there was one thing Jamie had finally learned; knowing before he set Lasso to explode. Jamie still had the unwanted distinction of being the only person or thing to get Ted Lasso to raise his voice. It was one he didn’t plan to repeat any time soon. Jamie didn’t have any more boots to sacrifice in the name of forgiveness. Hadn’t worked the first time anyway.
Ted helped him onto an exam table before walking swiftly from the room, a familiar sight for Jamie. At least this time his boots were still on and unavailable as weapons. For now. And Dad was safely away in Manchester. At least as far as Jamie was aware. He could be on his way to Luton Town after this performance, ready to give Jamie a post-match speech he won’t soon forget.
Unlike last time, Ted returned shortly but with someone Jamie was even less excited to see: Gayle. It wasn’t her fault, she was a brilliant physio, but with her came the uncertainties of grades of tears and off-pitch time he hoped would be measured in days instead of weeks or months. Gayle didn’t have any answers today though, even she was unable to to diagnose the level of the tear without an MRI.
She sent him off on crutches to shower, promising to meet him in the changing room to wrap his thigh before he left Nelson Road and follow up with the MRI appointment time.
The locker room was quiet, the usual post-game chatter absent as the team tried to digest their last-minute loss. Jamie sat heavily in front of his visiting cubby, propping the crutches against the bench as he glared at his boots and willed them to untie themselves. Sam asked him if he was alright, but Jamie distractedly nodded, his mind was elsewhere, replaying the last few minutes of the game. The missed opportunity, the groans from the crowd, the look on his teammates’ faces—the stadium's roar at the last-minute goal.
Losing was always painful, but to lose in the last few minutes was borderline torture. It was an insult to Jamie’s literal injury. The team didn’t deserve to lose like this, and if he had just passed the fucking ball, then they wouldn’t have.
Ted entered the dressing room, his usually warm demeanour subdued as he crouched before Jamie.
“You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m good, Coach.”
Ted paused and nodded as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words, as if Jamie wasn’t worth the breath to berate. The team was in different states of dress, most having showered while Jamie lay on the pitch and then was being examined.
“Well, fellas, not the way any of us wanted today to go, huh?”
Jamie looked down at his boots, unwilling to meet the disappointed faces of his teammates.
“Alright, team. Get cleaned up, and let's get back on that bus,” Ted said, then turned to Isaac. “Make sure Jamie gets on that bus and uses those crutches, alright?”
Isaac nodded, and Roy appeared in Ted’s spot offering a, “listen to the physios, you muppet,” before following Ted from the room for wherever the coahces went to during away matches.
Jamie sighed before untying one of his boots, groaning as he reached for the other, his injured hamstring screaming as he leaned over and stretched the abused muscle. His fingers suddenly clumsy as adrenaline leaked from him like a siv, kneaded his knotted laces, eventually pulling his foot painfully free with a groan. He sat back, breathing heavily at the exertion. Sam, beside him, opened his mouth to say something before realising that Isaac was standing before them, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Jamie, what the fuck was that out there?”
“Dani was wide open,” Colin said across the dressing room.
Jamie looked apologetically to Dani, who gave him a sheepish shrug.
“I’m sorry. I fucked up,” Jamie said, dropping his head to his hands.
“Everyone has an off day,” Sam offered with a supportive hand on his shoulder, ever the peacemaker that Jamie didn't deserve. “We had plenty of other times we could have scored.”
“Jamie was selfish all match,” Jan Maas said.
“He’s right. It felt like last season all over again. All that was missing was you and Roy getting into a fight,” Colin sneered. “Prince Prick of all Pricks back again.”
“You better get your head out of your arse before the next match,” Isaac said. “And remember how to pass the fucking ball.”
Jamie pushed himself to stand. Eerie deja vu floated through him as he tried to keep his face neutral even as his thigh throbbed. The tension in the room crescendoed as the team stared at him expectantly.
“Lads, I—I screwed up today. I let my ego get in the way, and I cost us the match. That’s on me, and I’m sorry.”
The silence was heavy, but it wasn’t hostile and Jamie felt himself relax a miniscule amount.
“We’re a team, Jamie,” Sam said, his expression thoughtful. “We win together. We lose together. But we need to trust each other out there.”
“I know. I know,” Jamie replied, his voice cracking slightly as he swayed, his pain a reminder of his prickness. “I’m gonna do better—I promise.”
Dani, who had been quiet up until now, nodded slowly. “It’s okay, amigo. We all make mistakes.”
“I truly am sorry,” Jamie said.
“We’re never gonna win a match if we don’t go back to playing as a team,” Isaac said. “That’s everyone, not just Jamie.”
The team was still looking at him expectantly, and maybe he owed them more after Wembley; perhaps they deserved more after what they had to witness. Maybe they deserved more after what Jamie did today.
“Look, lads, you met me dad, right?” Jamie said, unconsciously rubbing at his tender knuckles.
Some of the team avoided his gaze and looked down, but some held his eye, and some nodded and encouraged him to continue.
“I’m trying, but I’ve spent so much time with him as the voice in me head telling me I need to score more, do more, be more, that it’s still taking me time to learn to listen to all of your voices, too. To listen to me own voice and trust that instead of him.”
“You should trust yourself. Your football instincts are exceptional most of the time.”
The team stopped to stare at Jan Maas.
“What? I’m always truthful. You just do not usually like what I have to say. It’s not my fault.”
“You have to trust yourself, but you also have to trust your fucking teammates, Jamie,” Isaac said, ignoring Jan.
“I do. I do swear down. It’s just—it’s not that I don’t trust you—it’s just—I’ve had teammates I can trust on the pitch, yeah? I’m still reminding myself that I have friends I can trust here, too. I don’t think I had a lot I could before Richmond.”
Sam smiled at him sadly while Colin looked down, wringing his hands together. Isaac nodded at him encouragingly, and Jamie took it as a sign to continue.
“What I’m trying to say, lads, is—I’m trying—and I’m sorry.”
Jamie gave a sheepish half-smile and limped back over to the bench, taking a deep breath before peeling off his kit and then his compression shirt. The promise of warm water on his muscles helped as he struggled against the distance the shower felt at that moment. Jamie stood under the steady spray of hot water, letting the mud from the match wash off his legs, massaging at the painful muscle of his abused hamstring. He would’ve stayed longer under the heated spray, but he was concerned about how long his leg would last, and he didn’t want Gayle to find him collapsed alone in the shower.
Jamie worried the censor lights would have shut off before he limped back into the locker room, but he should’ve been worried the whole thing would be waiting for him.
“What’re you all still doing here?” Jamie asked, glancing around nervously as he fiddled with his towel and laboured to the bench. “Is this one of those interventions?”
“You’re hurt,” Isaac said, and Jamie braced for it to sound accusatory, but it didn’t.
“So we wanted to make sure you made it to the bus okay, hermano, and didn’t ignore the crutches,” Dani explained.
“And make sure you get home and see if you need food,” Sam said.
“Or company,” Colin added.
“Oh,” Jamie said, pulling his shirt over his head and slowly continuing to dress. “Thanks.”
Gayle appeared with Jan to wrap his thigh and help him with his joggers; the compression and the warm water helped ease some of the pull of the injury. Isaac knelt before him when he struggled to get the sock onto the foot of his injured leg. He took it wordlessly from him and gently pulled it onto his foot. He then slipped his trainers on, tying them slowly.
“What?” Isaac asked. “Just because you acted like a prick once, you think we’re just gonna dump you, bruv?”
“Gonna take more than that to scare us away,” Sam said, knocking his shoulder into Jamie’s.
Jamie bit his lip as he allowed Isaac to pull him to his feet. Colin handed him his crutches as Sam shouldered his bag along with his own.
“I really am sorry,” Jamie said again.
“Oi, enough of that. You fucked up, it won’t be the last time. Nobody’s fucking perfect, even Jamie Tartt,” Isaac smirked.
And as Jamie crutched to the bus, flanked by teammates, he relaxed at the realisation that he might have fucked up tonight, but he didn’t have to deal with the fallout alone.