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The Man City match was brutal, but they were tied 1-1 at the half, the goal courtesy of an incredible assist from Jamie to Sam. They were all exhausted in the locker room, too tired to do anything but listen and nod along to Ted’s speech. Roy kept sneaking looks at Jamie from the corner of his eye—he was the only one who didn’t look completely out of gas, but he was quiet, lost in his own thoughts. His kit was scuffed with dirt, and there was dried blood on both knees. Even though he was still technically a part of Man City, they seemed to be targeting him a good deal. Jamie wasn’t doing himself any favors, jumping to his feet after each tackle, smirking, taunting. They’d been close enough to the bench a few times that Roy caught the heated exchanges—well, Jamie wasn’t heated. Jamie was cool as ice as he burrowed deeper under their skin.
“Roy, you’re going in,” Ted announced, “and Beard will catch you up on the rest of the changes.”
Roy followed Jamie through the tunnel and back out onto the pitch, watching as he warmed up his legs, swiveled his hips, shook his arms and hands. Roy hadn’t made any official decisions yet, but a part of him knew this was going to be the last time he walked through this tunnel and onto the pitch. Jamie slowed down, dropping back to bump Roy’s arm before they reached the opening.
“Hey man, don’t get killed out there.”
“Fuck off.”
“I fucking mean it, Roy.”
“Don’t worry about me. Just fucking score, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He flashed Roy a crooked smile and Roy wanted to kiss him so fucking bad. It was getting harder every day to be so close to Jamie and never touching him. “I can do that.”
The crowd roared as they returned to the pitch and the familiar surge of adrenaline and excitement made him tingle, made him come alive. When he thought about retiring, all he could think about was losing this. This moment, that made the pain meaningless, made the sacrifices worthwhile. This moment, when he felt like he truly mattered. Jamie was just ahead of him, going through his warm-up routine, bent over with his perfect ass straining against his shorts, and Roy felt a different sort of excitement surge through him. He may need to retire just because Jamie made him all distracted and worthless for football.
The second half started as brutally as the first half ended, both teams going hard. Their focus on Jamie helped get Sam and Dani open, and they each had a look at the goal, but the keeper stopped each attempt. Jamie was undeterred, and Roy tried not to be distracted, but it really was amazing to see the subtle changes in Jamie’s style—as though he had taken every word Roy said to heart. He was constantly hounding Roy for information, for pointers, for compliments—anything he could get, any kernel of knowledge he could wheedle from Roy’s experience, he wanted. Roy was happy to talk to him—more than happy to be the center of his attention—but he was never sure how much was getting through to him. But now, seeing the way he worked the field, fucked with the defenders, got Dani open, Roy had to admit, Jamie was listening.
The City defenders didn’t like to be fucked with, though. They were subtle at first, not quite fouling Jamie, not quite going so far, but Jamie wasn’t taking the hint. Or rather, he didn’t give a fuck about their hints. He smirked and winked, made kissy-faces and danced around them, nutmegged them, passed right under their noses, until finally they became overly aggressive. At eighty-four minutes, Jamie was on a fast break-away, alone and wide open, when a defender came from his blindside and tackled him, sending them both to the ground. The defender jumped back to his feet almost immediately but Jamie didn’t move. Roy had been close enough to hear the thud of Jamie’s body hitting the pitch and his breathless moan, and then he was flying over the grass before he even realized he was moving, body slamming into the fucking asshole who stood over Jamie’s motionless body, sending him stumbling forward.
He turned around instantly and shoved at Roy’s chest with both hands. Roy was absolutely ready to take this guy out, and he would have driven his forehead right through the prick’s face, but there were suddenly a half-dozen hands on him, holding him back, pulling him away from violence. Roy struggled for a moment, face red, blood pounding in his ears, but he heard Sam say that Jamie might need help, heard Isaac say, “Not worth it, bruv,” heard Jamie’s low moan and the tension melted from his muscles.
Roy dropped to his good knee and grasped Jamie’s shoulder. “Hey? You alright?”
“Fuck. Yeah. Just.” Jamie tried to sit up but Roy held him down.
“Wait a fucking minute. Where you hurt?”
“Not. Just had the wind knocked out of me.”
“Well, give yourself a second. Take a deep breath.”
Jamie opened and closed his mouth before nodding. He inhaled from his stomach, his chest inflating slowly, his eyes locked on Roy’s face.
“You really pissed these fuckers off, huh?”
“They don’t like me much.” He still sounded winded.
“Take another breath. Yeah, like that, good lad. Listen, let’s really give these wankers a reason to be mad. Want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Put on a bit of a show. Act like you’re hurt but you’re going to bravely go on. Let ‘em think they got you worse than they did and get open. Got that?”
Jamie nodded, clasping Roy’s hand and letting Roy pull him to his feet. Jamie squeezed his fingers before letting go, limping back to his position. Roy couldn’t be sure if that was part of the act or if he was really hurt, and fresh anger surged through his chest. Instead of pushing it down, Roy embraced it. He kept the image of Jamie hitting the ground at the front of his mind, let the heat of rage warm him from his fingertips to his toes, and his vision narrowed. He had a bullseye on his back now, but that was fine. The more attention he attracted to himself, the more opportunity Jamie would have to get open.
The plan worked perfectly, though Roy didn’t know that until much later. Everything happened so fast, and then pain was so fucking intense. More intense than anything Roy had ever experienced, white-hot and blinding. He got the ball away in time. He knew that much. Heard the crowd roar in one voice, heard the announcer scream the goal, knew the team was celebrating, but he was already on his back, clutching helplessly at his knee. His wrecked knee. His fucked knee. His fucked career. It was all fucking over. There’d be doctors and specialists and therapies and treatments and pills but none of that would turn back the clock—none of that would change the fact that it was all fucking over.
“Roy? Mate? Hey, Roy?”
Roy’s vision was blurry—maybe with sweat, maybe with tears, maybe just with the pain of it all but he knew Jamie’s voice.
“I’m okay.”
“Obviously fucking not. They’re bringing the stretcher.”
“No.”
“Roy—”
“Help me up.”
“Roy, you can’t fucking walk.”
“Help me up, Tartt.”
“Stubborn old twat, arentcha?”
Jamie clasped his fingers and gripped his elbow with his other hand, heaving with his full strength to get Roy off the turf. He stumbled and Jamie caught him, holding him steady. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than Jamie helping his injured, legendary teammate, but on the inside, Roy felt like he never wanted to move. He just wanted to be cradled there in Jamie’s arms until the pain finally stopped. He felt something wet against his neck and realized it was Jamie’s face, realized it was tears and not sweat.
“Hey,” Roy murmured. “None of that. I’ll be okay. Go on then.”
Jamie slowly released him, red eyes still brimming with moisture, face stamped with fear.
“Don’t fucking look at me like that. Go kill ‘em.” He slapped Jamie on the ass, pushing him back to the pitch, then lifted his chin and his hands, started clapping and the crowd clapped with him.
No stretcher for Roy Kent.
He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fucking where, Roy Kent! Roy Kent!
“Come on, let’s go!”
His knee threatened to give out with each step, but he pushed forward by sheer willpower. He wasn’t going to be carried off the fucking pitch. Not at the last. Not when it was all over and he would never have the chance to walk off again. He reached up and touched the side of his neck, still damp from Jamie’s tears, and fuck he didn’t want Jamie to see him stumble and fall. Just had to stay focused. Just had to keep moving. It took an eternity. It took thirty years. It took the full five minutes remaining in regular time.
When he finally collapsed on the bench beside his cubby, the televisions throughout the facility echoed the words and Tartt buries the ball in the back of the net, securing the Greyhounds victory and their spot in the Premiership next season, and the crowd sounded like a riot. Roy stretched his leg out in front of him, focusing on his breathing like he learned in yoga, trying to move himself above the pain.
Seconds later, the team exploded into the dressing room, screaming and shouting, and Jamie was in the middle of it all, the celebrated MVP. Roy leaned back and watched as they swarmed him, as he smiled and ducked and pretended to try to escape from the limbs and grappling hands before being pulled back into the pile. Hugs and back claps and jumping and shouting and smiles and laughter and more screaming and more hugs. Jamie managed to twist around, eyes seeking Roy and Roy wasn’t about to ruin this moment, wasn’t about to give him even a peek at the agony. He forced a smile, nodded—have your celebration. Have your moment.
“Medics are on their way to have a look,” Ted said, sitting beside him on the bench.
“No need. It’s fucked.”
“It may not be—”
“It’s fucked,” Roy repeated. “But it’s not going to kill me.”
“Looks like you and Jamie found a way to set your differences aside.”
Roy gave him a sidelong look, but as per usual, Ted looked sincere. “Yeah. Turns out he’s not such a prick.”
“Well, I don’t know how you did it, but I’m glad you did.” Ted slapped him on the back, his face absolutely beaming with pride. For a mad second, Roy thought about telling him exactly how they did it—how Jamie somehow goaded and prodded and taunted and flaunted until Roy fell in love with him. “You really had each other’s backs out there.”
“We brought champagne!” Rebecca announced from the doorway, holding up two bottles, Higgins right behind her with four more. The team roared their approval, and Ted hurried over to help pop the corks. Champagne bubbled over bottles and cups, drenched the boys who held their tongues out to catch a few stray drops. Somehow, Jamie managed to escape the tumult, ducking his way out of the crowd with a paper cup in each hand.
“Here you are, granddad.” Jamie’s smile was loopy, like he had already guzzled down his fair share of the sweet champagne.
“Thanks.”
Jamie held up his cup. “To Richmond.”
Roy tapped it. “To Richmond.”
Jamie swallowed the champagne in a single gulp and smiled at him again, and Roy’s need to kiss that smile was so intense he felt himself swaying forward, closing the distance between them. Jamie’s eyes widened, but he didn’t try to duck the contact—which would have certainly happened if Sam and Dani didn’t choose that moment to grab Jamie and pull him to his feet so he could jump around with them some more and have another toast. Roy looked up to see if anybody had noticed and of course, fucking Ted Lasso was staring right at him, a funny little smile beneath his mustache. Roy lifted his cup and winked. Fucking Lasso. Fucking wanker. This was all his fault.
Roy would have to figure out a way to thank him later.