Archive of Our Own

Jamie is twenty-three and is going to be his team’s best. He’s a fantastic striker, he’s got a fit body, he’s got money plenty, and he’s just altogether fucking amazing. Have you seen him? Sexy beast.

He’s going to run onto the pitch and his name is gonna be yelled throughout the stadium, because people pay to watch him absolutely demolish the match. Even now, he can’t really walk anywhere, either, ‘cause unless he’s got his head down, hood up, and sunglasses on, he won’t make it more than five steps without being stopped by someone wanting an autograph on their City poster.

Kids, though. He can’t seem to fool ‘em.

“Are you Jamie Tartt?”

Jamie is twenty-three and he’s going to be one of the best footballers ever. He loves the fame, thrives on it, but sometimes it’s better to walk without it.

He stops where he’s walking through the grass, ‘cause really, he gets the point of parks, but sometimes he’s passing through ‘em and he just wants there to be more pavement to guide folks when in a hurry. Other times he wishes there were none at all, so he could just have a kickabout in it all day.

He pulls his hood down and sticks his hands in his pockets, figuring he may as well give the kid the full image, and there’s not many people around the park at the mo’ anyways.

“Ehm, yeah, that’s me.”

The kid’s blond, extremely freckled, knobby-kneed, and he’s got pink-stained teeth which Jamie guesses is probably from the red lolly that’s about to fall from his hand.

“Woah,” the kid says, all eloquent, like. “Awesome.”

Jamie shifts on his feet, pulls a hand out and holds it to the kid. “Want an autograph?”

The kid stares at him some more, and Jamie kind of gets why they put kids in horror movies a lot, ‘cause their staring without blinking any is dead creepy, that is. But then the kid jams the lolly in his mouth and pulls a wrapper from a pocket in his trousers and hands it over. Jamie pulls out his own pen, ‘cause it’s good to keep one on him whenever he goes out, just in case things like this happen.

There ain’t much space on the wrapper, considering he can only write on one side of it, and it’s already crinkled some, but he asks anyways, “What’s your name?”

“Milo,” Milo says.

“How d’you spell it?”

“Em, i, ell, oh.”

“Right.” He writes down Hi Milo, From Jamie Tartt. Even that doesn’t really fit, and he has to squeeze his last name in the corner so it reads more like some butchered spelling of Tail, but Milo will get it.

He holds it out and stares at the kid a bit, waiting for him to take it.

Jamie is twenty-three and he has no clue, really, what he’s doing. With kids, mainly, ‘cause Milo’s just looking at him. But with other things, too, like how he’s supposed to survive Richmond, and how he’s supposed to survive Roy Kent, and how he’s supposed to survive not seeing his dad, and how he’s supposed to survive not seeing his mum.

“Want a lolly?”

Milo’s holding out a blue one, which is the best flavor, innit, so Jamie says, “Sure, yeah.”

He waves the wrapper around so Milo will get a clue and grab it, and when he does Jamie takes the lolly and puts it in his own mouth. It’ll make his teeth blue, yeah, but he’s supposed to be in cognition or summat, invisible, like, so he just pulls his hood up again.

“Bye Jamie Tartt!” Milo shouts at him, even though he hasn’t even moved none, just gotten ready to.

Jamie is twenty-three and he’s doing his best, just improvising, like.

He tugs the lolly out and says, “Bye Milo.”

Jamie is twenty-three and he doesn’t know what it is he’s doing, really, just knows what he’s good at and what he wants to do, but not how to go about it aside from being the fucking best.

“Thanks for the lolly,” he says, then continues walking again.

Jamie is twenty-three and he’s already running on fumes.

- - -

There’s this little place he goes to in his head. It’s away from everything else, like the yelling and the throwing and the shoving and the punching. And it’s away from himself, because all of his feelings and his thoughts and his words get shoved into one box, and he hides in another.

If he told anyone about it, yeah, they’d maybe have a word for it, some fancy term telling him what he is and boxing him into something they can understand. But all he calls it is hiding, for a little while. Being there at the bare minimum, just enough that he knows when to react to his dad, when to do things that will make it feel easier, a bit, even if it isn’t.

- - -

He’ll call his mum when he can. On breaks or before an away game, whenever he has to get in the right headspace, and his mum will always know what to say. It’s one of the things he’ll always miss about her, and one of the things he wished he never gave up when his dad came ‘round again.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” She’ll ask him.

And he’ll sink a little further into the couch and tilt his head closer to his phone, and he’ll say, “Yeah, I’m fine, mummy.”

And she’ll blabber on for him, about what her and his aunts are up to, about what new recipe Simon’s trying out, about how her pottery class went. He’ll let it wash over him with the same ease his mum always brings out of him.

Sometimes she’ll ask again, “You sure, Jay?”

And sometimes he’ll say “yeah” and sometimes he’ll say “erm, no, actually, sorry,” and his voice will get thick and he’ll just sob over the phone. But he mainly only does the first one, mainly just repeats himself and tells her again, “no, yeah, ‘m fine.”

He’ll call his mum and tell himself, let her tell him too, that he’s fine. It helps to hear it. It helps to say it.

- - -

People make all these assumptions, don’t they. Assumptions about people, and assumptions about Jamie. Like, he’s a fit footballer, so he’s swimming in money pools. Like, he’s grown up from Manchester, yeah, in a council estate, but he got out of there, so he’s better than them, ain’t he, than the people he grew up with, like they’re something to be ashamed of. Like, he must shag anyone who makes a pass at him, ‘cause he went on that show, didn’t he. Like, he didn’t bother going to uni, and all he’s good for is kicking a ball, so his brain must be shit and he must be dumb, shouldn’t he. Like, he’s got books and social media and texts, so he must know how to read, but he don’t sound like he does, so he ain’t bright, then, if he ain’t picking any of it up.

And see, Jamie’s been being assumed of for his whole life. He don’t really remember much before his dad came ‘round, but he did, and that’s when Jamie’s life started, yeah. His dad started filling his head up with expectations, and he wanted to fulfill them, didn’t he, ‘cause it were his dad. But there was also his mum, yeah, who just wanted him to be happy. Didn’t matter none if he went to uni or football or whatever, just so long as he weren’t living on the streets, and just so long as he were happy with himself. So it filled his head with a bunch of contractions or whatever, where his dad wanted one thing but Jamie couldn’t seem to get it and also get mum’s. It was either one or the other, and it was like picking sides, yeah, but Jamie didn’t want to do that. Jamie just wanted mum-and-dad, dad-and-mum, both wanting the same thing for him.

So Jamie did his best, he did, on living up to both of them. And it got both easier and harder once his dad stopped trying to play nice with his mum. ‘Cause then Jamie only has to worry about them one at a time, instead of trying to fumble his way through explaining to his mum that passing the ball wouldn’t’ve helped his team, actually, even though Jamie thinks it might’ve, but he couldn’t say that, could he, ‘cause his dad was sitting there at the kitchen table, watching him like he was waiting for him to mess it up. Jamie knew what happened when he messed it up, didn’t he.

But his dad left his mum again, so it was easier, yeah. Made the fumbling less fumbly, but also made his insides hurt more. ‘Cause instead of fumbling through explanations, Jamie lied. When his mum would ask him how playing went, ‘cause she couldn’t come to his games no more with her extra shifts, he would lie, wouldn’t he. Say he had passed the ball, even though he hadn’t, because it made her all proud, like. And that did things to him. The lying and the proudness.

It was when his dad had started hitting him, yeah, that his mum didn’t believe him no more. And it weren’t even the first time he’d been shoved ‘round for doing something wrong on the pitch, but Jamie had visited his mum, ‘cause he had moved to the Academy, and she had asked “what’s that, Jaybaby?” like it were one word, and he had been ready, the words on the tip of his tongue, yeah, to explain away the bruise on his cheek. Like lying about it would make it go away. But before he could, she was hugging him, and his face was smushed into her chest, and she was petting the top of his head and shushing him because he were crying, weren’t he, and then all he could think while they hugged was I bet she ain’t proud of me no more.

They talked about it, ‘cause his mum liked to bring up the benefits of healthy communication, didn’t she, so when she sent him off again, she said “you remember what I said, yeah? About calling me?” and he’d nodded and repeated it, that if his dad ever hit him again, he would go straight to her, and she’d get it sorted, ‘cause she was his mum and she could make impossible things happen.

He does call her, too, just not for the reasons she wanted him to.

- - -

He’s had plenty of time and plenty of chances to master getting what he wants. Some things, yeah, all he ever has to do is show off his pure talent and skills, and then any teammate, coach, fan, will come over to him and offer up opportunities. Other things, he just has to flutter his eyelashes and pout his lips, and other kinds of opportunities will fall into his lap.

So really, there’s only two things he ever has to do to get what he wants, and what he wants is either football or sex. That’s all anyone ever says he looks like he wants, and he figures, hey, he does actually enjoy them, so they ain’t wrong, are they.

“Babe, are you even listening?”

Keeley falls into the sex category. How could she not, with how fucking fit she is. Combine that with how fit Jamie is, then bam, mind-blowing sex guaranteed. One of the things that comes with Keeley, though, is that she likes, empathy, and allat. Feelings shit.

“Hm, no, yeah.”

Feelings don’t fall into football or sex, so they ain’t something Jamie ever worries about worrying about. ‘Cause they just don’t happen for him, and it would be nice if Keeley could get that, but she doesn’t, ‘cause her fit body comes with a proper fit brain, don’t she, and that brain likes to talk about feelings.

But, see, Jamie’s not completely stupid, right. ‘Cause if he didn’t know how to work around feelings, then he wouldn’t have made it too far, yeah. So all he really has to do is flutter his eyelashes and pout his lips, say, “Sorry, babe,” and then he’s turned the feelings away and gotten started on hot apology sex. So, it’s a win, really.

- - -

sometimes he feels like a kid who hasn’t grown up, sometimes he feels like he’s going through the same lessons over and over but never learning anything except that he don’t want to be there sitting in class, sometimes he feels like everyone’s just passing by him and there ain’t nothing he can do to catch up

- - -

Jamie’s an ugly crier, yeah. His face gets all hot and his lip starts to tremble, and when he tries to speak it comes out as a whine, and when he tries to blink it just makes more tears. And in middle school once, he was playing footie with his mates and one of ‘em tripped him real bad, and he hurt his ankle, landed on it real wrong. And when the pain registered into his tiny middle schooler head, he started crying, and his mates couldn’t help but laugh a bit, couldn’t they. So, Jamie’s an ugly crier, but he’s also a funny one, and he likes to pretend that being laughed at takes away from being ugly, even though it actually don’t.

- - -

He’s been told to do and don’t do a lot of things. One of them is: don’t be dumb. Which you’d figure ain’t hard, but going through school and having trouble with words, and then having trouble with numbers, well, that meant he had trouble with everything but football.

Asking questions, too, is dumb. And so is sharing his ideas, or sharing his thoughts. So he just don’t do that ‘round people, the being dumb bit, and if he accidentally does, then he just redirects by being a prick.

- - -

Trying to read Coach Lasso’s book is one of the worst experiences in Jamie’s life. The words won’t sit still and when they do, every line has some long one that he doesn’t know the meaning of, and whenever he finds the time to open it, it only takes about five minutes of frustration before he’s tossing the book back on his shelf.

- - -

It’s like when you’re lying in bed at night, right, and staring at the ceiling when you see a black spot on it. So you make the effort to turn on the bedside light, ‘cause it ain’t like you’re able to fall asleep anyways, and you look at it again to find out it ain’t a black spot actually, ‘cause it’s a spider instead. And now that you know it’s a spider, you’ve got to get rid of it, otherwise you’ll be wondering about it all night and hoping it don’t crawl down a web and into your ear while you try to sleep.

So you make another effort and get out from under the sheets, shiver at the chill that hits your bare feet, and leave to find the broom. Except when you come back to your room and look up, there ain’t no spider on the ceiling no more, is there. The lamplight’s just lighting up a blank ceiling, ain’t it, just painting it in yellow.

And you make another effort, ‘cause you’ve already gotten up and you’ve already got a broom, yeah, a weapon, so you stand there and look around some more, at things other than the ceiling. You look at the yellow bedsheets, which are rumpled from where you threw them off. You look at the yellow curtains, which are covering ‘bout half one of your walls ‘cause you can’t sleep thinking the paps could be waiting outside and looking through ‘em windows at any time, even in the middle of the night. You look at the yellow alarm clock, which is fucking ancient, innit, but your mum insisted you take it with you, and you have all throughout the Academy and Manchester and Richmond and Manchester Again and Richmond Again. You look at the yellow painting of yourself on the wall, which don’t do much but remind you of your friend who made it for you, and who you’ve not talked to since they first gave it to you, and while they did they looked ‘round your room, which weren’t yellow at the time, and said, “it’ll do you good to spice the place up,” and you didn’t much get how a painting would make a room spicy, but it was a painting of you, weren’t it, and you were plenty hot, even on canvas.

You give up on all the effort then, yeah, ‘cause you’ve been standing in your pants and holding a broom and looking ‘round your room, which just looks like it’s been painted in piss now, don’t it.

You give up on all the effort and you crawl back into bed, dropping the broom on the floor to worry about later, and pulling the sheets back over yourself to get rid of the chill, but it don’t do nothing, ‘cause the chill has already settled in your bones, yeah. And you turn off the bedside light, and the room’s no longer piss-stained, and you close your eyes to try to give up on all the effort, including the thinking that’s going ‘round your head so you can have a kip ‘fore tomorrow’s match.

Except you find yourself just lying there, don’t ya, in your bed under your sheets still feeling cold. ‘Cause all you can think about, yeah, is that spider, and where it could’ve gone. All you can think about is what if it’s in your bed, yeah, crawling all over you. All you can think about is what if it crawls in your ear and into your head, and that maybe that is actually what happened, ‘cause if you’re already thinking about it then don’t that mean it’s already in your head?

Jamie’s life is like that, yeah, every fucking day. It’s like when you’re trying to go to sleep and all you can think about is a fucking spider that you can’t see, can’t kill, but that you know is there, could be anywhere except for on your ceiling, on your sheets, on your curtains, on your alarm clock, on your painting. It’s like when you’re lying in bed and there’s a spider making it’s home in your head. And you start to wonder if the spider was ever even there at all, or if you’d just dreamed it to life.

But the realness of it don’t seem to matter none, ‘cause you’re still lying there, awake, scared out of your fucking mind, ‘cause if it ain’t a spider living in there, then what if it’s something worse. And if it ain’t something worse, then what if it were nothing at all. What if it were just you, all along.

- - -

it’s like what his dad does is a noose and Jamie wears it like a necklace

- - -

There’s this little place he goes to in his head. When his dad gets loud and when Jamie can’t deal with it no more. He hides away easily, just letting himself go through the motions.

It’s a bit surprising then, yeah, when he does it in front of his coach. But Coach Lasso is yelling at him, and Jamie fucked up, what else is new, but it’s like some kind of fucked up survival instinct, ‘cause he’s hiding away from it all. Disappearing into his head while Coach yells at him. Tunes out his words, stares straight ahead, keeps his body loose and limp for when the shouting changes to shoving and the shoving changes to punching.

Except it doesn’t, yeah, ‘cause Jamie’s not at home, or the treatment room, or in Manchester at all. He’s in the Richmond dressing room, and his teammates are sitting there, watching him. He feels like they should be doing something else, maybe, instead of just watching. ‘Cause Coach Lasso don’t ever yell. And it would be worrying if Jamie could feel anything right now, but he don’t, ‘cause right now all he does is hide and wave at the thoughts that pass by, like, what did you expect, you fuck everything up eventually.

But then Coach Lasso ain’t yelling no more, and Jamie is yanked out of his head.

- - -

Jamie’s spent his whole life with his dad. He ain’t counting the time before, technically, when he was just a wee babe and his dad had left when he found out his mum was pregnant. ‘Cause Jamie don’t remember then, he only remembers when his dad showed up, so that’s when his life started, innit.

Since he’s known him his whole life, that means he’s had plenty of time to mold himself into something that fits with his dad, as best as anyone can fit with someone without completely changing themself. He just kind of, shaped himself, pushed his edges around until they just melted completely whenever his dad were around, into something that just took it and absorbed it like a sponge, until his dad’s words didn’t do nothing but soak into his brain. And it were the same thing with his punches, all he had to do was roll with the motion, and his dad were smart enough to avoid his legs and his arms and his head, ‘cause Jamie was trying to be a footballer, and his dad was trying to get him to be a footballer, and it’s hard to be a footballer if coaches are asking ya about your bruises.

And Jamie just absorbs it like a gross sponge, which ain’t nice much, ‘cause he deserves to be something fancier and sexier, ‘cause just look at him. Don’t matter though, ‘cause it’s right anyways, especially since sponges don’t talk none, which is what Jamie does. Absorbs and shuts up. Don’t talk back none, don’t lift his fists, don’t make eye contact. Just move with the motion and let his dad get it out so Jamie can go to sleep.

Which means that Jamie never yells. Well, er, okay, no. That’s wrong, ‘cause Jamie does definitely yell. He’s a footballer for Christ’s sake. But he doesn’t yell at his dad, at least. He yells at his teammates on the pitch, and he yells in the clubs at night, and he yells at himself when he gets loaned to Richmond, and again when he’s sent back to Manchester, and again when he’s kicked off a TV show. But he does his best not to yell at the people that matter, ‘cause that just ain’t the way you show them they matter, yeah. He don’t yell at his mum, and he don’t yell at Simon, and he don’t yell at Keeley, and he don’t yell at the kids that ask him for autographs. ‘Cause some people just deserve kindness, don’t they, ‘cause they do their best all the time and they never did him wrong and he never wants them to think he thinks otherwise.

Maybe that’s why he don’t yell at his dad. ‘Cause he matters to Jamie. Not ‘cause he ain’t ever done no wrong, and not ‘cause he deserves rainbows and butterflies, but because he matters. ‘Cause he’s Jamie’s dad. End of. Don’t need nothing more.

- - -

Dr. Sharon gives him a stress ball during his second session, when he can’t stop fidgeting with his hands. Stylistically, it’s plain and boring, and when he says as much, she smiles, takes it back, and gives him a new one. Then they keep talking. And it’s so much better than his dad snapping at him, telling him he’s being a weak pussy. And the stress ball’s got, like, what he thinks are s’posed to be hearts on it, and it’s fucking mint.

He ends up getting one of his own, too. About a week after, like, he’s just sitting around and he thinks, might as well, so he orders one that’s knitted or crocheted or whatever to look like a football. Then his dad pops ‘round for a visit and sees it sitting on the kitchen counter, and he says what’s this, lad and Jamie says it’s for me hands, because it is, and it’s not like he can lie to his dad, can he, ‘cause he’s tryna be better. And his dad says the fuck you need a miniature football for your hands for? and Jamie says for the, fidgeting, like because that’s good, innit, that he’s working on fixing something that annoys his dad. Making amens and allat. ‘Cept his dad sneers at him and says shouldn’t need this for your hands, Jamie, and he walks over and dumps it in the bin, shouldn’t be such a weak little baby in the first place. And Jamie can’t look at his dad, never can, so he just stares at the bin where the stress ball is. Just nods, hands held, careful and still, at his sides.

At his next session, he don’t reject the stress ball Dr. Sharon gives him or none, because even though his dad were mad about it, Jamie still wants it. And when he says as much, she tells him that differentiating between what’s best for you and what others think is best is important, because it’s always good to know which one to listen to. And he asks her if this is a time where he should listen to himself or to his dad, and she tells him about oranges.

She calls ‘em something else, like sashimi or summat, but when he goes to the store later and buys a bag, they’re just tiny oranges. Same size as stress balls, except they’re orange and fruit and edible. So he puts them in a bowl on the kitchen counter, and when he’s pulling at his rings, picking his nails, tugging his fingers, he takes an orange from the bowl and starts to peel. And it’s nice, ‘cause he can just do it while on the phone with his dad and just watch himself pull it apart, taking the peel off in pieces until he’s left with just the edible bits. And it’s nice, ‘cause he can eat it after, and let the tangy taste of it spread across his tongue and forget about being a weak baby or a pussy. And it’s nice, ‘cause he can lick the juice from his fingers when he’s done and feel like he’s done something good for himself. And it’s nice, just ‘cause it’s good to feel nice.

- - -

Sometimes he wonders if he’s doing enough, sometimes he wonders if he’s working towards nothing, sometimes he wonders if he’s better off giving up and sticking with what he knows, sometimes he wonders if progress couldn’t just be simple and he’s just fucking it up.

- - -

Jamie’s body is only made for a few things. Football, for one, and sex for another, and holding his mind and his heart and his soul all together, tethered by his bones and his skin. He does his best to take care of it, yeah, ‘cause it’s the most important thing in his life, ain’t it. He cleans himself and works out and eats nutritionally and splurges on spa days and self care. When he does, yeah, and takes baths and cleans his face, sometimes he’ll stand there, for a while, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror.

If he stares at himself for too long, then his body starts to look all disproportionate, like, and it don’t look much like him no more. But that ain’t a bad thing, ‘cause then that means he’s got, like, an objective point of view, don’t it.

He can make a catalog of all his pieces. For one, his face is the main piece, ain’t it. The focal point of the body that is Jamie Tartt. And he’s got it attached to his neck to his shoulders to his arms to his hands. A long slope of himself that curves down, and he don’t use it much unless he’s getting on his dad’s nerves or flapping around and trying to balance himself to score a goal. ‘Cause those are the most important bits, his legs attached to his feet, ‘cause they’re the moneymakers, the attention-grabbers, the fuckers that get him goals and get him love, ‘cause they’re what get him football, and football’s what gets him everything else.

The rest of him is just leftover, and he offers it up for sex, ‘cause he enjoys it. Lets people have their wild fantasies about whatever bits of him they’re into, and that checks off all his boxes. Football and sex. Not much else to Jamie Tartt. All he has to do is take care of it, his body, and then everyone will keep cheering for him and loving him. All he has to do is spend a few hours each day on self care, and he’ll be doing something right, proving people proud.

- - -

it’s like what his dad does is a noose and Jamie wears it like rich lady jewels

- - -

For all the shit his dad’s put him through, he knows his dad isn’t all Jamie is. That’d be gross and unhealthy like, and all those things he’s read about codependency and self-reliance and fucking parasites and shit.

But Jamie ain’t parasitic, ‘cause that’d be gross, and his dad ain’t parasitic, he don’t think, ‘cause he doesn’t spend every fucking second with him, just a few phone calls or visits for money and shakedowns and reminders of where he came from.

But see, Jamie’s not just his relationship with his dad. He’s not. That’s why he keeps that shit outta anything he can, like why he doesn’t mention him at all.

But then the fucking sacrificial bonfire storytelling happens, and Jamie talks about his dad anyways. Like he just can’t keep the man off his tongue, like the feeling of bruises has turned into stories, like his mum buying him boots and his dad being a dick.

Jamie isn’t defined as his relationships, but he can’t help but talk ‘bout them anyways. Can’t help but want to work on them anyways.

He tries not to get it all confused in his head, but he’s twenty-three, and he finally thinks he’s got it right, arms around his teammates and throat filled with alcohol, singing Richmond ‘til we die with Dani and Sam and Roy Kent and Coach Lasso, warmed by the fire and the drinking and the arms on his shoulders. He’s twenty-three and when he thinks he’s finally got it right, he’s being sent back to City the next day.

Richmond ‘til we die is fucking shit, and being better from storytelling is fucking shit, and trying to be something more than his dad and more than his relationships when they’re all he can fucking talk about, apparently, is fucking shit.

- - -

When he bought his place in Richmond, the first thing he felt was the emptiness. After he moved in and his designer filled the place, he stood in his bedroom and all he could feel was how cold it was, standing on the floor in his socks.

And that first night, after eating curry in a kitchen that felt too big and too clean and too empty, he went up to his bed and immediately spilled his cup of water on it, ‘cause one of his suitcases was lying on the floor, and he had forgotten to move it. So he trips over it, and his cup goes flying all over the sheets.

But, see, that ain’t any big deal, ‘cause he’s absolutely loaded with money now, ain’t he, and he knows how to change sheets. So he strips the bed, throws the sheets into the hallway to wash in the morning, and heads to the linen closet. It’s packed with sheets and towels, and he just stands and stares for a bit, trying to figure out which shelf has sheets for his bed. When he finally spots some that look right, he grabs ‘em and walks back to his bedroom.

And he’s putting the sheets on, yeah, in that awkward and frustrating way sheets go on, when you have to struggle to tuck the corners under, but each time you do, another corner pops up. He does that for a bit until he gets it, and then he’s finishing it off.

There could be any reason why he decides to cry then. The new house, leaving his mum, leaving his dad, changing teams, leaving City, joining Richmond, meeting his teammates tomorrow, meeting Roy Kent tomorrow. But instead of any of those moments, it’s now, when he’s changing the sheets, that his throat decides to close up and his eyes decide to cry.

Growing up with his mum, in between the visits from his dad, he didn’t have much, yeah. Just what his mum could make, which was basically the profit from too many shifts working too many jobs and whatever was leftover after she payed for food and water and reused clothes and reused shoes and whatever his dad took. So there weren’t much chance for luxury, but there also weren’t much chance for additional basics, were there. Jamie had one pair of trainers and one pair of boots. He had a week’s worth of clothes, one good jacket, and three headbands. His room was filled with gifts, which mainly meant anything related to his obsession with football. In his room, he had one set of sheets, which were blue and covered in football print. His mum and him changed sheets together, and they made sure to do it in the morning, because they only had the one set, so if they didn’t dry by nighttime, then it would be a sleepover in the living room.

Maybe that’s why Jamie cries. Kneeling by his bed with fresh sheets, tears falling down his face and dripping onto the blanket. Maybe that’s why Jamie cries, missing his mum and missing his dad, waiting to see what Richmond thinks of him, wondering why City got rid of him. Maybe that’s why Jamie cries, sitting on the edge of something and wondering where he belongs.

But see, when Jamie comes back to his place in Richmond, after being tossed back to City and then crawling back to Richmond again, he don’t cry this time. He don’t spill water on his sheets this time, and he don’t stare at his linen closet this time. It’s about being better, yeah. That’s where he’s going, so there ain’t no reason to be a baby about it. Ain’t no reason to feel like he’s going through the same thing again, wondering if this time’ll be different.

He’s back where he’s s’posed to be, he thinks. Now he’s just gotta be sure he stays there.

- - -

He knows he’s fucked up, is the thing. His mum won’t ever say it, and she don’t have to ‘cause his dad says it plenty, but even if neither of them thought what they do, Jamie still knows he’s fucked in the head. Because what he’s got going on? It’s all normal, ain’t it. People have to deal with shit every day. He’s not the only person that has to know when their mouth needs shut and they need reminding what they’re good for. He’s not the only one whose dad is just— just such a dick.

He can’t be the only one, because people have told him plenty, straight to his sexy face, that sometimes that’s just how life is. Sometimes people just have to learn to toughen up and deal with it. And that’s what his dad’s always saying, what his coaches are always saying, what his agent’s always saying, what Jamie himself is always saying every time he thinks about giving in.

He can’t be the only one who has to deal with things, because people have walked right on by. People have seen him, and they’ve seen his dad, and it’s not like it’s hard to connect the dots. Kids can fucking connect the dots, it’s literally a children’s game they put on the backs of menus at restaurants. So it must be, yeah, that people connect the dots between him and his dad, and they realize, oh, Jamie’s got shit to deal with, he’s no different than me, if I can handle my shit, he can handle his. It’s fucking, privacy. It’s fucking, respecting boundaries and personal space and shit. It’s what Keeley and Coach Lasso and Dr. Sharon love talking about. They want him to respect his teammates, yeah, so it makes sense that that’s already what other people have been doing for him all his life. Walking by him and his dad without lifting a finger, because they respect his decisions, and because it’s normal.

And this is why Jamie knows he’s fucked up. He’s fucked up, because even though it’s normal, he just— he fucking hates it. He hates it so much, every time, all the time, any time. He hates that he has to put up with his dad. He hates that he has to see him when he drives down to Richmond for cash. He hates that he has to pick up his calls when he wants to tell him how terribly he played in his last match. He hates that he has to read his dad’s texts about everything that’s wrong with him. He hates that he has to respond. He hates that people know. He hates that they do nothing. He hates that this is normal.

But he don’t hate that he’s becoming a better person. He don’t hate that he’s finally seeing the pride on people’s faces when he passes the ball, when he compliments the lads, when he makes a gorgeous decision on a teammate that gets them a goal. He don’t hate that he’s turning into someone that people can be proud of.

And his not hating his progress overpowers his hating him and his dad, so he just keeps on going. Keeps on being a good teammate, on and off the pitch, except for when he’s needed for being a prick on it, and even then, he’s still being a good person ‘cause he’s doing it for a good, non-selfish reason.

He keeps going, and he just bottles up the hate, closes the lid, and throws it somewhere deep inside of himself so he can do his best to forget it even exists. It don’t solve nothing, doesn’t get rid of it, but at least it’s hidden, for a little while.

- - -

It’s been a night, coming home late after going to the club with the team, keys in his hand to find out the door’s already unlocked. Opening it and walking inside, toeing his trainers off in the entry, and finding Denbo and Bug in the kitchen.

“Hey Jamie,” Denbo says. They’ve found the beer Jamie keeps in the fridge, and they’re drinking it at the island. “Your dad gave us a key.”

And he knows what they’re here for, why his dad sent them. Money’s always something he needs, always something he asks for when he isn’t talking shit about how badly he played. And it’s a bit of a good thing, that it’s just Denbo and Bug, ‘cause that means he don’t have to actually face his dad right now. But it’s a bit of a bad thing, that it’s just Denbo and Bug, ‘cause then he don’t have any excuse for, well, anything. Not for why he gives money to people who aren’t family, not for why he lets them shove past him when they leave right after, not for when he lets them go without asking for the key they have, not for the feelings happening in his chest, clogging his throat, invading his head.

So there’s no excuse when he shows up at Coach Lasso’s. No excuse when he knocks on the door, just the words Coach said to him months ago, filtering through the muck in his head. My door’s always open, Jamie.

Which ain’t true, is it, ‘cause Jamie’s standing on his doorstep and he’s knocked twice now, and the door’s still closed. And he starts to wonder, hey, maybe Coach was just saying that, yeah, to make him feel better. Maybe Coach says that to everyone, just doesn’t mean it. Maybe this is another one of those things that’s normal, but that Jamie doesn’t get. Too slow on the uptake, too dumb to get it without an explanation.

But then suddenly the door is open, and it’s replaced by Coach Lasso’s smiling face. Which, actually? Is a bit of a weird thing, because it don’t make sense that he can smile with the mustache he has. It curves down, see, above his lip, so that it forms a kind of hairy frown. But somehow you can still tell when he’s smiling, beneath the mustache. Like Jamie’s got x-ray goggles or some shit, just for smiles, just for Coach Lasso.

“Were you planning on trying the doorbell next?” Coach Lasso is asking.

And Jamie is standing there, hands coming up to his shirt, but then falling back down to his sides when he notices he’s moving them at all. He holds ‘em still, tries not to twitch, clenches his jaw, tries not to let the thoughts in his head spill onto Coach.

“Come on in, son,” he’s saying.

Jamie risks looking at him, tries to use the x-ray goggles on more than just his mustache, so he can see into his Coach’s head instead, like maybe understanding what’s happening in there will let Jamie understand what’s happening in his own.

But the goggles are shit, apparently, ‘cause all Jamie can see are Coach’s eyes just staring at him all worried, like, moving from Jamie’s face to his hair to his hands, like he’s trying to use his own x-ray goggles on Jamie. And that’s a scary thought, just that there, if everyone else could see into Jamie’s head, see what a mess he is, see how much he don’t understand himself.

Then Coach is pulling him through the door and Jamie blinks onto the couch. Blinks again to a mug of warm tea being pressed into his hands, and all he can think while he wraps his fingers around it is that hey, Coach Lasso don’t like tea, so why’s he got some anyways.

“Now I love surprise visits,” Coach is saying, sitting down next to him, and if Jamie imagines hard enough, he can feel Coach’s leg against his. “In fact, I’ve loved surprise visits ever since my seventh— no, eighth birthday party at the baseball game my mom took me to where we had to drive outta state. That whole ride I sat there wondering, where in tarnation is my mom taking me?”

Jamie thinks tarnation is a type of flower, maybe.

“But then we pulled up to that stadium and I hopped outta that car, and all I could do was run up and give my mom a big ‘ol hug, ‘cause that was one of the darn best presents she ever gave me.”

Jamie takes a sip of the tea, holds it in his mouth because he doesn’t think he can swallow it, but then thinks about Coach Lasso even bothering to have tea in the first place, and he chokes it down. It’s absolute rubbish.

“Anyways, all that to say that I don’t mind you being here, Jamie.”

He looks at Coach again, doesn’t bother with the goggles, and just watches him watching Jamie.

“Like I said, door’s always open.”

Jamie takes another sip, because even though the tea is terrible, Coach made it for him, didn’t he, and the warmth still feels nice as it goes down his throat and settles in his stomach. Like it’s clearing a path for the words that are suddenly coming out of his mouth. “Don’t want to talk none, Coach,” he says. About why he’s here, goes implied.

“Ah, you can just call me Ted here,” Ted says. “No Coach business while I’m in my own home. No, apartment— no, flat.”

Jamie nods and keeps sipping.

“And you don’t have to talk at all,” Ted keeps going. “In fact, I’m plenty ready to just keep yammering on about anything you like, or to just sit here and keep you some nice silent company. Just give the word.”

Ted’s wearing his pyjamas, Jamie realizes. Comfy clothes that look soft, if he were to let go of his mug and reach out and run his fingers along them. It’s late, is another thing Jamie realizes, when he glances out the window and sees black sky. He probably woke him up, is the last thing he realizes, when he looks at Ted’s hair, sticking up in every direction.

“I can— sorry, this was a bad— I didn’t mean to wake you,” he settles on. “I can go.”

“Oh, hey now,” Ted’s saying when Jamie puts his half-empty mug on the side table. “Now if you’re in such a rush to get outta here, then by all means, rush on.”

But Ted’s leaning forward and his hands are out like he wants to grab Jamie and pull him back from where he’s halfway off the couch, paused to listen.

“But don’t think you’re interrupting me, ‘cause ya aren’t. Feel free to stay as long as you like, Jamie.”

Jamie doesn’t move none. Just sits there, bum still on the couch but weight in his legs, body half turned to Ted and half turned away, like he’s about to fall back into him, and like he’s about to run away. Just thinks for a moment, throat freshly warmed and head slowly settling as he takes in Ted’s arms, Ted’s eyes, Ted’s bed head, Ted’s mustache, no goggles needed.

Then Jamie’s falling back again, into the back of the couch and looking at Ted as he says, pulling the words up and dropping them into Ted’s outstretched arms, “If you say so, Coach.”

“Ted, please,” Ted mutters. He don’t have to speak any louder, ‘cause Ted’s voice just has a way of filling up the room. Has a way of wrapping around everything all at once, but also at closing in on Jamie, just Jamie, and pushing his body together and insides around. “And I do indeed say so.”

Jamie nods. Shifts and grabs the mug again from off the side table. Toes his trainers off and tucks his feet underneath him, and he has socks on, so he figures it’s alright.

Says, “Right, Ted,” and takes another sip of his tea. Lets the taste roll over his tongue and lets the warmth clear his throat, chest, stomach. Leans into the couch, yeah, and stays there, with Ted’s leg ghosting his.

It’s like all the thoughts, all the muck in his head, have been cleared out by the combination of Ted’s voice, and his words, and the tea. It’s like just this is enough to make Jamie’s head quiet for a little while. Like this is enough to make him pause, for a bit, and just sit there without going anywhere. Just sit there, melting into the couch, warm all over.

- - -

Sometimes he wishes he could be alone without feeling lonely. It would make living simpler. It would make his house safer. It would make his mind calm.

- - -

Jamie is twenty-four and he’s still running on fumes. Like, driving a car and forgetting to stop by a petrol station to fill up, but deciding that you’ve got no other choice but to keep going. Can’t get out of the car and walk if you’re in the middle of nowhere, or if you’re on the edge of a thunderstorm, or if you’re somewhere that’s unfamiliar.

So you just have to keep driving, eyes on the tank and watching as the fuel goes down, down, down. And you keep pressing on the gas because you’ve got all of this road ahead of you, and all of this road behind you, and nothing else to fill your car with anywhere around you.

Ain’t any point stepping on the brake, ‘cause nothing comes from stopping. Ain’t any point getting out of the car, ‘cause then you’re stuck on foot, and it don’t matter how fit you are or how far you can walk, because you don’t even know how far you’ve got to go. So your best bet is staying in the car, foot on the gas, eyes flickering between the road and the dashboard.

Jamie is twenty-four and he’s been driving a car low on fuel for years. Makes him a natural at it. Makes him skilled. Makes it normal.

- - -

He imagines it in his head sometimes. Imagines somebody, anybody that’s not just his mum’s attempts at advice or Simon’s extra baked treats, asking him about it. Pictures Keeley’s face shifting into Roy’s face shifting into Ted’s face and back into Keeley’s, again and again. And they ask him, while he’s sitting on the couch and watching but not watching the telly, does your dad hit you, Jamie? And he’s sitting there, a prime footballer but also a little boy, with knobby knees and scraggly hair and purple splotches painting his skin, like whatever made him took a paintbrush to him and said my favorite color is purple, let me make it your favorite color too, except it wasn’t no higher being, no deity, no God that Dani likes to pray to, was it, it was just his dad.

And he sits there, anyways, purple and phantom purple all at once, and he says to them, “I’m fine, yeah.” And he sits there, eyes watching the telly but watching Keeley, Roy, Ted, and says, “I’m used to it.” Doesn’t really admit to it, does he, because that would be like tattling, and he knows Dani’s God don’t like tattlers, and his dad likes them even less. He sits there, and everything he says right here in this moment are between him and everything in his head, and says, “It’s normal, innit.”

Tries to trick himself into believing. Like saying it enough times makes it true. Like believing something he doesn’t want to will overpower what’s already inside him.

So, instead of doing what he wants to, and scooping the feelings out of his chest and his throat and his head so he can be hollow, and holding them out to Keeley, Roy, Ted, he chokes them down and sticks them away. It’s like playing hide and seek, except he don’t even plan on finding them again, just waiting until they peek their head out from behind the shower curtain and ask are we still playing? Did you forget about me? And he’ll say, no, yeah, didn’t forget. He’ll say, come out for a bit, then we’ll play again. Because his feelings don’t like people, just like playing with him, just like taking turns hiding in his body, moving from his heart to his throat to his head. Taking turns on which part of his body decides to stop working for a while. Too important for him to yell at, too fragile for him to rip out, too revealing for him to share.

- - -

He sits on the edge of the couch, on the edge of his mind, staring ahead and at nothing at all. What is it like to be empty? What is it like to have nothing crawling in your head? What is it like to fall off the edge?

What would it take to find out?

- - -

“What are you holding onto?”

“I, you tryna— I can’t,” Jamie says. He grunts at himself, squeezes the stress ball once, twice, and looks up again. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Sharon smiles at him, like him asking her what she meant is a big fucking step, and maybe it is. She says, “Why are you holding onto your father? What is he doing that makes you want to keep him?”

Jamie can think of hundreds of reasons why that’s not true, how he’d give him up in a heartbeat, only to realize he already has, yeah. He’s already given his dad up ever since he accepted Richmond, ever since he accepted Ted, ever since he accepted his team.

So he says, “I’m not, though.”

Dr. Sharon looks at him. But she don’t push none, ‘cause Jamie can see the clock, and this session’s been a frustrating one, they can both tell. So she just nods, and they start his cool down.

- - -

He’s been told to do and don’t do a lot of things. One of this things is: don’t be a prick. Then that changes to: be a prick sometimes.

On the pitch, it’s easy, like putting on a familiar jacket and recognizing the coziness and the way it pulls over your shoulders and rubs at your wrists. But the being a prick don’t apply off the pitch, ‘cause that means he’s just being a bad person, ‘cause he ain’t using it for anyone’s benefit. Like, being a prick so he can kick a penalty is different than being a prick so he can cover up his stupid comments, like asking dumb questions or sharing dumb things.

‘Cept, it’s like Roy said, yeah? Jamie’ll always be a prick, deep down, at his core. ‘Cause that’s what his dad’s put inside him, whether Jamie likes it or not. It’s the reaction that Jamie developed and can’t seem to get rid of, ‘cause it’s like it’s been carved into his heart, like he’d maybe been born with it all along, and all his dad did was bring it out of him.

So being a prick sometimes, that’s hard to follow. So he tries not to be embarrassed, except that don’t work, so he tries not to ask embarrassing things, except that don’t work either, ‘cause how’s he supposed to keep all his question inside? That’s just unhealthy, like. Already too much in there, he might as well get some shit out.

- - -

He’s been doing his best not to dread it, going up to Wembley, facing City, facing his dad. ‘Cause his dad wants tickets, always does, and he wants Jamie to score goals, always does, and he wants Jamie to keep the ball and be a star, always does. And Jamie does, yeah, and he did, ‘cause it was so easy and fun, being the center of it all. But now he can’t, yeah, and his dad don’t like that.

So Jamie’s been dreading, even though he don’t want to, seeing his dad in Wembley fucking Stadium. During the match, maybe, Jamie’ll see him in the crowd and jeering at him, rooting for the wrong team. Or after, maybe, when he leaves the locker room and heads to the car park. Or even later, maybe, when he’s gotten home and finds the door already unlocked. Or maybe in a room, like he always does, when he finds one being unused. He’ll pull Jamie in and give him a proper talking to, a reminder on who Jamie’s supposed to be and what he’s supposed to do and why he’s still living and playing today.

Except his dad don’t come later, although he still might. Instead he comes before, too. At Jamie’s house already, used his spare key, waiting in the kitchen.

And it’s all the pent up dread, maybe, or the team’s mood already dwindling because whenever they think of the match in a few days, they think of losing. Maybe it’s the way his dad’s already gone through three bottles, or maybe it’s the way there’s leftovers spilled on the floor. The food Dani brought him, yeah, his mama’s recipe, he’d said. Dead good, they were. Jamie was looking forward to finishing them. Jamie was looking forward to tasting them again.

Maybe it’s all of it, but whatever it is fucks with him, ‘cause then he’s fighting with his dad. He’s asking questions his dad don’t want to answer none, and he’s not shutting up, because he’s worried ‘bout the match and his stomach is pinching for food and he shouldn’t’ve left the beer at the front of the fridge.

But Jamie goes through the motions eventually, gets back into himself with his dad’s first swing, his rings cutting into Jamie’s shoulder. Same dull shock it usually has, ‘cause Jamie’s retreating, hiding in his head, waiting it out. He keeps it empty, lets his dad get his fill until he’s leaving, slamming the door shut behind him. Only comes out when his stomach pinches and twists again.

He goes about cleaning the kitchen first, as best he can. Dumps the bottles in the bin and kicks the glass shards from the one his dad threw at the wall into a corner, ‘cause he don’t feel like bending down to clean it up until he’s checked his chest and put some ointment on it.

He does clean up the food, though. Dani’s leftovers get scooped up and cleaned with some towels, and Jamie tosses it and tries not to shake. Stares at the bin and can’t stop his hands from fidgeting, picking, floundering by his sides and with his sleeves and under his shirt.

He doesn’t think he can manage one of the nutritionist packets, or a dry granola, or even a lucozade. So he pivots away from the fridge and grabs a mini orange instead. Stands in the kitchen and peels it, slowly, letting bits get under his nails, letting juice drip down his fingers and wrists until it reaches his elbows and stains the countertop. Pops the slices into his mouth and chews slowly, savoring it, focusing on the tangy flavor instead of the glass in the corner and the food in the bin. Doesn’t let himself think of tonight or the upcoming match. Doesn’t let himself think of anything but the fruit on his tongue, letting it travel down his throat and fill his head.

- - -

“Look it up,” Dr. Sharon says, like it’s that easy. “That’s what phones are for.”

Jamie’s pretty sure phone’s are for calling and texting and things, like, establishing communication across long distances and allat. But no, she’s got a point, ‘cause phones have got the internet, and it’s like the whole world is in his hands.

“If you don’t know something, and you’re embarrassed to ask someone, then just look it up.”

Maybe he’ll try it, he thinks. Maybe not as a replacement for asking questions, ‘cause that’s not really the issue, but when no one else is around, maybe he’ll look things up.

He says as much, and Dr. Sharon smiles like she trusts him.

- - -

Jamie is fine. He’s fine with his feelings and he’s fine with his body and he’s fine with his football and where he’s going. He’s fine with hiding in his head and he’s fine with the pitter-patter of his hands. He’s fine with his blessed foot and he’s fine with his handsome face.

He’s fine with his mum and he’s fine with his dad. He’s fine with Ted and Roy and Keeley. He’s fine with Simon and Denbo and Bug and the kids that ask him for autographs and give him lollies as trade.

He’s fine with covering his purple paint and he’s fine with picking up broken glass. He’s fine with peeling tiny oranges in an empty kitchen and he’s fine laying in bed that turns yellow to gray to yellow to gray when he tries to sleep at night.

He’s fine with going out to clubs and he’s fine with staying in with his mates. He’s fine with having coffee with Keeley and he’s fine with calling his mum.

Jamie is fine. He’s fine the same way you walk into a field and pick a flower, just once, just to bring it closer and look at it, and then putting it away. Putting it on the ground or pressed in a book or in a tiny vase. He’s fine the same way a kid is when they fall and scrape their knee but get back up again to keep on playing, not knowing when to quit. He’s fine the same way a broom fills its uses by being multipurpose, sweeping glass and killing spiders that were never there. He’s fine the same way a broken person looks in the mirror and catalogues their pieces in ways that appeal to the voices of others in his head.

Jamie is fine. Jamie is normal.

- - -

Jamie Tartt is a sexy, rich, and really fucking fit and talented football star. People pay to watch him on the pitch and dance around the twats and stars on other teams, pay to watch him score goals and make his own team look good, pay to watch him win. And when he does, when he scores a goal and wins a match, they fucking scream. They sing his fucking name and stomp their feet and burst his ears, ‘cause he’s Jamie Tartt and people love him.

So when he’s standing in the dressing room at Wembley fucking Stadium, and his dad is laying on the ground, one hand on his jaw, the other pushing him back up, decked in Man City blue, mouth already spitting back at him, all Jamie can think is, these lads should be fucking cheering. These lads should be applauding, stomping their feet, singing his name. Because Jamie does impossible things on the pitch every day. He scores goals, he makes gorgeous runs, he passes the ball, and people pay to watch him do it. So it only makes sense, don’t it, that they should be paying and they should be cheering as they watch him in the aftermath of punching his dad. Because that’s another impossible thing, same as the miracles he pulls on the field, so shouldn’t he be rewarded? Shouldn’t he be praised? Selling tickets and saying, here’s Jamie Tartt, performing impossible things in the Wembley dressing room! Here’s Jamie Tartt, punching his dad! Here’s Jamie Tartt, signing his own death away!

Instead, he’s standing in the center of the room, fists still raised, eyes still looking at the door where his dad’s just been pushed through, where it’s slammed shut with the same bang that his mum’s front door used to give when he was a sexy little kid and his dad was leaving. Always with a bang, always with something left behind. And he’s left behind a Jamie who’s done an impossible thing, standing in the center of a room where he knows his teammates are watching, waiting, but they don’t make a sound, and all he can think is, these lads should be fucking cheering. But they ain’t, are they. And Jamie’s whole life, his whole fucking life, is just falling away, and he ain’t in that dressing room no more. He’s floating above it, out of his body and out of his mind, just taken somewhere else where no one’s watching and no one’s cheering and he don’t have to be Jamie Tartt no more. Show canceled.

And then like when a fish gets caught on a hook, or like when his laces get caught under his own foot, he’s being pulled out of the water and down to the ground, into his body, and it’s like his nerves are on fire because all he can feel then is arms wrapped around him. And it’s so, so warm, and the arms are bracing him, like if they let go Jamie’ll fall right on over and into the ground. He’s glad for ‘em, then, ‘cause if they weren’t holding him so tightly he thinks he might just do that, and fall, actually, and just not get back up again.

And because his body wants to fall but can’t, and he’s just stuck there, standing where he is, feeling how he is, his body don’t give him no choice and his feelings don’t give him no choice and he’s crying, isn’t he. His fist is throbbing and his head is hurting, and he’s crying into the shoulder that’s attached to the arms that are attached to him, holding him up, holding him down, holding him warm.

“Shh, breathe, you’re alright,” Roy says, and oh, Jamie chokes instead, because it’s Roy holding him, Roy wrapping his arms around him, Roy keeping his head in his body.

Roy keeps whispering to him, and Jamie keeps sobbing into his shoulder, face smushed so he can muffle it, maybe. He don’t know who he’s muffling it for, his dad who’s already left, his teammates who are watching, Roy who’s right up against him, or himself, who’s been hiding from his feelings and shoving them away, deep inside him, bottled up, and just playing hide and seek. And here they are, yeah, peeking out again and saying hey! Just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about us! And here Jamie is, not forgetting. Here Jamie is, saying hey, yeah, didn’t forget, did I. Can’t forget ever again, now that you’re out in the open, now that you suddenly ain’t shy no more. Can’t forget ever again, now that all these people know you exist. Can’t forget ever again, not if I want to keep going. Here Jamie is, no turning back.

- - -

it’s like what his dad does is a noose and Jamie wears it like a gold chain

- - -

He gets home after Wembley, after the most awkward fucking ride on the coach ever. He drops his things at the door and walks straight to the kitchen, and there in the corner is a pile of glass.

There in the bin is Dani’s leftovers, and the empty bottles, and the towels used to clean everything. There on the counter, left out ‘cause Jamie weren’t right in his head, were he, are the peels from the mini orange he had earlier. It feels like so long ago, his dad coming in his kitchen days before the match. It don’t even make sense, does it, why his dad felt like he had to drive all the way down to Richmond. ‘Cause, Jamie’d already gotten him his tickets for the match, and the match was in fucking Wembley anyways. Don’t make sense why his dad drove down, don’t make sense why his dad drank his beer and ate his food and made a fucking mess of his kitchen, leaving Jamie to clean it up and shove it into a corner and forget about it until now.

And it makes no fucking sense, does it, why his dad had to come into the dressing room and play a whole fucking movie in front of his team, makes no sense why he felt the need to wave his dirty pants in front of ‘em, in front of Ted and Roy and Sam and Dani and everyone he fucking cares about, everyone who’s ever mattered, except for Keeley who knew not to ask, and Dr. Sharon who’s working on it, and mum who’s played this game with him for years, and they’re both just losing, ain’t they.

None of it makes any fucking sense. His dad coming in, Jamie using the words Dr. Sharon taught him, Roy hugging him, the team sitting in dead fucking silence the whole ride back. None of it makes any fucking sense.

The bottle inside of him, the one that he’d closed tight and thrown deep down, that bottle. It comes back out, it travels out of his heart and up his throat and the cap flies off, spilling all of it, all that anger and hatred and shame, into his head and out of his mouth and leaking from his eyes. It comes shooting out, pouring over, so he’s slamming his cabinets and throwing the rest of his fridge, the frozen food and the meal packets and the bottles, across the room until they’re smashing on the floor. He swipes his hands across the counter and the bowl of mini oranges goes flying, clattering on the ground, painting orange puddles across his walls and furniture. He pulls the plugs on the fancy espresso machine and blender and toaster, and he grabs the utensils from the drawers and throws them at the same wall his dad threw the bottle that’s piled in the corner.

The stupid fucking pile of glass, of broken beer bottle, of his dad being in his fucking house all the way in Richmond for no reason other than to drink his beer and eat his food. No other reason than to take what’s Jamie’s, yeah, and the leftovers from his fridge and the oranges splattered on the walls, and make a mess of it and leave Jamie to clean it up.

Here he is, cleaning up, hiding the mess underneath something dirtier, something angrier and hated and shameful.

Jamie lets the bottle deep inside him bubble over, like making tea for too long, like holding your breath for too long, like keeping something ugly inside of yourself for too fucking long when you’re just tryna be a better person, just tryna be good, for once in your fucking life. ‘Cept you can’t be good when you’ve got something so foul, something so fucking horrible hidden inside you. Can’t be good when it’s turned into this. Can’t be good when you’ve done a piss-poor job at hiding your dad’s mess, ‘cause you’ve just made it worse. You’ve just ruined your kitchen, ruined your oranges, ruined what you were tryna hide, tryna be, tryna do.

He stands there, breathing heavy in his kitchen, like he’s just played ten matches back to back and lost every single one of ‘em. Like he’s tried so hard to score a goal, just one, and now he’s ready to pass out.

This is the time, yeah, where you’d realize.

That spider that were never in your head? The only thing that were sitting there in the first place is what you were putting in there, is what you were growing all by yourself. You took in pieces from others, like a fucking sponge, but then you squeezed it out into something self-made, something molded by your own hands. There weren’t ever a spider ‘cause you’d already filled the space with what you never wanted to fill it with.

It weren’t Jamie’s dad in his head. It weren’t his dad, it weren’t a spider, it weren’t nothing he couldn’t see, nothing he were afraid of in the dark.

It were just him. Just what he never wanted himself to be. Just this anger, this shame, that festered inside of him and turned into this ugly, ugly mess he’s made, this ugly mess he’s become.

He stands in his kitchen, chest heaving, lungs blowing up and deflating like balloons, as if his body knows he’s just lost that bottle of feelings and is trying to fill the space leftover with something else. But there ain’t nothing else. There never were nothing else. Just him. Standing in his kitchen, oranges gone, leftovers gone, beer gone, bottle of ugliness spilled out and over to try and cover his dad.

After this whole fucking shitshow, he can’t help but feel just the one thing. Just one thing is filling him up now that everything nasty is gone. Just one thing is taking root, planting itself inside of him. Just one thing is all he’ll know tonight, as he goes to bed and doesn’t wonder any more about what it is that’s inside him. ‘Cause that’s all gone now, and all that’s left is the same feeling of when he loses a match, when he has the chance to pull a fucking hat trick but he blows it, when he realizes he ain’t living up to what he’s cut out to be. Whoever folded him up like origami missed too many edges, creased him in all the wrong spots.

‘Cept he don’t even have his team this time. Don’t have no one to lean on, to share the loss with. It’s just him, in his house, covered in him covering his dad, feeling like he’s lost the most important thing in the world. Like he’s lost something he only just realized he ever wanted to win. Like he’s lost, and there ain’t getting back up again. Like he’s lost, and maybe he always has been. Like he’s lost, and everyone but him already knew it.

Jamie’s lost in all the wrong ways, and he stays like that when he goes to bed. Maybe it’ll be different in the morning. Maybe things’ll find their way back to normal, so he can hate that instead of hating himself.

- - -

He lets himself think he can make it. He lets himself think that even though he can’t undo things, it won’t change much. He lets himself think no one will talk about it, no one will worry, no one will change what they think of him.

He lets himself think it so much, actually, that he’s afraid he’s psychic or some shit, because all of his thinking actually works, for once. Strange time for him to suddenly have psychic powers, but it makes sense, don’t it, ‘cause no one changes around him. No one stops him and says Jamie? Can we talk about your dad? No one stops him and says Jamie? Have you checked in on your feelings?

And no one changes, and Jamie is left going back to how he were before, when his feelings were still hidden away like his dad, tucked in a separate part of him that the team didn’t know about. But no one changes, and Jamie thinks, well, that must mean it’s normal, innit. That’s normal, and Jamie’s normal, and ignoring what his dad does… That’s normal.

- - -

He thinks he sabotages himself sometimes. Not on purpose, usually, but it’s just that, his brain, yeah, it don’t know what to do when he’s stressed out, and he’s been tons stressed lately, so it just falls back into survival mode, like in those nature documentaries where something will hurt itself so it don’t die, yeah, ‘cause living with a wound is better than not living at all. He feels like that, with his dad.

He’s set up boundaries, or practiced setting ‘em up, with Dr. Sharon, right. Practiced saying what he feels and standing his ground and allat. But it’s different trying to say it in Dr. Sharon’s office than it is in front of his dad. ‘Cause in Dr. Sharon’s office he’s got total control, don’t he, to just stop whenever he’s got to. But with his dad, it’s like he’s cornered, and he’s turned into a wild animal, and he’ll hurt himself, gnaw off his own leg, to survive it. He’ll do all the wrong things, and he knows Dr. Sharon would be disappointed, yeah, in that way that therapists are when they’re pretending not to be, ‘cause it’ll mess up their progress or whatever. But it’s easy to see it, because he sees it on everyone else’s faces whenever he comes in with a bruise on his lip and a chip in his shoulder. That disappointment, yeah, like he’s backsliding, like a kid trying to climb up the playground slide. And he knows that says something about him, don’t it, the fact that he can’t seem to keep himself from hurting himself through his dad. Says something like, that kid can’t grow up, like, that kid can’t ever learn.

And at least he’s proving someone proud, ain’t he, ‘cause those’ll always be true, it’s starting to seem like. That he ain’t ever gonna be able to stop sabotaging himself, stop burning any kind of progress before it even starts, stop making his dad’s fist for him ‘fore he’s even thought about throwing a punch. He’s sabotaging himself ‘cause there’s something about the pain and the predictability of it, like. ‘Cause if he gives the pain a little push to get it going, then it’s like he’s got some sort of control over the situation then, don’t he. It’s like it’s not just his dad’s fault he’s a dick, even though he is, ‘cause Jamie plays a part in it too.

And it’s hard to get out of the habit of it, hard to actually try out what he’s been practicing with Dr. Sharon, ‘cause it’s like he’s stuck in a groove in the table, yeah, a little notch in the wood of it where something’s nicked it, and now anytime you run your hand over it, it ain’t smooth no more. Your skin’ll get caught in the imperfection, and he’s like the skin, ain’t he. Trying to glide over the table only to get caught in the groove in it, in the trap where he’s got to gnaw his own leg off, in his dad’s drunk anger where he’s got to tell Jamie everything that’s wrong with him. How’s he supposed to stop sabotaging himself when it’s so fucking easy? How’s he supposed to stop when it’s all he knows, and when he’s scared what will happen when it don’t happen no more? What’s left for him when he ain’t guiding himself into traps no more? What’s he supposed to do without being told everything he ain’t ever gonna be no more?

Sabotaging himself, it’s easy, and it’s safe, yeah.

Sometimes people do things, Dr. Sharon says, to feel like they’ve got control over a situation that they don’t want to be in. Sometimes Jamie does things, Jamie thinks, because he knows that even though they’re bad, he’s used to the shit-stain explosion that comes from it. And sometimes it’s nice, yeah, just being shit on, instead of having to face something new, something he ain’t ever tried to control before, like Roy’s arms around him, like Ted smiling at him, like Keeley’s kindness holding him, like folks’ great big fucking attempts at caring for him.

- - -

and he doesn’t learn, does he, ‘cause he’s been doing it ever since his dad, so it only makes sense he can’t help himself from doing it now. backsliding, like a kid trying to climb up the playground slide

- - -

it’s like what his dad does is a noose and Jamie wears it like a moth flies to light, like a fish swims to bait, like a bear crawls to honey, like a creature drawn to something it craves, to something that kills it, to something it can’t say no to

- - -

Even though he and Keeley had broken up, like, ages ago, he’s still got some of her stuff in his house. Like the eyeliner she left behind, ‘cause it’d rolled under his bed and he’d only just found it when he was looking for his socks after a romp.

There’s also a few of her magazines. Not the ones with her in ‘em, but the one’s she actually liked reading, yeah. He found those ‘uns forgotten on one of the decorative tables that he don’t really have a use for. They’d just turned into temporary spots to put things, like Keeley’s magazines and books, yeah.

In his shower, he don’t really have an excuse for this one, but there’s her shampoo, too. And, so, it’s not really just her shampoo, is it, ‘cause he used it too, when they were still dating. He had squirted some into his hand once, sniffed at it, spent a bit looking at the bottle, and asked, the fuck is a rose hip? And Keeley’d said, don’t know, even though he thinks she might’ve, but it was early and they were tired and sometimes she didn’t feel up to explaining things to him before she’d had her coffee. But then she’d mumbled, under the shower spray, try some, babe, see if you like it. And he did, ‘cause why the hell not, and it’d smelled nice, yeah.

So really, it was kinda their shampoo, so it’s not like it’s weird or none, is it, for him to keep buying it even when they’ve broken up. It’s not weird that he still smells it before rubbing it in, ‘cause rose hips do smell fucking nice, whatever they are. They smell like Keeley, but they smell like him, but they also just smell like this feeling he used to get when he woke up in the mornings and got ready with Keeley sleepy beside him. Not the fact that it were her, really, but the fact that it were someone that mattered, and someone that bothered to think he mattered ‘nough for sharing shampoo with.

It’s not weird, feeling the way he feels.

- - -

it’s like what his dad does is a—

- - -

Amsterdam is a breath of fresh air. It shouldn’t be, should it, ‘cause every time he’s been to Amsterdam his dad’s been with him. With him at a match and with him walking by the girls in the windows, and then walking through the door so he was on the same side of the window as the girls. Then with him again, but in his head this time, when he did all the touristy shit with his mum.

But that don’t change the fact that it is, like taking in a breath after being inside all day, like shaking out his hair after a dive into the pool, like licking orange juice off his fingers. He feels like his head’s clear now, at least for a moment, at least while he’s spending the night here, in a city that’s packed with memories, except he’s not with his dad this time, because Roy’s here instead. It’s like he just peeked into Jamie’s head and batted his dad away and down somewhere else. Like he just battered him so he could spend the night with Jamie. It works too, when Jamie just goes over all the sight-seeing that reminds him of his mum, and when Jamie teaches Roy fucking Kent how to ride a bike. He figures, since Roy’s being a bit of a dick tonight, that Jamie’ll just do what his mum does for him. Just blabber.

Then Jamie’s talking about his dad again, like it just bubbled back up and couldn’t bear not being in his head for too long, and he tells him about the red light district, and being fourteen, and about not really remembering it, actually, just knowing that it happened, yeah, and that it was shitty, definitely. If not while it happened, then at least in the aftermath, he can remember that something like that must’ve sucked. Must’ve been shit for knobby-kneed Jamie.

Roy tells him as much, says “Must’ve been traumatizing.”

And Jamie says, “No, she loved it,” ‘cause even though he don’t remember it, he remembers trying to say dad, wait, I— no, wait, don’t— please, and he remembers his dad patting him on the back when he walked in, telling him come on, son, it’s time to become a man, and he remembers his dad patting him on the back when he walked out, telling him well done, lad, and he hadn’t been able to feel proud because he was running to the kerb and puking his guts out, like he was just taking the whole event and hurling it up his throat and out his mouth and onto the ground. But his dad said he did good, so that must mean that at least someone liked it.

But then Jamie is looking at Roy and he realizes, oh, that’s not what he meant. And he nearly says, no, really? I hadn’t figured that out for meself. Figured that were something everyone did with their da. But he doesn’t, ‘cause that’s not something you say out loud, and that’s not something to say if he fancies keeping this mood going, which he does, ‘cause he doesn’t want this moment to leave. So instead he says, “I don’t remember.” Puked it all up on the pavement right after, didn’t he.

And he keeps talking, and Roy keeps listening. Then Roy apologizes, actually, and then he talks about Keeley, and then it feels like it’s getting too close to ruining the moment, to bursting this little bubble they’re both breathing in, and Jamie doesn’t want to give it up yet, so he says “Let’s go find us some windmills, yeah?”

Amsterdam is a breath of fresh air, and Amsterdam is a fever dream, and Jamie does his best to keep it all in and hold onto it for as long as he can.

- - -

it’s like what his dad does is a noose and after Amsterdam, Jamie untied it, for a bit, just loosened the rope so he could breathe better, just loosened the rope so he could ask, why the fuck am I wearing this

- - -

“You made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal,” Roy tells him later, when Jamie is recovering from the runs he had him do ‘round the park ‘nough times to make him puke his guts up in some bushes.

“Dunno mate.” When he looks over to Roy, he’s not making eye contact. He’s got that hard stare he gets, yeah, when he wants to talk serious like, about emotions and shit that he knows Roy hates but tries not to. “Hurling my stomach out’s a pretty big deal.”

Roy’s face doesn’t change none, and his stare only gets more intense, somehow, so Jamie thinks he missed the point, maybe.

“What your dad did to you,” Roy says. His eyes flicker to Jamie’s finally, and Jamie tries to ask him, what my dad did to me when? Wembley, probably. Though, that weren’t much what his dad did to him, but what his dad did to the team, insulting ‘em the way he did. But then Roy shoves that aside and says, “In Amsterdam.”

“‘Cause it weren’t, were it,” Jamie’s responding automatically, the words coming out so much easier than his puke did just minutes ago. “And I told you, yeah, that I don’t remember it.”

Roy grunts then, like it’s up to Jamie to figure out what he means, as if he didn’t start this stupid conversation in the first place.

“Look,” Jamie says, straightening up, ‘cause it won’t do him good if Roy walks outta this with the wrong ideas in his head. “I already know me dad’s a dick. You know I know me dad’s a dick. ‘M over it, yeah?”

Roy doesn’t answer, just stares at him some more. Makes Jamie’s brain think again of x-ray goggles. Makes Jamie shiver in his skin, all the way until it rattles his bones.

“Then why’d you bring it up?” Roy finally asks.

‘Cause they were bonding, weren’t they? ‘Cause Jamie’d taught Roy how to ride a bike. ‘Cause Roy’d told him ‘bout his granddad. ‘Cause they’d lost that match horribly, but he didn’t feel like it at all once Ted told them ‘bout no curfew. ‘Cause it were Amsterdam, yeah, and two of the people that mattered took him there, and Roy made that three. ‘Cause biking with Roy to find a windmill made Jamie feel like all that losing that was inside of him had vanished.

“Dunno,” he says instead.

He stares at Roy and Roy stares at him, and Jamie feels he might puke again.

Then Roy grunts, and Jamie’s running.

- - -

When Sam walked in and started shouting at Isaac, but not at Isaac, really, the first thing he thought was, oh shit, Sam’s mad. That never fucking happens.

But then Jamie started actually listening to what Sam was saying, and all he could think of was, hey, that sounds like me dad. Don’t fuck up, or they’ll hate you. Don’t fuck up, or he’ll hit you.

But then Sam’s dad walked in, and it weren’t like Jamie’s dad at all, no more.

- - -

When he opens Ted’s book and gets mad at himself for not knowing what desultory means, he grabs his phone and looks it up. His phone gives him too many definitions, so he just goes for the first one on the list, tries to make sense of how it’s important at all in the book, and keeps reading.

- - -

He doesn’t buy more tiny oranges. Mainly ‘cause he can’t make his mind up. Like, what’s the fucking point? He had them stress balls, but his dad threw those out. Then he got tiny oranges, but Jamie smashed those into sticky orange messes. So he figured, should he even get more? Might just mess them up again, trying to figure himself out.

But his wondering don’t seem to matter none, ‘cause he comes downstairs at four in the morning and there’s a bowl of them sitting on his countertop, and they’ve come with a grumpy Roy sitting on the stool next to ‘em.

Jamie catches the orange Roy throws to him, ‘cause footballer reflexes are handy sometimes.

“What’s this for?” Jamie asks, just holding it in his right hand, holding his headlamp in his left. His trainers are by the door, but he’s got leggings on and his sweatsuit top, and it’s four in the morning.

But Roy’s sitting at his counter with a bowl of tiny oranges. “Noticed you didn’t have anymore,” Roy tells him, gruff and grumpy in Jamie’s kitchen.

He didn’t have ‘em anymore, because he’d cleaned his kitchen. He didn’t have ‘em anymore because he’d spent an hour wiping the orange stains out of the wall, wondering if he should even bother getting more. He didn’t have ‘em anymore because he picked his nails instead, because he tugged his sleeves and pulled his shirt and tossed his hair instead.

“Er, no, yeah,” Jamie responds, ‘cause how do you respond to your Coach noticing you didn’t have tiny oranges no more, so he comes into your house and gives you a bowl of ‘em.

“Have that,” Roy tells him with the same voice he uses when telling Jamie to do more reps.

“We’re still training, yeah?”

Roy grunts at him, and Jamie figures that’s a yeah, so he walks over to the counter and rests his forearms on it and sets his headlamp down, then starts peeling the one in his hands.

The kitchen fills with the sound of the tiny orange skin ripping off, and with the smell of the juice breaking free. He pushes the peels to the side when he’s done, then tears off a wedge and pops it in his mouth. Fills his mouth with its tangy flavor.

He waves a wedge around so Roy can have a bit and grab it, and when he does, he grunts at the flavor.

“Always preferred satsumas over all the other fruit,” Roy says once he swallows. His voice takes place of the peeling in the kitchen, and it fills Jamie’s ears and warms him from there to his toes, where he can feel the chill of the floor through his socks. “Phoebe loves them.”

Jamie offers up another piece, and while Roy’s chewing and Jamie’s breaking off his next one, he asks, “What’s satsumas?”

He pops the next one in, bites into it. When he looks up from where parts are jammed under his fingernails, Roy’s looking at him that same way he does when Jamie’s missed something. Not something important, though, ‘cause Roy’s got a different face for that, but it makes Jamie feel silly that he missed something anyways.

“The fucking fruit,” Roy growls, but quietly.

Ah, yeah, that sounds right, Jamie thinks. Dr. Sharon called them that when she mentioned them, he thinks he can remember.

“Satsumas?” Jamie repeats, rolling the word across his tongue and mixing it with the fruit. “I just called them mini oranges.”

Roy takes the last piece when Jamie holds it out to him, waving it ‘round a bit to get his attention again, from off Jamie’s face to the fruit instead.

“Guess they are,” Roy says when they’re finished. “Don’t know what the difference is except that one’s bigger than the other.”

Hm, yeah. Mini oranges. Big satsumas. Fruit cousins, or summat. He says as much, and Roy grunts, a normal one this time. One that says, yeah, you’re not wrong, but I won’t say it.

Jamie likes it, Roy sitting there, orange cousins on their tongues.

- - -

He breaks curfew and sees his mum. They play Man City. He texts his dad, who he hasn’t heard from since Wembley. He drinks champagne with Keeley and Roy, with his foot in a bucket of ice that he can’t feel right. It feels like Amsterdam, it feels like breathing.

- - -

He goes home. He’s standing at the kitchen counter, phone still in his bum bag by the door, peeling tiny oranges.

He throws the peels away, limps over to grab a glass for some water, and sees it. By the sink, just on the edge, is a black spot. And as he stares at it, his brain points out the legs and the body and tells him, hey, that’s a spider. Just outside the room and down the hall is the broom, and he could grab that and smash it. Or just take one of the magazines in the hallway, roll it up, and swat it. Or, already in his hand, he can use a glass.

After some shuffling, he opens the front door, steps over his bag, walks down the steps and squats by the grass. He reaches down, sets The Beautiful and Damned on the ground, and lifts the glass.

The spider walks off the book and disappears. That says something, maybe.

It was really easy. That says something, maybe.

Jamie drops the glass, falls onto his bum, and starts to cry. That says something, maybe.

- - -

He buys flowers. And he just sits around on a bench with them while he waits for time to pass, hoping it speeds up or summat, so he don’t have to sit and wonder, but also hoping it stops, so he don’t have to move at all.

But he figures, time don’t seem too keen on listening to him, so he may as well pass it somehow. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the search bar. The flowers tucked under his arm are a bunch of colors, ‘cause he just stood there in the shop and pointed to random ones and told the lad to make them a bouquet, please and thanks, and he never did learn what they meant. He knows, like, daisies and sunflowers and roses, all the basic shit. He’s always loved tulips, too, but doesn’t know if they mean anything other than Amsterdam. But the bouquet ones are different, so he figures, might as well know what it is he’s giving.

Typing orange flowers don’t really give anything, just lists a bunch of other orange flowers. Some of ‘em look pretty cool, and they’ve got fun names, like sneezeweed, which look like little monster eyes or summat, and carnations, which make him think of Ted saying “what in tarnation?” all the time.

He searches for a what flower is this? app, hoping for the best, and a bunch of camera plant identifier options come up. He taps the first one, squints as he reads the walkthrough, and takes a photo of one of the orange flowers. When it finishes loading, he reads and rereads the word on the top and mutters, “chrysanthemums.” Mutters it again but differently, figures none of them really sound right, so he just goes for calling ‘em mums, ‘cause that’s what it ends in, and that’s who he’s giving them to.

He skips over the scientific names, ‘cause there’s no way he’s figuring out how to pronounce those unless someone walks him through it, and finds the meaning behind the flower. Like, roses for love, sunflowers for sunny stuff, daises for innocence, he figures. For the mums it says friendship, happiness, and well-being.

He goes through the rest of the flowers. The white ones are larkspur and they mean beautiful spirit, strong bonds of love, and youth. He figures these are pretty appropriate, ‘cause if he had to talk about his mum from a total objective point of view, like, that’s how he’d describe her. The pinkish-purplish-whitish ones are called by two names, lisianthius and prairie gentian, but he likes the second best, ‘cause it shortens down to gent, like gentleman, yeah. They mean appreciation, gratefulness, and respect. Which is what he’s trying to do, he supposes. Show his gratitude and allat, as a little gentlemanly son.

He taps out of the camera then, and opens up another section on the app that just has a list of a whole bunch of flowers. He swipes through them, pausing at photos that catch his eye or names that make him laugh. Like cheeseweed, and corn-cockle, and pussytoes. Mad dog skullcap just sounds fucking mint, and protea look exactly like those sea enemies or whatever, the ones that sting you like from Finding Nemo, which Ted made ‘em all watch the other day.

He checks the time again, decides it’s close enough to when his mum’s getting home, and he starts walking.

- - -

Jamie is twenty-five, and feels every one of ‘em. Tastes the bowl of mini oranges on his tongue, feels the warmth of tea that tastes like absolute rubbish in his hands, smells the flower fragrance of shampoo until it fills his head with rose hips. He feels them all like pangs to his heart, each one hitting him like something unforgiving. He feels ‘em, and he don’t hurt.

- - -

“You ready for Brazil, babe?” Keeley asks him when they’re getting on the plane.

He knows not to expect nothing from her no more. Knows what it is people are willing to give him, and what it is he’s willing to take.

What he’s got with Keeley? What he’s got with her and with Roy, and this thing the three of them have together, that’s fucking mint, it is. He wouldn’t change it, wouldn’t dare.

So he says, “Yeah, gonna get a killer tan.”

And when Keeley smiles at him, there ain’t no promise of something more behind it, ain’t nothing else hiding in her head, ‘cause it’s all there on her face for him to see. They’re going to Brazil, and Jamie’s not expecting anything grand or sexy from her or from himself, and they’re going to have a good fucking time.

“It’s gonna be great,” Keeley says, when the flight attendants finish their pre-liftoff show.

Jamie smiles at her, nothing hiding in his head, ‘cause it really is gonna be great.

- - -

there’s no more noose, ‘cause someone cut it down, and every day is like Amsterdam now, every day is like breathing

- - -

“I don’t think I can forgive him,” he says one day.

It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, to be able to forgive someone who’d been a dick, sure, but was also trying to change. It’d be nice to forgive his dad for all he did, all the ways he’s fucked Jamie up. But even if he could convince himself to give him that, all the lifted weight and dread and shame that’s partnered with his dad, he don’t think it would solve nothing.

It’s dead nice that his dad’s working on himself, and when Jamie visits him, that’s all he lets himself think of. How nice it is that his dad’s tryna be better. But when he leaves, yeah, the rehabilitation place, it’s crowded and pushed aside in his mind. Then he’s just thinking, this would’ve been nice earlier. Would’ve been nice if it hadn’t taken so long, twenty-five years of wondering if he’d ever be enough for him. Would’ve been nice if someone else could’ve stepped in and said, hey, Jamie, your dad doesn’t owe this to you, he owes this to himself. And then Jamie’d say, yeah, but then what do I owe to him? And they’d say, exactly.

So, he can’t forgive him. He says as much to Ted the soldier, sitting on the shelf by a book Jamie’d spent too long struggling to read.

“Think I can forgive meself, though,” he says.

Weren’t his fault he ended up thinking he were too much like his dad. Weren’t his fault he thought he were nothing but someone else. Weren’t his fault he got fucked up in the head from his dad doing too much and everyone else not doing enough.

Shouldn’t blame himself for being put into situations he couldn’t get out of, for being shaped into something he was scared of.

Ain’t nothing to be afraid of, in his head no more. Not when he knows everything that’s in there, and all that’s in there is himself. Just all of him, and his thoughts and his feelings and his reactions, cozied up in his head, just existing all nice like.

He thinks he can forgive himself for hating something that never deserved it.

So he does. He looks at soldier Ted and holds out a hand to the things hiding in his head, waves it around a bit so they get a clue and grab it, and he says, hey, game’s over innit, no more hide and seek.

It feels like whatever he’s been playing his whole life, whatever he’s been scared of losing, he’s finally won. ‘Cause they grab back, and he’s not scared of himself anymore.

He knows what he is now.