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Roy was the last to emerge from the coach’s office, having stayed behind to rectify the “unholy mess that would have killed Marie Kondo on sight” (Keeley’s words, not his) of papers that had accumulated on his desk (and in the folders under it, and on the floor, and somehow in the cabinet where he kept protein shakes). As much grief as he had given Keeley for it, she was right; he did feel like a lighter, cleaner man now that he had a lighter, cleaner office. But because it had taken him so long to clear the warzone, he expected all the Richmond players to have gone the way of his fellow coaches–that is to say, home. What he didn’t expect to see was Jamie Tartt, in his street clothes but with a bag half packed, still sitting on a bench and blowing his nose into a crumpled tissue.
Roy considered his options. He could retreat back into his office until Jamie left, but that was the coward’s way. He could make a mad dash past Jamie to the exit and hope that the man didn’t look up, but Roy could not get past the inherent awkwardness of being a coach caught running past your player like a child stealing back from a midnight snack raid. Which left Roy with only one option: confrontation.
He groaned and stepped forward. “What’s wrong with you?”
Jamie looked as surprised to see Roy as Roy was to see him. He put the tissue away and sniffled. “Nothing?”
Although Jamie had seemed genuinely taken aback by the question rather than defensive, the red-eyed and wet-nosed state of him reminded Roy of another locker room encounter a little while ago, and Roy was not sure he would ever be emotionally ready to hold Jamie while he sobbed ever again. The memory twisted Roy’s tongue. “I mean—why are you—are you, uh, crying?”
“Nah, I’ve just got a bit of a cold.” He scrubbed at his eyes and sniffled again, before packing away the last of his gear. “Fucking medicine I took this morning is wearing off.”
Some emotion unnervingly similar to concern was welling in Roy’s chest, and rendered him unable to speak, save for to repeat dumbly, “This morning?”
“Yeah, I should’ve brought some but it said eight hours. Fucking six hours, more like.”
And wasn’t it typical of Jamie to be so stupid as to misread the concern that Roy had failed to accurately articulate in the first place, making Roy do all the work in explaining! “Why didn’t you just stay home?”
Jamie shook his head. “I’m not that sick.”
“You could’ve told Ted, then. He’d have let you sit out and watch at least.”
Jamie stared at Roy as though the coach had sprouted horns. “Yeah, and you can thank me later for not having a repeat of that in the locker room. No thanks, I’m good.”
Something uncomfortable pulled at Roy’s stomach. “That’s different,” he said, trying to convince Jamie–trying to convince himself –that after all that had happened the team still weren’t a bit biased against the Mancunian. “He would’ve believed you.”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” Jamie muttered. “Since I’ve already, you know, practiced.”
“Go home, then,” Roy said, trying and failing to make his voice sound purely authoritarian.
“I’m trying, but there’s an old geezer holding me up.”
Secretly grateful that they were back to this , back to charted territory, Roy rolled his eyes and grabbed Jamie by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Oi,” Jamie cried, shoving haphazardly at Roy’s hand and rolling his shoulders, “if this is how stiff you feel all the time, I might feel a little sorry for you.” Whatever gratification Roy may have found in this half-admission of caring was overridden immediately by disgust when Jamie sneezed, openly, right on the left side of his face.
“Great!” Roy growled, slapping at his cheek as though the spray were a mosquito he had to kill. “Now I’ve got your germs all over me!”
“I didn’t feel that one coming! Honest.” To Jamie’s credit, he did sound genuinely contrite.
And it was because of that fact that Roy could not muster the amount of anger he should have at being sneezed on by a grown man. “Just—Jesus, Jamie, Phoebe’s better at covering her mouth, and she’s fucking nine .”
“Well, if your old man immune system can’t handle the germs, I’ll take your place as coach. Maybe the Blue Team will actually win a scrimmage that way.” But to Jamie’s credit, he did dip away from Roy and into the opposite shoulder to run through his next set of sneezes.
“Fuck off,” Roy said nonetheless. He practically dragged Jamie as though he were a misbehaving kitten all the way out to the car park. He should have left then, but something (damn something) was still tugging at him, and he all but watched Jamie sneeze into his sad tissue glob as though his head were about to explode.
“Are you… ok to drive?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jamie said stuffily, tucking his tissue clump back in his pocket and exchanging it for a now germ-infested wallet-and-key set. He shook it at Roy. “Got my license right here.”
“I mean, aren’t you not supposed to drive on cold meds?”
“That’s the nighttime ones. I didn’t take that. I’m not that stupid.”
Satisfied that Jamie could make it home without needing a chauffeur (dear God, had Roy seriously considered offering that?), Roy turned toward his own car as Jamie walked toward his. “Don’t come to training tomorrow,” he called across the lot. “I’ll tell Ted you’re sick.”
And perhaps Jamie really was ill enough to provoke a bit of worry, for he merely gave Roy a messy salute. “Aye, aye, coach.” He opened his car door but paused just shy of getting in. “Oh, Roy!” he called, but he was looking at the pavement. “What I said about the Blue Team… I didn’t mean to, like, imply you aren’t a good coach. Because you kind of are.”
Roy nodded curtly, fighting steadfastly against the disgusting warmth that was creeping up his chest. He waved Jamie off, and gave a little growl for good measure. “Just go the fuck home already.”