Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time the thought crosses Roy’s mind, he is experiencing one of the shittiest fucking days of his life. A shitty day to end all shitty days, really. Right up there with the day he got the news that Granddad had passed, and the day that he played that shitty fucking match at Chelsea and thought for the very first time that he couldn’t keep up anymore, and the day that his sister had called him, sobbing from the other side of the line because her shitbag of a husband had fucked off for good and left her alone with a toddler he promised to raise and nobody else to help her take care of it. 

Roy is propped up on the examination table in the centre of the now-exorcised treatment room with every physio at Richmond crowded around him, trying his best not to cry out as they poke and prod at his knee whilst murmuring amongst themselves. They don’t need to put in all the effort. Roy already knows the diagnosis. His knee is fucked. End of story. His knee is fucked more than it’s ever been, which was already pushing it, anyway, and there’s nothing any of these doctors can do. He fucked it up so badly that he’ll never play again. 

And for what? For a tackle on Jamie fucking Tartt? For Richmond to end up relegated anyway? 

There’d been a second, just a fucking moment, where they’d had the chance to make it out by the skin of their teeth. And then the prince prick of all pricks had ruined that for them, too. 

Roy bites back a groan as Gail pokes… fucking something that makes the bones in his leg scream in protest. He runs a hand down his face to angrily brush off the moisture that the pain brings to the corners of his eyes. The back of his hand comes away far too wet. He snarls down at it. 

If he starts sobbing like a proper fucking knob, he’s going to go fucking mental. 

He’s old. He’s slow. His knee was a ticking time bomb. He went out playing the best he had all season, save Everton, and by blocking an easy goal from Jamie Tartt, prick extraordinaire, to boot. Out of all of the inevitable ways for the great Roy Kent to finally be forced to give football up for good, this scenario should be one of the best.

Well, it isn’t. Roy feels like complete and utter shit. And his knee fucking hurts. 

He glowers up at the ceiling, swearing personal vengeance on every single tile above him, and tries his best not to think about whatever Tartt is up to right now. Probably watching the replays of Roy going down and just fucking laughing, the little bitch.

Even more than he loathes that twat, though, he hates the fact that he’s thinking about him at a time like this — which is fucking saying something. So he picks up the Jamie Tartt in his mind’s eye by the scruff of his stupid prick neck and unceremoniously tosses him out of his head with a proverbial kick to the proverbial arse. Good riddance. If there’s one thing — maybe the only thing — Roy won’t miss about this sport, it’s having to interact with that arsehole. 

Instead, he forces himself to consider what comes next. Keeley thinks he should do a fucking retirement presser. He’ll be useless enough for a while, stuck on crutches and in PT for his knee until he can maybe walk without wanting to die again, that he might as well think about the offer. After that? Roy has no fucking clue. Wallow in his own misery, probably. Spend more time with Phoebe, certainly, now that he has fuck all else to do. The rest? The rest is just to slowly fade into obscurity, as is the fate to befall all footballers eventually, and he supposes he’ll be helpless but to sit back and—

“Fuck!” he roars, his knee jerking involuntarily as Gail strikes another raw nerve, the impact setting off a fresh wave of agony in the rest of his knee. Roy is helpless to do anything but clench his jaw so tightly that it hurts and try not to scream.

He looks out of the small window in the door to the treatment room, desperate for any sort of distraction. The ceiling tiles have already failed him. 

The world must really fucking have it out for him. Why else would he have the great misfortune to make eye contact through the glass with none other than Jamie fucking Tartt?

Roy blinks at him. Tartt blinks back.

Tartt looks like utter shit. His hair, his stupid slicked-down hair, is now mussed where it hadn’t been when Roy had limped off the field, like he’d shoved his hand through one patch on the side of his head and ignored the rest entirely. He looks fucking exhausted, too, and that usual prickish glint is missing from his eyes. He looks… defeated. 

It’s fucking weird, the way Tartt looks. He doesn’t sneer or mouth ‘Granddad’ or regard Roy with any of his usual smug contempt. He’s just… standing there. Staring. Alone in the hallway.

Roy is too mystified to do much but stare back. 

Where the fuck is the rest of his team? Shouldn’t he be back on their bus by now with the lot of them, celebrating their victory? 

Tartt doesn’t look like he’s been celebrating much of anything.

He looks like he could use a hug.

The thought comes to Roy completely unbidden and entirely unwelcome. 

In a fresh wave of fury and frustration, Roy grabs the idea, strangles it with all of his mental might, kicks it into the darkest corner of his brain, and curb-stomps it for good measure before slamming the door on it and leaving it there to rot, forcibly forgotten.

What fucking right does Tartt have, looking fucking sad after he’s just helped win Man City the match and gotten Richmond relegated? Why isn’t he jumping for joy with his little prick mates back on his old-new team like he ought to? If he wants to torture Roy with the fact that his footballing days are over, there’s no fucking need for that. Roy can torture himself enough, thanks. Not that Tartt ever cared about what he did and didn’t need to do. He always picked whatever option would piss Roy off the most, anyway. 

Well fuck Jamie Tartt and fuck whatever stupid fucking problems his little pea-sized brain has conjured. Maybe he finally realised that his new hairstyle looks like a particularly shiny rat had climbed onto his head and fucking died there. Poor animal was probably killed off by mere exposure to the twat. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Tartt has no reason to be moping about or whatever the fuck is wrong with him. And he certainly has no reason to need a fucking hug.

Roy would rather like to shout all of this at him for lack of anything better to do. All of this is that idiot’s fault. Roy wants to make sure he knows it. 

Unfortunately, one of the other physios decides it’s a perfect time for another round of poking, and Roy has to screw his eyes shut to hold back his agonised tears. By the time he opens them again, automatically returning his focus to the window, Jamie is gone. 

Good riddance.

Roy shakes his head, shoves his ridiculous, stupid, random fucking thoughts about the prick back firmly in that dark corner they were trying to crawl out of, and returns to contemplating his future.

Roy can feel his familiar anger slithering beneath his skin as Keeley drives them both back to his. He stares sullenly out the window, watching the scenery pass in furious silence, and wishes, hardly for the first time in his life, that he could make the fire in his veins go away. Keeley doesn’t deserve having to deal with it — with him. He doesn’t know why she bothers. Especially not now that he’ll be just Roy, ex-Chelsea legend and current football has-been. It doesn’t matter what she and Phoebe say. It stopped mattering the second he limped off that pitch, knowing he wouldn’t ever step foot on it again. 

Keeley keeps shooting him looks that alternate between concern and sympathy, but doesn’t try to break the silence.

He’s deeply glad for it. He already yelled at her once tonight, back when she’d first found him in the dressing room. He doesn’t want to do it a second time, and with the fury simmering in his gut, he knows he will the second he opens his mouth. It’s fucking pathetic.

The house is dark as they pull up, unchanged from how he’d left it just that morning. It’s more than he can say about himself. He wants to scream. He doesn’t, of course, but he wants to. 

Keeley helps him out of the car, handing him his crutches and offering silent support as he limps up the driveway. Rain slicks his skin, still muddy from the match, but Roy hardly feels the sensation. He doesn’t feel much of anything, actually — the pain meds the physios gave him have kicked in by now, and it’s the good stuff. But he does feel his anger, a familiar weight in his chest, a familiar chokehold around his neck that shows no signs of letting up. 

He closes his eyes, lets Keeley unlock the door, and trudges inside after her.

His house is one storey, a rare moment of brilliance from a slightly younger Roy, back when he had first injured his knee and bought the place knowing it was only a matter of time before something would inevitably give. He’d just hoped that everything would have taken a little while longer to fall apart. 

At least he doesn’t have to walk up stairs, not tonight. It’s a very small consolation.

Keeley leads him to the bedroom, one delicate hand poised lightly on the small of his back as he limps along, and smiles at him encouragingly as she sits him at the foot of the bed. With a level of patience and care that Roy does not deserve, she helps slide off his shorts and pants, still grimy from the match, and presses the lightest of kisses to his forehead.  

“C’mon,” she says quietly as she cups his face between two soft hands, breaking their silence for the first time since they left Nelson Road. “Maybe it’s not the best idea to shower, but how about we get you seated at the edge of the tub and wash some of this dirt off, yeah?”

Roy is helpless to do anything but grunt, and tugs his shirt over his head with none of the gentleness that Keeley had given his other clothes, tossing it carelessly to the floor. 

She smiles, kissing his forehead again, and helps him hobble to the bathroom.

The water feels nice against his shins as she fills the tub partially, using a soapy washcloth to scrub away most of the dirt and sweat caked to his skin. He closes his eyes, suddenly more exhausted than anything, although the anger still bubbles in his gut. It’s not directed at the world anymore, though, so at least he doesn’t need to worry about biting Keeley’s head off. Now it’s all for himself, for how pathetic he is, and he can deal with that. He’s used to that. Better to keep it in than have it burst out and hurt someone he cares for.

He does not know by what miracle he convinced Keeley to care about him back. He is aware that he does not deserve her. But sitting here, his eyes shut against the world and a warm washcloth gently scrubbing away some small part of the match’s spectre still hanging off of him — it will for quite a while, he thinks — Roy tries not to think about that.

He hasn’t eaten anything since lunch, and he knows he should probably get some nosh or he’ll regret it tomorrow, but as Keeley dries him off and helps him into a fresh pair of pants, he finds that he can’t be arsed to go and fetch anything. His stomach feels like it’s shrunk to the size of a walnut, anyway. He doesn’t think he would be able to force anything down.

He brushes his teeth instead, glaring at himself in the mirror, at his red-rimmed eyes and dishevelled state. He looks worse than Jamie Tartt had, but not by much.

He growls at his own reflection, furious that the little twat has entered his thoughts unbidden once more. 

Keeley raises her eyebrows at him, a host of silent questions in her eyes, but he only shakes his head and allows himself to be shepherded to bed. 

She tucks him in with a kiss and a promise that she’s not leaving, just getting ready to go to bed, then retreats back into the bathroom. The water in the shower starts running soon after, and Roy tries to let it calm him as he stares up at the ceiling. It does not work.

For all his exhaustion, he finds that he cannot sleep.

When Keeley returns, she’s wearing silk pyjamas and a worried look on her face. She must see something in his, though, because she still doesn’t voice any of the questions he knows will come eventually, just slides into bed facing him and cups one hand over his cheek.

“You did good, Roy,” she whispers, touching her forehead to his. “I’m proud of you. Everyone is. It’s going to be okay.”

He reaches out his arms, pulling her against him, and she goes willingly. Her head rests in the crook of his neck, one arm draped over his torso, her breaths tickling his skin. They’ll break apart in the night, he knows. Keeley doesn’t cuddle much in her sleep. But for now, she is giving this to him, and he is greedy and desperate enough to take it.

It looks like he needed a hug, too.

He allows himself to wonder, laying in the darkness, where nothing seems quite tangible and the world is so very far away, if Jamie ever got one.

Ted was right, Roy thinks. The only thing worse than being sad is being sad and alone. 

Holding Keeley close against his chest, Roy is glad that he is not alone. He could not have done this alone. He is not sure if he can do it even now.

But Keeley is here, huddled against him in the way he would always have her if only he could. Maybe it will be enough.

(It is never enough.)

He lays there in silence, listening as Keeley’s breaths even out, and pulls her ever closer.

The bus ride back to Manchester feels like the longest four-odd hours of Jamie’s life.

The rest of the lads celebrate around him, breaking out beers and cheering for their win in a mess of sky blue and blinding smiles. Jamie just stares down at the little toy soldier in his hands and tunes it out.

He runs a thumb over its plastic face, worrying the base between two other fingers, except he does it all gentle-like ‘cause he doesn’t know if he can break the thing from holding it too tight and he doesn’t want to risk it. He can’t stop staring down at his hands.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Ted watching him through the window.

‘Way to make the extra pass.’

Every time he closes his eyes, Ted turns away.

The thing is, Jamie never expected anything else. His dad always does this: finds Jamie somewhere after a match, loving him if he scored, if he dominated, shouting and threatening him if he didn’t. Nobody has ever stopped it before. Why would they? It’s not— it’s just what his dad does. It’s normal. Jamie just takes it in silence and moves on, ‘cause he learned a long time ago that doing anything else only made things much, much worse. So why had it been so disappointing, when Ted had caught his eye and still left? 

Fucking Lasso. Fucking mind games.

‘Way to make the extra pass.’

Bullshit.

Nothing about that match had been something to be proud of. It doesn’t matter how many minutes he got, or that he assisted a goal, or that Man City might end up winning the whole fucking League. He can still hear the sickening crack of Roy Kent’s knee as they had both hit the ground.

Sure, the man’s fucking ancient, like, a proper centaurnarian or whatever. He wasn’t gonna last in the Prem much longer anyway, the slow old fuck. But there was a time, not so long ago, when Jamie had still idolised the bastard, when his biggest dream was for the Roy Kent to notice him.

Well Roy had noticed him, alright. And promptly decided to hate Jamie’s guts. For what? Just because Jamie is younger, faster, better at football than he is? It’s not Jamie’s fucking fault that the old man needed a reality check! 

It is his fucking fault that the reality check — the very final one — came in the form of Jamie fucking up his knee for good, though.

He hadn’t… he hadn’t meant to, is the thing. For all that he hates Roy now, for all that Roy deserves it for being such a hateful dick, there will always be some part of Jamie that remains that knobbly-kneed kid laying in bed in a council estate and staring over at Roy Kent’s poster, dreaming of one day being as good as him. 

He’s better, really. Now, at least. By the time Jamie got loaned to Richmond, Roy was old. Roy was slow. Jamie was, and still is, neither of those things. 

But up until today, at least Roy still had a somewhat-intact knee.

That’s the part that’s Jamie’s fault. That’s the part that he can’t reconcile with the younger version of himself, the one that’s still a little bit in awe of Roy Kent even if he knows better. That’s the part that’s going to eat away at him long after his dad’s shouted words about fucking passing and shit fade from memory. 

It doesn’t matter that the tackle was fair. It doesn’t matter that both of them were just doing their job. It’s still Jamie’s fault that it happened. 

‘Way to make the extra pass.’

He screws his eyes shut tight. He doesn’t want to be thinking about fucking Roy Kent, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be thinking about Ted fucking Lasso. Not now, not ever. Fuck both of them.

He wants to throw the toy soldier to the ground. He wants to stomp on it until it breaks into a dozen little pieces. Fuck Lasso.

Fuck—

Fuck this. All of it.

Jamie isn’t even sure what ‘it’ is.

He shakes himself. Sees O’Gara across the aisle, laughing with a beer in one hand and his other arm draped over Hitzemann’s shoulders. Stares down at the little green soldier.

Fuck this, he decides.

He slips the toy and the letter into his trackies, lightly punches O’Gara’s bicep to get his attention, and forces himself to forget, just for a little while, about the sound of Roy’s knee cracking and the sight of Ted Lasso turning away from him.

He tries to forget, anyway.

The toy soldier weighs heavily in his pocket.

It’s a little past one in the morning when the bus drops the team back at the club. The lads want to go out and party. Jamie, somewhat buzzed by a magnitude of exactly two beers, just wants to go to sleep.

He begs exhaustion as they all disperse into the car park, most hailing Ubers to keep the celebration going. O’Gara frowns at him, maybe disappointed or maybe concerned, Jamie doesn’t really care, but then his ride arrives and he’s being driven off before he can try to convince Jamie to come along.

It’s fine. They’ll have fun without him. 

Maybe he’ll join next time, when they play a team that’s not Richmond and he won’t feel guilty if he doesn’t pass and his dad won’t yell as much. Maybe.

It doesn’t really matter now.

Jamie’s a long way off from being properly pissed, so he reckons he can drive alright. Better not to have to pick up his car in the morning. 

He doesn’t want to go home. It’ll be too quiet. He’ll be able to hear that cracking, looping like a broken record in his mind, far too clearly to sleep like he wants to. He could sleep for an entire week, he thinks, but not if all he can think about is the sound of Roy’s career ending.

He ends up driving aimlessly for a while, turning onto random streets with little regard for where they go, too lost in his own head to notice or care. It’s nice to just lose himself in the motion of it all, guided more on instinct and muscle memory than anything. It’s calming, like how he feels when he plays football, when the world narrows down to just him, the pitch, the ball, and twenty-one other men. Except with driving, it’s just him and the road and any other cars around, which aren’t too many at this hour. Jamie figures it’s similar enough.

He doesn’t remember heading to his mum’s place, but it’s like he blinks and finds himself there, staring up at the house he’d come up in, its windows dark. Mummy and Simon are asleep, of course. Why wouldn’t they be? It’s late, and Jamie should be in bed himself, except he can’t bring himself to drive home to his empty, posh flat and all its lifeless, silent space that will swallow him whole if it gets the chance.

He should go home. He should really, really go home.

Ted looks away. Again and again.

The great Roy Kent limps off the pitch for the very last time.

Jamie gets out of the car.

He stands at the doorstep for what might be an eternity, finger hovering over the buzzer.

He doesn’t want to bother them, swear down. It’s just… His heart feels like it’s shrivelling in his chest, and he doesn’t want to be alone. He also really, really wants to hug his mum.

He closes his eyes. Slips his hand into his pocket and runs a finger over the toy soldier hiding there. Takes a deep breath. Rings the doorbell.

Waits.

And waits.

A light switches on upstairs, where he knows the master bedroom is. Jamie tries not to cringe. He clutches the toy soldier in his hand.

His mother descends the stairs in a dressing gown, rubbing blearily at her eyes. She meets his gaze through the window, and Jamie is briefly transported right back to Richmond, to seeing Roy Kent propped up on a treatment table and just staring, because Roy Kent isn’t supposed to look all defeated like that, it’s just wrong. And then he’d been in pain, which is worse, because it’s pain that Jamie had caused. Jamie had left pretty quickly after that.

His mother blinks at him, just like he had blinked at Roy, except she then breaks into a beaming grin, her whole face lighting up, and she quickly undoes the locks on the door, throwing it open.

“Jamie!” she exclaims, the sound of his name echoing through the quiet of the night. He doesn’t get the chance to reply before she throws her arms around him, pulling him close.

Like magic, he feels the tension immediately seep from his body. He brings his arms up even as he sags bonelessly against her, holding on for dear life and trying so, so hard to make the warmth of the hug seep past skin that feels too tight and into his bones. 

“Sorry for waking you, Mummy,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “I just…”

“Oh, Jamie, you can wake me up whenever you want,” she replies, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “It’s good to see you. We saw your match on the telly, you know. You did amazing, my sexy little baby. I’m so proud.”

Jamie hugs her a little tighter. “I didn’t… I didn’t,” he replies, hating that his voice is choked up. “It’s my fault.“

His mum hushes him gently, shuffling both of them inside and closing the door. He looks up to see Simon hovering at the top of the stairs, his eyebrows pulled together in silent worry, but his mum follows Jamie’s gaze and just smiles reassuringly. 

“It’s alright, babes,” she says, making a little shooing motion. “I’ve got him. Go back to bed.”

Simon nods. “It’s good to see you as always, Jamie,” he tells him with a smile before retreating back into the hall.

His mum drags him over to the couch, and Jamie readily snuggles up against her, his head resting on her shoulder and her fingers slowly carding through his hair in the exact same position they’ve favoured since he was a little lad, the position that never fails to comfort him. Tonight is no different. 

He looses a small sigh, already feeling a great deal better, and shuts his eyes.

“What happened, Jamie?” his mother asks gently, tracing his scalp with a featherlight touch. 

Jamie slips a hand into his pocket. Wraps it around the toy soldier. Lets it protect him, just a little. 

‘Way to make the extra pass.’

He wishes he could be proud.

But if there’s one thing in his life that has ever helped him feel better, it’s a proper cuddle with his mum and an assurance that everything will be okay. 

So he closes his eyes a little tighter, just to block out the rest of the world, snuggles closer, and begins to speak.

Man City don’t win the League.

They’re close enough, but Liverpool get it in the end. Nothing they could have done. Nothing Jamie could have done.

His dad seems to think otherwise.

If he’s not yelling about how stupid Pep and everyone else at the club is for keeping Jamie on the bench, — less often, now, since the win at Richmond. His minutes keep racking up — he’s shouting at Jamie for not scoring enough; for losing matches Jamie knows he had no control over, not that it matters; for every other little flaw or mistake in his play. Over and over and over again. 

It’s easier when the matches are away, ‘cause then Jamie only has to worry about angry calls and ranting texts. It’s when he’s home that he has to make sure he has enough ice packs in his freezer for the bruises, that he sweeps off all the broken pieces of thrown bottles from the floor before he accidentally steps on them, that he’s not changing in the sight of any of the lads, ‘cause they don’t need to see the mottled black, blue, and green splashed across his ribs, do they? It ain’t anyone’s business but his own. 

He hadn’t realised just how freeing it had been, being with Richmond, until Lasso had sent him away. He’d been so caught up in the anger of being transferred to such a mediocre team when he deserved so much better that he hadn’t noticed how nice it was that his dad couldn’t just show up whenever he wanted until it was too fucking late. Not that knowing it would have helped, though, would it? Not if Lasso would have learned why he needed to stay and still sent him back, like he’d turned away that night at Richmond. 

Jamie feels trapped. He hates feeling trapped. He likes exits, being able to run wherever he wants, whenever he wants, ‘cause as long as he’s somewhere open, like a football pitch, his dad can’t corner him, can he? 

He sure feels cornered now.

So cornered, in fact, that he doesn’t go visit his mum often enough. Even though he wants to. Even though she’s right here in Manchester, he might as well be back in London for how far away she feels. Especially with his dad breathing down his neck.

He’d visited her a few times back when Richmond’s relegation was still fresh, when his Ted Soldier — named after Ted Danson, swear down — still sat in his pocket, not yet hidden away in the drawer of his bedside table, stowed with the worry that his dad would find and destroy it, ‘cause what grown fucking man needs a toy, Jamie? Not him. Even if he’d felt a little safer holding it in his hand. It was stupid, anyway.

It doesn’t matter. He visited his mum, he’d hugged her a lot but not enough — never enough — and then they lost the Prem and his dad only got worse, so he’d stopped going around to see her as much. 

His dad’s a dick, Jamie knows, but he’s right about some things. Jamie’s soft for wanting to be held, for craving that comforting touch and a simple reassurance that he’s okay, that it’s all okay. He shouldn’t be soft. He can’t be soft, not if he wants to make it in life. He’d tried, just a little, back with Richmond and ghosts and the taste of mezcal on his tongue as the smoke of burning memories filled the air. And then he’d gotten the call the very next day, and the bubble popped, and he was going back to Manchester with nothing to show for it except the overwhelming, desperate realisation that Richmond had just been starting to feel like home.

So Jamie doesn’t try to be soft much anymore, except Lasso fucked it up at the Richmond match and kept fucking it up until his dad found out that he kept going off to see his mum. It’s hard to be soft when your whole chest aches with bruises that nobody cares about ‘cause the offseason’s started, so you don’t have to be able to move much of anywhere. 

He’s lying on his couch now, wincing as he slides a fresh ice pack under whatever shirt was cleanest in the pile, he hasn’t been paying much attention to it these days, and he really, really wants to be held, just for a little while.

He’s always been like this. Soft. Needy. It’s like he’s addicted to contact: he constantly craves a good cuddle, or a fleeting hug — he’ll even take a supportive pat on the back if it’s all he can get, so long as it doesn’t hurt. He takes every gentle touch like it’s his last, ‘cause who knows, it might be, and he always wants it so much that sometimes it’s painful. No matter how many hugs he gets from his mum, it’s never enough. He wants more. If he could spend the rest of his life held in someone’s arms, he would in a heartbeat. Well, he’d need to be let go to play football, he supposes, but the rest of the time would be good enough. 

He knows it’s not normal. He knows there’s something wrong with him. So he tries not to want it. He tries to ignore the buzzing in his bones, the pang he feels every time a teammate bumps his shoulder in the dressing room or shakes him happily when they win a match. It’s too much and it’s never enough. He should be stronger than that.

He isn’t, really, but he tries.

Which is why he can’t go to his mum’s, even though he aches to with every fibre of his being. He can’t let himself, ‘cause then he’s letting himself be soft, and that only leads to more pain down the line.

He sighs, flinging an arm over his eyes. He doesn’t have anywhere to be today. He doesn’t think he could stand even if he did. The rest of the lads are off on holiday before training starts up again, ‘cause who in their right mind would spend any more time in fucking Manchester than they have to? Jamie has long since given up on thinking that he might be right in his own head, so here he stays. It feels pointless, trying to do anything else. He’ll have to come back for the next season, anyway. 

He’s stuck.

Jamie closes his eyes. Maybe he can sleep the six weeks away. That might be nice.

He doesn’t sleep for six weeks.

He gets an email from his agent, instead. A joke offer for some stupid show. Something nobody in their right mind would take, not at this point in his career.

A way out.

Jamie accepts before he reads even halfway through the contract.

The thing is, Jamie missed sex.

After Keeley, he’d worked his way through every old hookup in London who’d take him, plus some new ones — a whole handful of birds he really shouldn’t have, for the most part, not that he’s ever been the best at making decisions. He’d just… Keeley hadn’t been his first girlfriend, not by a fucking long shot, ‘cause he’s Jamie Tartt and girls fucking love him, why wouldn’t they, but she’d been the first one who actually… He doesn’t really know. Cared, maybe? Sounds proper shitty, when he thinks about it. He’s Jamie fucking Tartt, a Premier League footballer, and he’s 24 and fit and rich and he’s only ever had one girlfriend who he might have mattered to. And then he’d gone and fucked it, hadn’t he, getting dumped at a charity gala ‘cause he’d made another stupid decision in a series of stupid decisions and she’d finally had enough. 

He’d tried to forget about her, except no amount of great sex — always great sex, it’s the only thing he’s fucking good for aside from football, even Keeley had said so, or close enough, anyway — could help him forget Keeley Jones. And then Lasso had sent him back to Man City, and suddenly Jamie just… stopped. He hasn’t seen anyone in months. He was just too busy. 

No, that’s a fucking lie. He’d tried, a few times, ‘cause it’s not like his dick don’t work, obviously not. But while he’d sent the girls home happy as always, he’d felt none of his usual enjoyment. He didn’t really feel much of anything, he thinks, for the entire time that he was back in Manchester. 

Well he’s not in Manchester anymore, is he?

No, he’s on a fucking island in paradise, getting his brains sucked out through his cock on the regular by Amy, who’s fucking ace with her tongue, and suddenly it’s like this dam has broken in Jamie’s chest. The slow undercurrent of want, want, want beneath his skin becomes a rushing torrent, and he craves and craves more and more with each passing day.

He’s fucked in the head for certain, ‘cause no amount of grinding in the hot tub or wicked sex in beachside villas fills that gaping need in Jamie’s chest. He’s having the most sex he’s had in months, is encouraged to fuck pretty much all day, every day, and he fucking does, ‘cause he’s Jamie fucking Tartt and he’s irresistible, but it’s like none of it fucking matters.

With Keeley, it had been different, somehow. Now that he thinks about it, maybe Keeley had been right when she’d said the only thing the two of them had been good at was sex like that was a bad thing. ‘Cause he’s having some mint fucking sex, and he’s back being proper into it like he used to be, which is a nice change from how he’d felt in Manchester, but that ache in his bones doesn’t fade. There hadn’t been an ache when he was with Keeley.

He can’t ask for a proper cuddle, though, can he, because that’s not what this show is about. Even if he wants it so much it feels like his skin is on fire. No, he just has to play the game. He’s going to stay on this island, where nothing is really real, anyway, aching and wanting, because it’s still so much fucking better than the alternative, than going back to Man City, his dad, and the overwhelming emptiness in his chest that he can ignore with enough sunlight and space from it all.

He just has to play the game.

They send him home.

After all that, after everything, they send him home.

It’s like fucking Lasso all over again. Except this time, Jamie can’t bring himself to go back to Manchester. Not even with his mum there, always happy to give the hugs he so desperately needs. He can’t go back to that empty flat and his empty life, not again.

There’s one place where he didn’t feel empty. One fucking place. If there’s anything he needs right now, because he’s certainly not going to get a fucking hug any time soon, it’s at least to not feel so hollow all the time.

He stares down at his Ted Soldier. Takes a deep breath. Pushes open the door to the Crown & Anchor, and walks in.

In a memory, Lasso meets his gaze and looks away.

In the present, he glances up from his dinner and smiles.

From the moment Roy first steps back onto the pitch, he knows with absolute certainty that Lasso was right. This is the shit he’s made for. This is where he’s meant to be.

It’s fucking annoying, how rarely Ted is wrong. There’ll be no living this down.

Even more embarrassing is that Roy thinks he might be alright with that. It’s good to be back. He may have even missed Richmond and the Yankee Doodle bullshit. Just a little. 

Ted and Beard can never find out. 

The lads are happy to have him back, too. They keep blathering on about the fucking ‘Roy Kent Effect,’ which is really just an inevitable outcome of having a coach who’s actually played football before — no offence to Ted and Beard, but they’re pretty shit with the actual mechanics of the sport. Nate gets the tactics better than Roy fucking does, sure, but there’s a level of understanding of football that only comes with actually playing it, and that’s the knowledge the team needs right now. Roy’s content to bring it to the table. 

Plus, it feels fucking good, seeing the team take his advice and apply it in their play. It feels even fucking better when his coaching actually makes a difference, an active improvement right before his eyes.

The Roy Kent Effect, huh? He won’t pretend it doesn’t stroke his ego, just a little bit.

He loves Phoebe, and it had been decent coaching her team, but it’s fucking great to be back with professionals. Even if it’s the Championship. Even if he forgets, sometimes, that he shouldn’t be out there training with them instead of shouting instructions from the touchline. Nobody needs to know that part. 

There’s just one thing holding him up.

One prick, to be more specific.

He’d been entirely serious when he’d told Ted to take four percent off his paycheque. He absolutely fucking refuses to coach Jamie Tartt. 

The fact that the little idiot is even here is bad enough. When he’d first heard that Tartt had left fucking Manchester City to do some shit reality telly, he’d been right livid. Not on behalf of Tartt, of course, or, God fucking forbid, Man City, but because he couldn’t fucking believe that the twat would ever just throw his career away like that. And for knock-off Love Island, for fuck’s sake. Most players would kill for even the slightest chance at signing over at Tartt’s old club. Tartt himself hadn’t stopped bitching about how much better it was than Richmond the whole time he was out on loan, and then just when he’d finally gotten recalled like he wanted, he’d fucked off to fucking Mallorca at the start of the next season. 

Roy wants to fucking throttle him.

There are very few things Roy wouldn’t give to play just one more season. To have just one more year. Jamie Tartt is fucking 24, in peak physical condition, in the prime of his fucking life, and he just threw it all away. 

Maybe it’s a good thing Ted had taken pity and brought Tartt back to Richmond, then. Because if there’s anything worse than the knowledge that Tartt had just quit in spite of everything he had going for him, it would be the knowledge that all of his stupid fucking talent would go to waste forever. 

There’s no getting younger. Roy is painfully aware of that. So, yeah, it’s probably good that Tartt is back playing football, even if he’s wasted in the Championship. Even if it means Roy has to see him daily. Because if the prick had ruined his football career for good just to lose a show called fucking Lust Conquers All, Roy would have actually fucking murdered him. 

As it is, Tartt may still be alive — for now — but there is no fucking way Roy will coach him. Not after the stunt he pulled with Man City. He doesn’t deserve the fucking air Roy would waste talking to him, much less the brain cells Roy would surely lose in the process.

He can feel Ted’s quiet disapproval whenever he ignores Tartt at training, but Ted already got what he wanted when he lured Roy back to Richmond. He can deal. 

Besides, Roy isn’t paying Ted much mind, anyway.

There’s something wrong with Tartt.

It’s not the fact that he’s being less prickish than usual — that’s all Ted’s doing, and it’s fucking with Tartt’s game, but, again, Roy is committed to not coaching him, so he doesn’t say anything about it. The rest of the team have warmed up to Tartt quickly, probably in no small part because of this new affinity for teamwork, and Ted’s kumbaya bonding bullshit isn’t anything Roy wants to stick his nose into, anyway. Tartt can be as prickish or non-prickish as he wants. Roy refuses to give a shit about him either way.

No, his attitude is not the problem. It’s his behaviour that’s fucking weird. 

More specifically, Roy has begun to notice a pattern in the way Tartt reacts whenever someone touches him. 

Dani will pat his back with a grin when they shoot penalties together after training, or Sam will sling an arm over his shoulders as they joke around with each other in the dressing room, or fucking… Colin or some shit will jostle him lightly if they do well in drills, and Tartt will practically fucking jerk back like he’s been fucking burned but then immediately lean into the point of contact. It’s fucking weird.

Roy had briefly considered the notion that this strange habit is just proof that Tartt’s still just as much of a prick as he always has been, that he’s flinching away because it’s what he used to do, too, with a sneer of disgust, like he’s too fucking good to celebrate a goal with his teammates. If that were the case, Roy figures that the whole leaning in thing, which is new as far as he’s aware, would then be a deliberate attempt at covering it up, at proving Tartt’s new-and-improved persona. 

The thing is, Roy doesn’t think that’s what it is. He doesn’t even think Tartt is aware of what he’s doing. He does it every time someone touches him, the exact same reaction without fail. 

He doesn’t have any intention to ever address it, as it doesn’t seem to be negatively affecting anything, and like fuck is he going to let Tartt know that he’s been watching him closely enough to notice something that it seems nobody else has. But he files the information away. Just in case it means something. 

Whatever. He has more important things to worry about, like planning for the upcoming Tottenham match. He’ll head to his office, he thinks, and go over some tactics once more before he heads home. 

“Big man Roy Kent!” Tartt greets, blocking his way down the hall.

Fucking hell. This better not be about how Roy’s not coaching him.

It’s about how Roy’s not coaching him.

Fucking hell. 

The signal works wonderfully, of course. When Tartt decides to be a prick, he really fucking goes for it. Just like Roy knew he would.

And fine. The goal is stunning. Fine, it’s still satisfying to see his coaching directly help Richmond’s game, even if the man being coached is Jamie fucking Tartt. He will maybe, perhaps, just possibly consider doing it again. The coaching part. Fuck.

The goal really was fucking incredible.

When Tartt turns, grinning widely, and flips him off with both hands from across the pitch, Roy just rolls his eyes. He supposes he’ll let it slide. Just this once. He did say to be a prick, after all. 

The team crowds around Tartt a split second later, hugging him and shouting their excitement. 

Roy knows what to look for, and he sees it. A flinch away, then a lean closer, and then Tartt is swept up and out of Roy’s sight. 

But it was there. Roy knows it was.

Fucking weird.

Whatever is going on with Tartt, Roy soon forgets it entirely.

He hadn’t fucking known. Keeley hadn’t told him. 

He knows he can be needy. He knows he can be… intense. He’d just thought… She hadn’t fucking told him, and now he feels like a right fucking idiot, because he hadn’t even known he was smothering her.

Fuck. Fuck. 

He feels fucking terrible about it, obviously. Makes Keeley an apology bath with rose petals that he snatched from her neighbour’s garden and everything. 

He gives her space.

He feels even fucking worse when it works, when the new time alone makes her obviously happier. How had he not noticed? What kind of shitty fucking boyfriend is he, that he’d been so completely oblivious to the point of driving Keeley to snapping at him, all because he couldn’t fucking leave her the fuck alone for fucking once? 

Well, Roy isn’t going to make the same mistake twice. He pulls back. He gives her the space she needs. 

He stops touching so frequently. Not just the little kisses and the shit that turned her on, the shit that she’d expressly asked him to limit. Keeley doesn’t like cuddling nearly as much as he does — although if anyone found out that Roy Kent enjoys a bit of spooning, he would deny it to his dying breath — so he cuts back on that, too. Stops brushing against her as often, just these little fleeting points of contact that he makes without realising it sometimes but has to make a conscious effort to withhold. 

He wants to respect her space. If it means that maybe he doesn’t spend as much time with Keeley as he would like, that’s alright. She’s happier now, and that makes him happy. He’s just glad he hadn’t accidentally pushed her away entirely. He’s done it before.

Roy has been fairly overbearing his whole life. He’s always liked spending time with the people he cares for, but the clinginess really started when Granddad died and his desire to cherish the people close to him grew into something more like a need. Being in academy at Sunderland meant that he didn’t see his family often, so he spent every visit home hounding his poor sister everywhere she went. Maybe he would have been like that if he’d been home all the time, too. Sometimes he wonders if the only reason Ruth didn’t get completely sick of him when they were kids is because he was never around long enough for his constant presence to become a real problem.

He and Ruth have long since figured out a good balance, and Phoebe loves spending time with him any chance she gets, which means that time with his immediate family, at least, is easy. His sister and his niece are the two people he feels he truly knows well enough that he’s not worried about pushing them away. 

For Roy, touch is just another way to show he cares. He’s fucking shit at words, but he makes up for it in physical contact when he wants to. Which, with the people he’s truly comfortable around, is quite often. He’s a great hugger. Sue him. It’s a whole lot easier to communicate his affection with his body than it is to put actual words to his fucking… feeling. 

He and Keeley had lost themselves in translation for a bit, but they worked it out. 

And maybe it makes his skin itch, just a little, to hold himself back from reaching out as often as he wants to, but Roy can deal with that. It’s more important to him that Keeley’s comfortable. He’ll sort himself out in the end.

Because of Tartt’s astounding goal against Tottenham plus an ingenious play from Nate — and a stroke of incredible fucking luck — Richmond make it to the FA Cup semifinals. 

Roy, admittedly, is pretty fucking proud. 

It’s a little easier to stop feeling guilty about what happened with him and Keeley when there’s Man City to worry about, so he throws everything he has into helping plan for the match. If he’s not out drilling the lads, he’s in his office going over tactics with Nate and Beard or reviewing old game footage. The chances that they’ll win this thing are slim, he knows, but Ted’s bullshit must finally be getting to him. He’s got the tiniest fucking sliver of hope. Disgusting.

Even Tartt makes himself useful for fucking once, providing insight into Man City’s strengths (many) and weaknesses (very, very few). Still, any information they can get could be of use, so it’s worth it to hear him out. 

And, surprising nobody more than Roy, Tartt actually has some intelligent things to say. Like, actually fucking good shit. Fucking mental. 

What’s worse is that Tartt’s advice impresses Roy so much — he tells himself it’s not difficult, given that the baseline is fucking underground — that he stays in his office until everyone but him and Tartt have filtered out to say so.

He regards Tartt, and Tartt regards him. It reminds him somewhat of a year ago, through that treatment room window, if only in the way they silently stare at each other. Tartt’s been looking a little worse lately, more tired and unkempt as the days to the Man City match count down. Roy supposes he can’t blame him. He’d be fucking stressed, too, if he’d dropped a team, fucked off to the Championship, and then made a dramatic return against that old team in the FA Cup, of all fucking things. Granted, he’d never fucking do any of that in the first place. But in the hypothetical situation of being in Tartt’s boots, he gets it. 

Fuck, what is Lasso doing to him? 

“D’you need something from me, Coach?” Tartt hesitantly asks, which, fair. The last time they were alone together, Roy had called him an ugly, ugly boy with bad hair. Which is still true — the hair part, at least. Roy can’t deny that Tartt is fit. Roy’s got fucking eyes. Tartt will never fucking know, obviously. He’d be even more insufferable than he is now.

“I just wanted to… fucking…” Roy screws his eyes shut. 

Fucking hell, Kent, just say that he’s doing a good job and go the fuck home.

“You’re… You should know…” He cuts himself off with a growl, shaking his head furiously. 

Fucking words, always fucking him up. 

Okay. Okay, so that didn’t work. Onto Plan B, then.

This will give him the chance to test out his theory again, at least.

Roy clears his throat, because it’s all clogged up now with words he can’t fucking say, and reaches out to lightly pat Tartt on the back. 

Just like always, Tartt first flinches and then leans in to where Roy’s hand is still resting over his spine. His eyes are wide, his mouth open in the tiniest moue of surprise. He also looks fucking confused. 

Roy winces internally. Fucking… Fuck.

He has to physically force the words out of his throat. “You did… good. Helping. With this.”

Tartt’s jaw fully opens, now, and he gapes at Roy like he’s trying to catch flies in his mouth. 

Roy realises that his hand is still resting on Tartt’s back, and he drops it, shoving it awkwardly into his pocket. “See you tomorrow,” he declares abruptly, swivelling on his heel. 

“Coach, er, wait,” Tartt calls. When Roy looks back, Tartt’s entire face blushes a bright red. But he smiles crookedly, inclining his head. “Thanks. It means a lot, you thinking so.”

Roy nods brusquely. “Goodnight,” he replies, turning back and making a beeline for the exit, thoroughly embarrassed at his own inability to give Jamie Tartt a fucking compliment. 

More than that, though, Roy is back focusing on whatever the fuck is wrong with Tartt and touching other people. It’s not the top of his priority list to solve, but he intends to eventually.

First, though, they have to fucking beat Man City.

The door slams behind Beard, and the dressing room falls silent once again.

Tartt stands frozen, his fist still slightly raised, and stares out at nothing as everybody turns to look at him. Roy thinks he might be shaking. 

His eyes are wide but unseeing, locked in an expression that Roy has never seen on him before. He’s seen Jamie angry, tired, maybe even sad, but never fucking afraid. And right now, he looks deeply, deeply afraid.

Jamie’s fist slowly unclenches at his side, but only about halfway. His eyes dart from side to side, now, but the rest of his body remains frozen. Roy isn’t sure he’s even breathing.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

For the second time in his life, Roy experiences The Thought. 

Jamie Tartt really, really looks like he could use a fucking hug.

Nobody is fucking moving. 

Everyone is just fucking standing there, Roy included. 

His feet are moving before his mind even catches up, like it’s fucking instinct to open his arms and pull Jamie into an embrace. Maybe it is. Maybe Roy’s instincts are that fucked.

Whatever the case, Jamie’s eyes flicker to him as he nears, but Roy doesn’t think his presence more than half-registers. As he raises his arms, though, not yet touching, Jamie flinches back.

Roy falters, but only for a split second. He’s not good at comforting people, but he’s been told he gives good hugs, and maybe that will do something to help. Nobody else is moving. He’ll have to fucking do. 

With the assurance of someone who’s far more confident in his actions than Roy is right now, he wraps both arms around Jamie and pulls him close.

The other man stumbles at the sudden impact, falling against him. He doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t lean in any further, which might worry Roy more than if Jamie’d had his normal reaction. It’s like he’s fucking petrified, and with the amount of weight leaned against Roy, Jamie might as well be. 

Roy doesn’t know what to do. He hadn’t thought this far. So he just silently rocks the both of them side to side, because nothing he’s going to say will make any of this better, and desperately hopes for some sign of life.

When Jamie slowly brings up one arm, then another, Roy nearly sags in relief. He doesn’t, because he’s holding both of them upright, but he easily could have done. 

Finally, after a whole fucking eternity, Jamie breathes in. It’s more of a gasp than anything, or maybe a sob, but it’s something.

Oh. Jamie’s crying into his shoulder. 

Roy doesn’t fucking know what to do about that. So he just keeps holding, keeps rocking them back and forth, and makes a vow not to let go until Jamie decides he wants to pull away.

The door slams, Jamie thinks. Maybe. He’s not really sure.

He’s still staring at the spot where his dad fell. Where Jamie had knocked him to the ground. 

He’s never, ever hit back. 

He doesn’t even know why he did it. His dad grabbed his shoulder and he just fucking swung. And then his dad was on the ground, and Jamie had that one for free, and he knew from the look in his dad’s eyes that he was fucking dead. 

Except Beard was there, and then Beard wasn’t there, and neither was his dad.

He thinks that everyone in the dressing room is probably staring at him, but he can’t really see any of them. He looks over at the door, sort of, except everything is blurry and he can’t focus. 

Any second now, his dad is going to burst back through it, he knows it. 

His eyes flick back down to that spot on the ground. He thinks he might be sick. 

Someone steps towards him. Jamie flinches instinctively, his eyes flicking to the door. Still closed.

A beat, then another footstep. Not from the direction of the door. Not his dad, unless he found another way in.

Jamie glances over. He can’t quite make out who’s walking closer until Roy has already wrapped him in a tight hug, two fists digging into his back like he’s not sure what to do with his hands.

Jamie freezes, every fucking muscle in his body locking up tight. 

Roy Kent is hugging him. Roy Kent is hugging him so tightly that he almost can’t breathe.

Slowly, because he’s afraid if he does it too fast Roy will disappear, Jamie raises one arm and pulls himself a little closer.

Roy stays right where he is.

Jamie raises his other hand, too, and clutches Roy with every bit of strength he has because if he doesn’t he thinks he might either float away or fall to the ground. 

He can’t help the sob that bursts up and out of his throat, but it’s like everything happens all at once after that, and he’s crying into Roy Kent’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to be. He shouldn’t be. But he can’t fucking stop.

He feels Roy’s fisted hands unfurl against his back, and then one starts rubbing small circles against his kit, and Jamie only fucking cries harder. It feels so fucking good. Fuck, it’s been months since he was last held like this.

Fuck, he’s in so much fucking trouble when his dad finds him next. 

He’s pretty sure everyone is still watching him, but Roy is still holding on to him, warm and solid and fucking steady when Jamie is anything but, so he has trouble focusing on much else. 

He cries for far too fucking long, losing track of how much time the two of them have been standing there, although he’s more slumped against Roy’s chest than anything, so Roy’s the one keeping them both on their feet. He knows he should probably pull away, but he literally can’t. Like, he tries and his body just doesn’t follow through. 

Roy’s massaging the back of Jamie’s neck with one hand now, and it feels so fucking nice that he starts to cry all over again, this time for no reason he can guess other than Roy Kent is still hugging him and Jamie never wants him to let go.

He sobs until he doesn’t have any tears left in him, and a little bit after that, too, just pressed helplessly against Roy’s shoulder. Fuck. Fuck, he should let go.

Let go, you fucking pussy. It sounds like his dad.

Jamie lets go.

Fuck, has it always been this cold in here?

He shivers, blinking and rubbing at his eyes, and looks around. Everyone’s gone except him and Roy. How long had he been fucking standing there, crying like a twat? Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

He sneaks a glance over at Roy, and feels nauseous when he sees that Roy’s just staring at him. Not in like… an angry sort of way, he thinks. But it makes his skin crawl, anyway. He doesn’t want Roy to see him like this. He doesn’t need fucking pity, or whatever the fuck this is. 

He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds like fucking shit as he croaks, “Where’d everyone go?”

“Bus back to Richmond,” Roy replies, frowning. “Jamie, are you—“

“I don’t wanna fucking talk about it,” he interrupts, suddenly far too tired to add any of the snap he’d meant to. It comes out all flat instead, sorta empty like how it feels like there’s a hole in his chest now that hadn’t been there when Roy was holding him. 

Roy just fucking watches him. Finally, he nods once. “Okay,” he says, and Jamie practically slumps in relief. Roy jerks his head towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

Jamie’s eyes widen, and he immediately shakes his head, backing up. “No! No, my dad—“ 

He cuts himself off before he can say anything that’ll only get more fucking pity he doesn’t need, but Roy must be a fucking mind-reader or summat, ‘cause his eyes darken like he’s going to commit murder. 

Jamie can’t help it. He flinches.

Immediately, Roy shifts from looking furious to… worried? That can’t be right.

“Okay,” Roy says before Jamie can confuse himself too much with that line of thinking. “You’ll come to mine, then.”

“What?”

Roy closes his eyes, like maybe he needs to gather the patience to even talk to Jamie, ‘cause he probably does. Guilt curdles in Jamie’s chest. Fuck, he’s making a mess out of everything like he always does. Stupid. 

“You can come stay over with me for tonight,” Roy clarifies, looking at him again, this time a little bit less intense than before. “If you want to, at least.”

Jamie stares at him dumbly. “But… It’s your house? And Keeley? I can’t—“

“Keeley’s out with Rebecca right now, and she’s not coming over tonight, anyway,” Roy tells him, shrugging. “You’re fine.”

“You and Keeley are dating, though. I shouldn’t—“

“Fuck’s sake, Tartt,” Roy finally snaps. “It’s not like you’re fucking sleeping in my fucking bed. There’s a fucking guest room.”

“Oh,” Jamie says quietly. “Oh, right.”

Fucking obviously. Fucking idiot. 

He’s not quite looking at Roy anymore, but he sees him wince out of the corner of his eye. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Roy says. “It’s not… You’re…” He looks up at the ceiling like it’s personally angered him. Looks anywhere but at Jamie, actually. “If you want, you can come and stay with me. I wouldn’t mind.”

Jamie swallows around the lump in his throat. “Oh. Okay, then.”

“Okay, then,” Roy agrees. “I’ll call us an Uber.”

Jamie nods like it makes sense for Roy Kent to say that to him. Like any of this makes sense for fucking Roy Kent to do for fucking him. 

Maybe he’s dreaming or some shit. Maybe he’ll open his eyes and his dad’ll be back and maybe he has that one for free but he’s not going to get anything else except a fucking broken nose or summat for his trouble. 

He closes his eyes. Opens them again. His head doesn’t feel all the way attached to the rest of his body.

Roy Kent is still there, staring down at his phone.

Jamie shivers again. He’s fucking freezing.

The ride to Roy’s is silent. Not only because Jamie’s not gonna talk about any of this shit in front of some random driver, but also because he has no interest in talking about it in general. He stares out the window instead, watching cars go by without seeing them as much of anything but coloured blobs. He can feel Roy staring at him. He can’t bring himself to care.

Jamie blinks once when they’re on the motorway and suddenly they’re in Roy’s posh residential neighbourhood that Jamie’s never actually been to. The car pulls up in Roy’s drive, but Jamie just sits there, staring out the window.

Roy gets out and opens the door for him. “Come on, then,” he urges, uncharacteristically quiet. 

Jamie looks at him, blinking. He’s not sure what Roy wants him to do.

Roy sighs, nodding over to his gaff. “Let’s get you inside.”

Oh, right. 

Jamie steps out of the car and immediately stumbles, his legs buckling beneath him. Roy, though, is fast enough to catch his arm before he collapses, and steadies him with a solid grip on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Jamie mumbles.

“You good?” Roy asks him. His hand is still resting on Jamie’s shoulder, and the contact kind of burns but in a good way, like how it always feels when someone is touching him lately. 

He nods. “‘M fine,” he says, taking a step forward and nearly sighing in relief when he doesn’t stumble again. 

“Good lad,” Roy tells him, still holding on as they walk up side by side.

Jamie is grateful that Roy can’t see for shit in the dark, ‘cause he knows he must be blushing like mad. It’s not every day Roy Kent says something like that, and certainly not to him. Actually, he thinks the very first time it happened was only two days ago, after he’d talked to all the coaches about what to expect with Man City. Not that it did a fucking thing in the end, but Roy said he did good, anyway, so Jamie’s only sort of beating himself up for not thinking of more things to tell them. 

They get inside eventually, Jamie shuffling along as Roy gently presses him forward. Roy guides Jamie over past the entryway and the living room to a closed door, which he opens once they’ve stopped.

“This is the guest room,” he announces, gesturing vaguely inside. “Bathroom’s through that door.” He looks Jamie over, frowning. “You should probably shower.”

Jamie glances down, realising for the first time that he’s still in his kit and covered in sweat and grime from the match. Fuck, he’s wearing his boots still. He’s probably just tracked mud all over Roy’s floors.

He winces, kicking himself for not noticing the state he’s in. 

Roy’s not looking at him, though, so he’s either not as mad as Jamie would think or even more. He’s glaring at the doorway, so Jamie worries that it might be the second option. 

“There’s a clean towel on the rack,” Roy continues, maybe oblivious to Jamie’s guilt or maybe just not caring, ‘cause why would he care about Jamie? “There should be some hair products in the shower somewh—“

“I’m not using fucking 3-in-1,” Jamie interrupts, finally feeling something for the first time since he’d let go of Roy back at Wembley. The feeling is absolute disgust. “I’m not putting that shit in me hair. Don’t lie to me, Roy. I know you use it. Brought to to the club and all last year.”

Roy sighs like this is the greatest inconvenience he has ever faced, which Jamie would probably apologise for in his current state if it wasn’t about fucking 3-in-1.

“I’m allergic to impure metals, Jamie,” Roy grumbles. “‘That shit’ is prescribed, and—“ He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Fucking… I’m not getting into this. You can use whatever Keeley’s got here. She won’t mind. I’ll get it for you, and then I’m making dinner. Take your time.”

Jamie nods. He might as well. None of this feels real, anyway, so what’s the point in questioning Roy’s kindness? It’d probably only piss him off. 

Roy nods back, and then he’s gone. Then he’s back again, this time with Keeley’s hair products and a clean pair of pants, plus an old KENT 6 shirt from Chelsea, and then he’s gone for the second time.

Jamie stares down at the kit in his hands. It’s soft, like it’s been through the wash loads of times. The letters are a little faded and cracked, but still very much visible. 

Jamie isn’t sure why, but his throat suddenly feels tight.

He shakes himself. Roy told him to get a shower, so he’s going to do that. 

His limbs are a little stiff as he shucks off his kit, but he wriggles out of all his clothing eventually, turns on the shower, and steps in. He stands there for a long time, face turned slightly down against the spray, and just lets the water wash over him.

He’s fucking knackered.

He always is, after his dad comes ‘round. He never actually sleeps much, though, ‘cause he’s got to clean up whatever mess Dad left behind, and then he’s too keyed-up to do anything but sit in bed, staring at the ceiling for the whole night. But he’s extra tired now, maybe ‘cause everyone else saw, this time, or maybe because he still doesn’t get why Roy brought him over. It’s not like they like each other. Roy’s hated him from day one, probably because he came into Richmond acting like a total fucking prick ‘cause that was the safe option. Get in, get out, go back home. Didn’t work, obviously, but he’d tried. Anyway, the hero-worship on Jamie’s side wore off pretty quickly after, once it was clear that Roy wanted nothing to do with him.

Well, most of it. It’s Roy fucking Kent, after all. 

He grabs the shampoo — some expensive shit that Keeley got him into, too, back when they were dating — and half-heartedly scrubs at his scalp. He does the same with the body wash, only because he’ll still stink, otherwise. He doesn’t condition, though. He can’t bring himself to. It’s too much work.

Roy’s towels are fluffy, like maybe Keeley helped him pick them out, except they’re black, so who knows. Doesn’t really matter. 

Roy’s old shirt is soft to wear, too. It’s nice. Not as nice as back when Roy was hugging him at Wembley, but nice enough.

Jamie wants another one of those hugs. He’ll never fucking get one, but that doesn’t stop his dumbass lizard brain from wanting it. 

He heads downstairs, leaving his phone up with his dirty kit ‘cause he just fucking can’t right now, and is greeted with the smell of cooking meat. Fuck, but he’s starving. He usually loses his appetite entirely when shit like this happens, but whatever Roy’s making smells so good that his stomach disregards all of that, gurgling loudly instead.

Roy turns around just long enough to give him a silent nod, and then his attention is back on the chicken he’s got cooking in a pan. 

“Thanks for the clothes,” Jamie says, because he’s never really known what to do with the quiet. 

Roy grunts softly.

Jamie’s hands twitch, ‘cause he’s never really known how to stay still, either, but he manages to hold back from kneading his fists into Roy’s shirt. He doesn’t want to stretch it out. He doesn’t think Roy would like that too much.

“What’re you making?” he asks instead, padding over to Roy’s side and drumming his fingers on the counter as he peers over the hob. 

“Pesto chicken. Plus roasted cherry tomatoes and brown rice,” Roy replies. He gestures with his spatula toward the pan. “I’ll be done soon if you want to wait, or you can go put something on the telly in the lounge. Whatever you like.”

“Thanks,” Jamie murmurs. “Do you need help?”

Roy shakes his head. “This is the last bit. You can get plates, if you want, though. Second cupboard up on the right.”

Jamie does, setting two on the counter next to Roy, then starts drumming his fingers again.

“Thanks,” he says again, desperate to fill the silence. Every time it gets too quiet he can hear what his dad said earlier tonight echoing in his head. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

This time, Roy looks over at him. “Yeah, Jamie, I did,” he says. “You’re one of my players.”

Jamie glances down at the countertop, biting his lip. “Yeah. Right.”

He doesn’t know why it disappoints him. Roy’s looking out for him because he’s Jamie’s coach, and Jamie’s still the best on the team, even if some of the other lads are pretty sound. It makes sense. 

Roy clears his throat. “You… you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Jamie…”

“No, Roy. Just leave it.”

Roy looks back down at the pan, flipping the chicken. “Okay. Just. If you ever want to, you can.”

“I won’t.”

This time, when they lapse into silence again, Jamie doesn’t try to break it.

True to his word, Roy finishes with the chicken soon enough, and plates everything like he’s some fucking sue chef or whatever it’s called. It’s pretty.

It’s also really, really fucking good. 

Roy’s only about halfway through his dinner by the time Jamie has cleared his plate entirely, and Jamie regards the remaining food hungrily. He’s still fucking starving, except he’s already had double Roy’s portion, and he can’t just steal more of Roy’s food, can he? 

He swears he sees the corners of Roy’s lips twitch up. 

“Go on, then,” Roy says, inclining his head to the kitchen. “There’s plenty left. Made  extra specifically for you to eat, you muppet, so you’d better fucking have more if you want it.”

Jamie stares at him. Swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah, I— Okay,” Jamie mumbles, rising to his feet.

He plates more food, not nearly as prettily as Roy did, but it’s food anyhow. Then he just stands useless in the kitchen for a little while, trying to hold back tears that have no reason to be coming.

He’s quiet as he slinks back into his seat, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal.

This time, he and Roy finish eating at about the same time. When he goes to help Roy clear the table, though, Roy just raises one of his crazy fucking eyebrows and takes the plate out of Jamie’s hands.

Jamie follows him into the kitchen anyway.

Roy clears the last bits of food off into the bin with one of the knives they used, then squats down to put everything in the dishwasher. 

Jamie is pretty sure knees aren’t supposed to crack like that. Judging from Roy’s wince, he’s probably right.

Fuck.

He’d done that.

“Sorry,” he blurts suddenly. He’s never fucking apologised for it. Why has he never fucking apologised for it?

Roy looks up at him, brows furrowed. “What for?”

“Your knee. I fucked it,” Jamie replies, his voice going a bit choked. “I ended your fucking career, Roy. I never meant to, fucking swear down, but I did it anyway and I feel like fucking shit, ‘cause I really didn’t—“

He hiccups loudly, cutting himself off. Fucking hell. He’s crying again, isn’t he?

He angrily wipes his tears away on the back of his hand.

Roy stares up at him, his expression unreadable. He shuts the dishwasher, standing up with another sickening pop as the machine begins to hum. “It wasn’t your fault, Jamie.”

“No, no, but it was,” Jamie argues, shaking his head hard. “Just let me fucking apologise, please. ”

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” Roy says dismissively, leaning against the countertop and waving one hand. “It was a good tackle, and it was my decision. Stopped you from scoring, didn’t I?” He might smirk as he says it. Jamie isn’t all the way sure, mostly ‘cause he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Roy smile, but he might be.

“Yeah, but—“

“Jamie,” Roy interrupts, falling back into seriousness. “You don’t have a fucking thing to apologise for. I mean it. I didn’t have to go for it, but I did, and it cost me, but that’s how it goes sometimes. It was my choice. I can’t blame you any more than I can blame fucking gravity, yeah? It wasn’t your fault.”

Jamie looks down at his hands. They’re shaking. 

“Why not?” he asks. His voice sounds so small. He fucking hates it. “You should fucking hate me for it. I would.”

“Maybe,” Roy agrees. “But I don’t. Let it go, Jamie. It fucking happened, doesn’t matter if either of us could’ve done something different. We were both just doing our jobs, anyway. Can’t blame anyone for that.”

“You don’t regret it?” Jamie asks, hesitant.

Roy snorts. “‘Course I fucking do,” he says like that’s a ridiculous question, probably because it definitely was. But he shrugs. “But sometimes I don’t. It’s complicated, innit. I still don’t blame you.”

“Oh,” Jamie says quietly. “Okay.”

Roy pats his shoulder once, which feels nice but doesn’t last near long enough to be satisfying. “You’re alright,” he declares.

Jamie supposes that if Roy says it, he must be.

He surprises himself by yawning, ‘cause he can never actually sleep on nights like these, but Roy just chuckles, shaking his head.

“Come on, then,” he says, gently pressing Jamie out of the kitchen. “Get some sleep. You’re safe here, alright? We don’t have to talk about it, but I want you to know that you’re safe.”

Jamie nods. “‘Night, Roy,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Jamie,” Roy replies.

As Jamie heads off to his room, he realises that this is the most Roy has called him by his first name in, well, ever. It’s nice.

He’ll have to make sure they go back to normal in the morning, obviously. The last thing he needs is for Roy to start treating him different just ‘cause now he knows about Jamie’s shitty dad. But for now, nothing’s really real, anyway, and Jamie even feels kind of alright. So, yeah, it’s nice. He can admit it to himself, even if tonight doesn’t — can’t — mean anything. 

He doesn’t check his phone when he gets back to the guest room even though he probably should, just flops down on the bed in Roy’s soft shirt, fully expecting to be awake until morning.

He’s out the moment his head hits the pillow.

When Roy wakes up in the morning at half eight, because it’s the day after a match and he has nowhere to be, and also because last night was… a lot, Jamie is gone. The only sign that he was ever even over is the dirt he tracked in that Roy doesn’t give enough of a shit about to clean up just yet and a little note on the kitchen counter that just reads ‘Thanks.’ Jamie’s even made the fucking bed he slept in. Roy’s shirt is lying on top of the duvet, folded neatly with his name and number facing up. 

Roy stares at it for a second, then shuts the door again. 

He makes himself an omelette on mostly muscle memory, then slowly eats it in the breakfast nook while contemplating the empty seat across from him. He hopes he didn’t somehow give Jamie the idea that he wanted him gone. He would have made him an omelette, too, at the very least. 

Fucking hell, what is wrong with him? He cannot be going soft on Jamie fucking Tartt. What, just because he’d let Roy hug him when he was fucking dissociating or some shit means suddenly they’ll be best fucking friends? He fucking stole Roy’s pants — nice ones, too — and Roy’s not even angry at him for it. It’s his own fault for lending them, obviously. At least Jamie’d given back the shirt. 

Which, fucking no. Roy can’t be thinking like this. Not about Jamie Tartt.

He’d just… Fuck, when Tartt had looked like that in the dressing room, Roy’s first instinct wasn’t to charge out and beat his dad to a bloody pulp, which he fucking deserves. No, he’d gone right up to Jamie and hugged him. 

The whole touching thing with Keeley must be really fucking getting to him, if he’s resorted to holding Jamie Tartt like the two of them even tolerate each other. God, he’s fucking pathetic. Jamie had fucking flinched when Roy got close and he’d still fucking done it. He’s a proper fucking arsehole, isn’t he? And then he’d bullied Jamie into coming over to his. He can still see the fear on Jamie’s face when he’d snapped at him.

Fuck. Now he’s lost his appetite just thinking about it. He might actually vomit.

Roy lays his fork down and holds his head in his hands, growling in frustration. What right does Roy have, to do any of that? To make any of those decisions? Fucking none. 

He’s a piece of shit. Jamie had been vulnerable, and Roy had taken full advantage. What, just because it’s a little more lonely now that Keeley’s not around as often, he suddenly has the right to fucking abduct someone who’s already had a shitty fucking day, just so he doesn’t have to spend the night alone?

He’d convinced himself he’d been helping. But he’d only been fucking helping himself. It had been really fucking nice to have Jamie over, circumstances notwithstanding. He likes taking care of people. He doesn’t get to do that with Keeley so much, because she’s an independent fucking woman and she’s fucking brilliant all by herself. But that doesn’t mean he gets to just decide to do it to Jamie Tartt, instead. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

He can’t go down this path. He doesn’t know if Jamie will be back to normal by training tomorrow, but Roy has to be. Because if Jamie’s not, or even if he is, and Roy tries to fucking take advantage of him again, he doesn’t want to think about what could happen. He’s Jamie’s fucking coach, for fuck’s sake. He can’t abuse his power just because he wants a fucking cuddle. 

Roy is fine. Roy is great, actually. Roy is never, ever going to tell Jamie that he actually felt fucking great to hold in Roy’s arms. Everyone feels great to hold. That’s the fucking problem.

Okay. He’ll go back to treating Jamie — no, Tartt. Roy can’t do that, either. They’re not fucking friends. He’ll go back to treating Tartt like he always has, and maybe that will get his fucking brain with the fucking programme. He won’t have a moment of weakness like this again.

It will work. Roy will control himself. He’s sure of it.

“Tartt,” Roy grunts the first time the two of them pass each other in the hall the next day. He doesn’t slow his pace. He barely looks over at the other man.

“Granddad,” Tartt replies, his signature smirk back on his face.

Roy hadn’t realised how much its absence had scared him. 

He squares his shoulders against this epiphany, which is pretty fucking hard to do any further considering his normal stance, and walks on.

If Roy has to spend the entire day fiercely ignoring Jamie Tartt’s existence because he can’t stop fucking thinking about how nice it was to hug him, well, fuck off. That’s his business.

And if Jamie is distracted for all of training because he can’t forget how amazing it felt when Roy held him, well, he hopes it’s not too fucking noticeable. 

Roy’s resolve lasts exactly up until Brighton.

They get fucking promoted. In their first fucking year trying. And Jamie fucking Tartt gave the penalty that won them that over to Dani Rojas. 

Fuck. Roy’s actually fucking proud of him. 

The lads on the bench are shouting as soon as the final whistle blows. Roy’s right there with them. He’s fucking grinning from ear to ear as he storms the pitch, running to the tune of “We are going up!” because they fucking are, and Roy fucking helped, and it’s not quite the same as if he had been one of the eleven out there on the pitch but it’s still pretty fucking great, innit. 

Moe slides in front of him — always fucking sliding, that bloke. Roy envies his knees — but it doesn’t even fucking matter because the next second they’re hugging and screaming into each others’ fucking ears and then Moe lets go and Isaac’s there, and Roy can only bump his chest with a congratulatory fist before he’s off, too. 

That’s when Jamie melts out of the crowd. He’s fucking beaming, and his eyes light up as he sees Roy, and they’re both fucking shouting to each other but not at each other, and Jamie clasps his hand, and that’s when Roy fucking breaks.

Fuck it. He already hugged Moe, anyway. They’re fucking celebrating. Nobody’ll fucking know.

But he pulls Jamie in and headbutts him first, gets him right in the fucking nose, just in case the lad might realise the truth, otherwise — that Roy’s hugging him because he actually just really fucking wants to. Roy’s headbutted him before. It’s what they normally do, innit, and a hug is what they don’t normally do, so it basically cancels out.

“Fucking hell! What’d you do that for?” Jamie yells, glaring as he holds his face, which should be enough.

“So I could do this,” Roy answers truthfully, and pulls him in.

This time, Jamie hugs him back immediately. And yeah, it feels really fucking good, and maybe a little bit different from when he’d hugged Moe, somehow, but he doesn’t have time to examine that before they’re both pulling back and excitedly yelling in each other’s faces again. They’re just fucking hopping up and down chest-to-chest like fucking idiots, and Roy doesn’t even fucking mind.

They got fucking promoted. 

Roy’s really fucking proud, actually. And he’s really fucking happy that Jamie isn’t pulling away just yet. He can be angry at himself for breaking his own resolution later. For now, he jumps and yells and fucking celebrates and feels almost the best he’s felt all year. 

Jamie doesn’t regret handing the ball off to Dani. He’s dead fucking chuffed that he did, actually. Poor lad’s been terrified of his own foot all season, least as far as penalties are concerned. Dani’s smiling even more than he always does, now. Jamie thinks it might hurt, but then again, he’s grinning proper fucking hard, too, so he’s not one to talk. 

If someone’d told Jamie a year back that one day he’d just hand off a penalty to a teammate, never mind the fucking promotion goal, he would’ve laughed in their face and told them to get their fucking head checked. Granted, he would’ve laughed in someone’s face for a whole lot of things he’s done recently, like quitting Man City to play in the fucking Championship or becoming proper good mates with Sam or lying in bed at night sometimes and remembering how it’d felt to hug Roy Kent, which is the only time he lets himself think about it. That’s alright. Year-ago-Jamie needed a laugh, anyway.

Jamie only really celebrates once the final whistle is blown, ‘cause he’s seen what happens if you don’t wait all the way, hasn’t he? He’s been the reason you have to wait all the way. 

But as soon as that whistle goes, he’s fucking off with the rest of them, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs and somehow smiling even wider than before, and now it starts to hurt, but he doesn’t even fucking care because they just got fucking promoted, didn’t they, and that’s all that really matters.

Sam tackles him in a hug and, oh yeah, he fucking scored, too, and Jamie’s so happy for him, like actually. He fucking says so, too, right in Sam’s ear and so loudly that Sam winces, but Sam’s smiling and Jamie’s smiling and they’re fucking going up, first try, no fucking problem except for all of the ones they’d faced this season and fucking beat anyway. 

Beard hugs him next — fucking Beard. He’s there and gone in a flash, though, so Jamie might have just imagined it. With Beard, he never really knows.

Doesn’t matter, really, ‘cause then Jamie spots Roy coming right for him, and he’s even smiling a little, too, and who fucking cares about Beard when Roy Kent is right there, looking about as happy as Jamie has ever seen him? 

He knows it’s selfish, but Jamie reaches out and grabs Roy’s hand because he’s been wanting to touch Roy again ever since he stopped at Wembley. He’s even about to go in for the hug, ‘cause what’s so weird about wanting to hug someone when you’ve just gotten fucking promoted, except Roy fucking nuts him right in the nose before he can get to it.

“Fucking hell!” he shouts, grabbing at his face. His nose better not be broken. It’s too pretty to be broken. “What’d you do that for?”

“So I could do this,” Roy replies, which, what’s that fucking supposed to mean?

Oh. Roy’s hugging him now. That’s what it’s supposed to mean. 

Jamie’s body gets with a programme a little faster than his brain does, which means he actually hugs Roy back instead of just standing there like a twat like last time. Fuck, that’s so fucking nice. Jamie shudders a little, but he hopes Roy won’t notice. 

Then they’re just jumping and holding onto each other, and this is nice, too, ‘cause Roy’s still touching Jamie and that’s all he really needs.

Plus, they got fucking promoted!

Life is fucking mint.

Life is fucking shit. 

The off-season is coming to an end, and Richmond are back in the Prem, so everything should be fairly fucking alright. Roy should be preparing to go back. He should be figuring out how they’re going to win the whole fucking thing, even without Nate and his fucking tactical super-brain. 

He should be in fucking Marbella with Keeley, enjoying the last few days of sunshine before they have to get back to dreary old London. 

Well he’d tried Marbella, except Keeley didn’t come and he lasted exactly five fucking days before he just couldn’t fucking take it anymore and fled right back to Richmond. Sunshine’s no good if you’re busy stewing over how you can feel your girlfriend slowly slipping further and further out of your reach. Neither is being back in fucking Richmond, but at least he can spend time with Phoebe instead of sitting alone with his dumb fucking thoughts. 

Keeley wasn’t lying when she said she’d be fucking busy all summer. Roy gets it. She’s the fucking boss, now, which she fucking deserves, but that means she needs to become familiar with her employees. She can’t do that from fucking Spain. She’s doing exactly what she needs to do. 

The problem isn’t with her. It’s with Roy.

Keeley’s off being a fucking marvel just like she’s always been, and Roy is so, so proud of her. But there’s a part of him, just the smallest part, that wishes she didn’t have to be absolutely marvellous all the time. There’s a tiny part of him that wishes she could be just Keeley sometimes, instead of Keeley fucking Jones, because Keeley fucking Jones doesn’t need some bloke hovering around her all the fucking time. She doesn’t need him at all. 

There’s a much bigger part of him that’s absolutely fucking disgusted that he would ever fucking think about wanting Keeley fucking Jones to change just so he could, what? Take care of her some more to feed his own fucking ego? He feels like proper fucking shit for ever thinking something like that. 

And that’s the fucking problem. Keeley’s absolutely fucking wonderful, and Roy is very much not. Keeley’s fucking amazing just as she is, which makes Roy a piece of shit for wishing she was different. She doesn’t deserve having to deal with that. He doesn’t fucking deserve her. 

Roy’s been overbearing his whole fucking life. It’s pushed so many people away. It’s going to push Keeley away, too, if he’s thinking of shit like this. She’ll learn about it eventually, and then he’ll make her feel bad, and he doesn’t fucking want that at all. She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves so much more than having to deal with him and his clinginess and his smothering and all of the shit that follows him every-fucking-where he goes. 

So, yeah, life is fucking shit, because Roy knows exactly what he has to do. He doesn’t want to fucking do it, obviously, because he loves Keeley, but it’s because he loves her that he has to. 

Fuck. He just really, really wants to hold someone for a little while. And it can’t be Keeley, because that’s not something she needs. He can’t force her to change. He wouldn’t ever, ever fucking do that. 

But he’s tried to change. So fucking hard. And he just fucking can’t. 

Keeley shouldn’t have to deal with that. With him. 

Roy knows what he has to do.

Life is fucking shit.

When Isaac tells Jamie that Roy and Keeley have broken up, he’s not entirely sure what to feel. Obviously, like, on an objective level, breaking up fucking sucks, so he’s fucking empathetic and shit. For both of them, even, ‘cause it’s Keeley and he doesn’t want her to be sad, but also ‘cause… he doesn’t really want Roy to be sad, neither. Something in his dumb fucking lizard brain says so, and once that part of his head gets stuck on something, it’s stuck for good.

Beyond that basic empathy, though, there’s a lot more complicated feelings shit that’s got itself all tangled-like somewhere between his ribs, and he’s not sure what it’s supposed to mean. 

On one hand, obviously, he still loves Keeley. How can he not? He might fucking love Keeley for the rest of his life. She’s not someone you can just forget. So maybe he should be a little bit happy, somewhere deep down, that she and Roy aren’t together anymore. That would mean he maybe has a chance to get back with her.

That’s where it gets confusing. ‘Cause he finds out, and then Roy and Keeley both leave down the hall, and he could so easily follow after Keeley, except he turns into the boot room instead, where Roy’s gone. He didn’t even have to think about it. It’s like it’s fucking… Pavlovian or some shit. 

So there’s the other hand: he should, probably, care more that Keeley’s single again. He would’ve a year ago. He would’ve just a few fucking months ago. But right now, he’s more focused on the fact that Roy’s sad. Keeley’ll be alright. Jamie doesn’t want her to be upset, but he doesn’t, like, feel the need to fix it.

Roy, though…

Jamie’s never been too great at making people feel better. Making them feel good, sure, he’s fucking mint at that, but not better. Usually, he makes people feel worse. 

Well, what makes him feel better? A hug, obviously. Roy’d done it for him at Wembley. He’ll just return the favour. It’s fucking foolproof, innit.

It is not, as it turns out, fucking foolproof at all. Right as he’s going in, arms spread out and everything, Roy pushes him hard in the chest.

Jamie, acting mostly on instinct but also because he’s kinda hurt, actually, that Roy pushed him, does it right back. “Dickhead,” he says as he does it, ‘cause it’s fucking true. 

Roy glowers at him. “The fuck are you doing?”

“I was just gonna hug you,” Jamie answers, trying to make it sound like he doesn’t fucking care, like it actually doesn’t really hurt that Roy pushed him off.

It actually really fucking hurts. 

Roy doesn’t know why he pushed Jamie away.

He makes up some dumb fucking excuse about Jamie going in too fast, but that’s a fucking lie. He’d known exactly what Jamie was fucking doing, and he’d fucking… fuck. 

Jamie’s talking now, something about old people and the war and Roy really doesn’t fucking care. Why the fuck did he push Jamie away?

“—was just trying to comfort you,” Jamie continues, only half-meeting Roy’s eyes.

“Well, I don’t want comfort,” Roy says. Another fucking lie. “And I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.” That one, at least, is true. The last person Roy wants to dump any of his fucking feeling on is Jamie fucking Tartt. 

Doesn’t mean that hug wouldn’t have been nice, though.

Roy’s a fucking idiot.

They get Zava. Fucking Zava.

Yeah, he’s a fucking diva. Doesn’t even matter, not when he’s scoring like that. Not to Roy, at least.

Jamie seems to have a different opinion. 

Roy’s still watching him, never really stopped, especially after Wembley. He still hasn’t figured out the mystery behind Jamie’s reaction to touch, after all. The habit persists, with one glaring exception: unlike with everybody else on the team, when Zava touches Jamie, he pulls away and stays away. 

Roy’s not sure why he gets caught up on this, but he does. He’s pretty sure that Jamie is fucking miserable, actually.

Roy’s fucking miserable, too, but that’s his own damn fault, innit?

His skin itches, just a little, with how much he wants to touch someone.

Surprising everyone, including himself, Roy begins to train Jamie.

Also surprising is the fact that he actually fucking enjoys it. Not just the power trip that comes with making Jamie fucking Tartt do burpees until he’s sick, which is plenty fucking fun, don’t get him wrong, but, like… spending time with the prick.

Which they do. A lot. A fucking lot. 

From the ass-crack of dawn to well past sunset, it’s like Roy’s whole world revolves around Jamie Tartt.

He would have actually rather died at one point, and here he is fucking looking forward to waking up to darkness just so he can go and jog with Jamie. Fucking mental. He’s finally gone fucking barmy, hasn’t he?

Jamie follows him home after training, sometimes, like a lost fucking puppy or some shit, and Roy takes pity every fucking time. Cooks fucking breakfast for him and everything while Jamie just lazes around, like Roy’s his own personal fucking servant and not his extremely serious and intimidating coach.

“I want cheese on my omelette,” the prick in question announces now, waltzing into the kitchen like he fucking owns the place. He’s changed out of his trackies and into the shirt Roy lent him all those months ago, which he’d somehow found the first time he’d come over, or maybe Roy had left it out, he’s not sure. Jamie’s taken to wearing it at random intervals, often enough that Roy just washes it and leaves it in the guest bath for when Jamie’s done showering off his workout, just so he doesn’t have to root through Roy’s shit to find it again.

“No,” Roy replies, not looking up from his pan.

He definitely hears the pout in Jamie’s voice as he says, “You’re no fun.”

“I’m not supposed to be. I’m your coach, not your fucking chef.”

“Says the bloke making me breakfast.”

Roy gives him two fingers over his shoulder and flips the eggs.

They eat in the breakfast nook, Jamie reclining on the bench by the window like it’s a fucking chaise lounge as Roy sits like a normal fucking person and eats his eggs. 

“You’re going to fucking choke if you don’t sit up,” Roy tells him.

Jamie presses a hand to his chest in mock flattery. “Aw, Granddad, you do care.”

“No, I just don’t need your fucking little prick corpse rotting in my fucking kitchen,” Roy shoots back easily, although he may be smiling, just a bit. “Ted would never let me hear the end of it.“

“Sounds to me like you like me,” Jamie sing-songs, but he does actually sit up like a civilised human being to finish the rest of his meal. 

Roy makes Jamie clean up after himself, because the prick might as well make himself useful at least once, but he lets Jamie wander over to the living room, after, and put his little prick feet up on Roy’s coffee table. 

“We should play FIFA,” Jamie declares imperiously, like a fucking king on his couch-throne.

“We’re leaving for training in fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah. We should play FIFA.”

“No.”

“Come on, Roy,” Jamie whines. He’s doing the thing where he makes his eyes all wide. Roy thinks it’s supposed to be cute. He firmly tells himself that it isn’t. “Why not?”

Roy rolls his eyes. “One, we’ve got training in fifteen minutes—“

“Plenty of time!”

“No. Shut up. And two, I don’t have a fucking PlayStation.”

Jamie looks fucking horrified to discover this. “What do you mean you don’t have a PlayStation?” he gasps, like Roy’s just announced that he kills puppies for fun. “Fucking hell, mate, you really are a dusty old fart.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roy says, waving a hand. “And get your fucking feet off my furniture.”

“Keep your wig on, Granddad,” Jamie drawls, but he does move his legs.

Right onto Roy’s fucking lap.

Roy stiffens. “The fuck are you doing?” he asks, the words coming out strained. It’s just… unexpected, is all. It’s been a while since anyone but Phoebe and Ruth have touched him so casually. 

Jamie sticks out his tongue and winks. “Getting me feet of the furniture, ain’t I?”

Roy’s still trying not to panic, but the glare and the reply come automatically. “I didn’t mean put them on me instead, you muppet.”

Jamie just shrugs, like the full force of Roy’s glower that’s on him now doesn’t scare him one bit. “Well, what am I s’posed to do? Put them on the fucking floor? ” He scoffs as if the very idea offends him, then smirks and wiggles his right foot a little. “This little lad’s kissed by God, ain’t he? You said so yourself. Foot like that can’t go on the floor, Roy.”

“Then raise it in the fucking air or something,” Roy growls. He doesn’t know why he’s still complaining, but he is. Maybe it’s because the weight of Jamie’s legs on his feels so lovely that he needs it to be gone. “Work on your core.”

For the first time all morning, Jamie frowns. And then his legs are gone from Roy’s lap, and he’s actually holding them straight out in front of him just like Roy suggested, and he’s not looking at Roy anymore. His jaw is clenched and he’s glaring off into the middle distance, suddenly more tense than he’s been in fucking weeks, probably, even when he was vomiting from all the fucking burpees, and Roy promptly realises that somehow he’s fucked up.

Fuck. Jamie fucking Tartt is sitting in Roy’s fucking living room, wearing his fucking kit, digesting the fucking breakfast Roy fucking cooked for him, and Roy’s going to tell him off for fucking putting his legs somewhere? Out of all the things to be mad about, picking that one on top of all the other, much weirder fucking shit is fucking ridiculous.

And, clearly, Jamie hadn’t been expecting it. Or maybe he had. Roy doesn’t know. He does know that he’s being a right knob, though, and that, at least, is something he’s familiar enough with to try to fix.

Plus, he sort of misses the contact. As in, definitely, very much misses the contact. 

“Fuck, I didn’t…” He clears his throat. “You can fucking… It’s fine. You can put them back, if you want.”

Please put them back, he wants to say.

He’s too much of a coward to find the words.

Jamie looks at him askance. “You gonna yell at me again?”

“No,” Roy says, shaking his head. “Well, not for this. I see you running too slow or something during training, well, that’s a different story, innit?” He smirks, just a little, hoping to lighten the mood he’s soured.

Jamie chuckles even though the joke was shit, but Roy doesn’t regret saying it as long as the tension keeps leaking out of Jamie’s shoulders like it is. “Alright, Granddad,” he announces with a lopsided grin. “I’ll forgive you, just this once. Only ‘cause you make for such a comfortable footrest, d’you know what I mean?”

Roy grunts, because he’s not going to deign that statement with any other kind of reply, and leans back against the cushions for prime lap-accessibility. He raises a brow at Jamie. “Come on, then. If those feet of yours are so special, I suppose it’d only be fair that they get to go on Roy Kent’s fucking lap.”

“Don’t refer to yourself in the third person, mate,” Jamie says, laughing as he pivots his legs back into the position where they belong, thrown haphazardly across Roy’s thighs. “It’s fucking weird.”

Roy rolls his eyes, but with the renewed warmth of Jamie’s limbs on his, it ends up far more affectionate than he’d been meaning. “You’re one to talk, Tartt.”

“Least I’m not as bad as Zava, ” Jamie points out, his lip curling with distaste.

“Fair enough.”

Jamie smiles, clearly chuffed that Roy agrees. 

They stop talking after that, because Jamie is a child who can’t go five fucking minutes without taking a hundred selfies or checking his Tick-Tock or whatever that dumb fucking app is called, but for once, Roy isn’t inclined to mind. It’s nice to just sit with the warm weight of another person on top of him for a little while. Jamie even ropes him into exactly one of his many, many selfies after only a minute of grumbling. 

What is the world fucking coming to.

Roy, being an actual fucking adult, does not follow Jamie’s lead, mostly because he hates taking selfies and he avoids social media like the plague — and also because he’s not fourteen fucking years old. He just watches Jamie instead, because he keeps making all sorts of animated and idiotic faces as he does… whatever the fuck he does, and it’s even mildly entertaining. Most of it’s just Jamie sticking out his tongue, really, but Roy can’t look away. Probably because he’s never seen someone know that many different ways to stick out their tongue before. That must be it. 

So enthralled is he by this fascinating display that when he looks down to check his watch, sure that only a few minutes have passed, he regretfully finds that it’s almost five minutes after they should have left. Fuck. They need to get up and drive over to Nelson Road.

“Come on, then,” he announces with a heavy sigh. “Get your shit, we’re heading out.”

Jamie looks up from his phone. The puppy-dog eyes are out again. “Come on, Roy. Five more minutes!”

Roy really, really wishes he could say yes. But he’s got responsibilities, unfortunately, so he shakes his head. “For you to mindlessly scroll through whatever shit is on your social media? Fuck no. I’m not paying a late fine for that.”

“No, I…” Jamie trails off, shaking his head. “Never mind.” He slides his legs off of Roy’s lap, and Roy immediately regrets saying they have to go. But Jamie is already standing, holding one hand out to tug Roy to his feet, so the moment has fucking passed. “Let’s go.”

Roy pulls himself up, then squints at Jamie. “You’ve got to change out of my kit, first.”

Jamie turns a little pink around the ears. “Oh, right.” 

As he retreats into the hall, Roy shakes his head slowly. One of these days, both of them are going to forget about it and Jamie’ll walk into training with it on, Roy’s sure of it.

Roy wouldn’t necessarily object. Jamie looks good wearing his name.

The next time Jamie comes over, there’s a brand new PS5 sitting next to Roy’s telly. 

“I got it for Phoebe,” Roy tells him flatly.

Jamie grins and elbows him lightly in the ribs. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Granddad.” 

Life continues, but now they sit on the couch sometimes, playing FIFA with Jamie’s legs tossed over Roy’s. Turns out, Roy’s secretly a FIFA god or summat, but even though Jamie keeps losing, he’s pretty sure he’s still fucking won. The risk he took the first time worked out, after all, if he gets to do this again and again. 

Plus, now one of his lock screens — one he only uses in private — is his selfie with Roy. Pretty fucking mint, indeed.

They find a fucking windmill, and Roy can’t stop thinking about how Jamie did all this for him. Taught him to ride a bike and everything, not just for Granddad but for Roy, because he never fucking thought he could until a certain prick cajoled him enough to try. Roy can’t stop thinking about Jamie’s hands on his back, steadying him with a gentle, assured touch that’s so fucking unlike them that it’s almost funny, except it’s not funny, not at all. It’s something complicated, almost painful, that Roy can’t quite name, not just yet. Because if he fucking names it and Jamie doesn’t feel the same way, then it’s all fucking over, everything will go back to how it was when Roy didn’t know what it felt like to have Jamie up in his space all the time, and that’s actually fucking terrifying.

Tonight’s been one of the best nights that Roy’s had in a long time, which is fucking insane because they’re riding around on bikes in fucking Amsterdam, it’s fucking ridiculous. Except a lot of the other best nights that Roy’s had in a long time have also been ridiculous because they’ve all been with Jamie, and that’s fucking mad, innit. All they’ve been doing is playing FIFA after training or watching shitty films that Jamie swears are iconic. Well, fucking Twilight isn’t fucking iconic, it’s just dumb. Bella can do better than both of those blokes, or maybe they can do better than her — doesn’t fucking matter, though, because that’s not the fucking point. The point is that Roy should fucking hate it. The point is that all of these mundane activities have no fucking right to make Roy actually fucking happy, but they do and it’s confusing because who would have ever fucking thought that he would ever look forward to spending time with Jamie Tartt? 

Which is why Roy adamantly refuses to name this new, ugh, feeling inside of him. He’s not going to risk losing this… friendship the two of them have just because sometimes he might think he wants more.

“Alright, we saw our fucking windmill,” Roy says as they pedal along, making conversation just to snap himself out of his own stupid thoughts. “What now?”

Jamie glances back at him, grinning in the moonlight, and he has no fucking right being that pretty. “I dunno about you, Coach, but I’m fucking famished. Fancy a bit of scran?”

They end up finding a chip stand along the way, and stop by a bench that is not the one from The Fault in Our Stars to sit down and eat. And, yeah, chips are pretty fucking far removed from Jamie’s meal plan, but Roy figures it’s Amsterdam so he’ll let it slide. He’s gone and taken Jamie away from a night of no curfew to train, anyway. The lad’s probably earned it. 

“There are only eight windmills left in Amsterdam, you know,” Jamie tells him between bites. “That one was De Riekermolen. It’s my favourite one ‘cause it’s right on the Amstelpark, d’you know what I mean? They’re all mint, though. And definitely real.”

“Well, I know that now, ” Roy grumbles. He clears his throat. “Thanks for… for showing me, I guess.”

Jamie smiles at him, a real smile, not that prickish smirk he’s got on half the time. “Anytime, Coach. Glad I could.”

Roy has to look away because he worries that if he keeps staring at Jamie he’ll say or do something stupid. “The fuck do we do now, then?” he manages instead, crushing the empty paper chip cone in his hand because it’s twitching to do fucking… something — he’s not sure what, exactly, but definitely something that’s probably going to ruin everything if he lets it happen.

“We could go back to the hotel, if you want. But… ” Jamie extends the word out, shrugging. “There’s still lots to see, though, and I’m not tired.”

“If we grab a cuppa on the way, then yeah, alright,” Roy agrees. 

“We can maybe find some coffee,” Jamie says. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Why, it past your bedtime, old man?”

“Not tonight it’s not,” Roy replies easily. “No curfew, innit?”

Jamie throws his head back and laughs. “I knew you were fun, Coach!” he exclaims, lightly shoving Roy. 

“You’re losing it, Tartt,” Roy responds, like he’s not actually gone fucking mental himself, because now he’s noticing that Jamie’s eyes are fucking sparkling as he looks over at Roy, and what kind of idiot notices dumb fucking shit like that about their fucking friend?

“Nah, mate,” Jamie says, waving him off as he rises from the bench. “Admit it. You’re secretly fun, ‘cept you hide it behind those bushy fucking eyebrows and that mean old mug of yours.” He smirks, leaning in close and shaking his head knowingly. “Well guess what, Granddad. You can’t fool me. I know your secrets.”

If you knew my fucking secrets, you wouldn’t be fucking talking to me right now, Roy thinks.

Outwardly, though, he just glares.

Jamie clearly takes this as some sort of victory, for he grins widely and pats Roy’s shoulder. “Knew it,” he says smugly, standing up straight once more. He rubs his hands together. “Right. We’ve got places to be. Off we go, Coach. Mush!”

Roy does not mush. He takes his sweet fucking time getting up, and even sweeter fucking time getting on his bike. He would take his sweet fucking time pedalling, too, except he has to go fast enough to stay upright. Still, he tries.

Unfortunately, taking his sweet fucking time riding around the Amstelpark does not mix well with the fact that he has only known how to ride a bike for a few hours. As he veers off the path, he does manage to hop off before said bike crashes loudly against a nearby tree, but he falls to the ground anyway with a roared “Fuck!”

“Oh, shit!” he hears Jamie call from ahead. “You alright, mate?”

“The fuck do you think?” Roy growls, climbing to his feet and glaring into the darkness as he brushes himself off. 

The bike is lying in a mangled heap to his left, which he supposes is better than if it were him. He doesn’t know a whole lot about bicycles, but he’s pretty sure they don’t work if one wheel’s fucking perpendicular to the other. 

“Shit, Coach, you fucking wrecked that thing, huh?” Jamie says as he walks up, leaning his own bike safely against another tree. 

Roy glowers at him. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

“Wasn’t gonna, swear down,” Jamie replies, raising his hands in surrender. “Seriously, though. You okay?” 

“I’m fine. Scraped a little, probably, but nothing I can’t handle,” Roy grunts. “Don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about the bike, though.”

“Eh, just leave it,” Jamie suggests. “Let someone else deal with it.”

“I meant more like how the fuck am I getting around if I don’t have a bike anymore,” Roy clarifies, returning to the path.

“Oh, right.” Jamie scratches his chin. “I still have mine. You can just ride with me.“

Roy looks at the bike dubiously. It’s only got one seat, as bikes tend to do. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

“Here, you can sit on that thingy,” Jamie replies, gesturing to the metal frame positioned slightly above the back wheel. He slings himself over the seat, balancing upright, and impatiently gestures for Roy to get on with it.

Roy sighs heavily but complies, sitting himself sidesaddle on the makeshift seat. He pauses, though, when he realises that he’ll have to wrap an arm around Jamie for balance.

Fuck. He can’t do that. It’s selfish. It’s wrong. It’s not something he should ever entertain. He should just walk. He should—

“The fuck’s taking you so long, mate? Grab on,” Jamie says impatiently, interrupting his thoughts.

Roy swallows hard. He’s being selfish, but Jamie also said… Maybe…

Slowly, giving Jamie plenty of time to pull away if he’s uncomfortable, Roy winds an arm around his torso. 

Jamie does not pull away. He adjusts Roy’s hand slightly to be in a better position, but he does not pull away.

“Ready?” Jamie asks.

Roy grunts. He doesn’t know if he can say anything else, and he’s terrified to try.

“Hold on tight, then. Don’t need you falling a second time,” Jamie says, and takes off.

Roy’s arm instinctively tightens, so that he’s holding himself far closer against Jamie’s back than he ever would if he didn’t have to, but Jamie just hums lightly and keeps pedalling.

And here’s fucking why Roy didn’t want to do this. It’s because of how much he wants to do this. Suddenly, one arm isn’t fucking enough. He needs to be closer. He wants to hold Jamie tight and never fucking let go. God, it’s fucking pathetic. Yet Roy knows it would feel so fucking good that he wants to anyway.

Slowly, so slowly he doesn’t even realise he’s moving until he’s halfway done, Roy snakes his second arm around Jamie’s torso. He wishes he could lie to himself and say it’s for better balance. It’s not. It’s fucking not.

Jamie hums again, but doesn’t comment. Nor does he pull away, although Roy doesn’t know how he would, seeing as he’s now got them slotted flush together. 

Fuck. 

It’s so, so easy, then, to lean in, to press his forehead between Jamie’s shoulder blades and let out a deep, shaky sigh. Because Roy’s a weak fucking man, and he doesn’t know how long he’s wanted this, but he wants it so fucking badly now that it hurts.

He expects Jamie to recoil. He should recoil. 

But Jamie just hums a third time and leans back against him, some of the muscles in his back relaxing. One of his hands falls to briefly cover Roy’s, his thumb tracing small circles over Roy’s knuckles before Jamie has to bring it back up again to steer. But the sensation lingers, gentle in a way that Roy does not deserve. 

For the first time, Roy wonders. 

Because Roy’s a weak man, and he’s too fucking selfish not to give in to what he wants. But Jamie… There’s no fucking reason for Jamie to be this gentle. There’s no fucking reason for Jamie to touch him back any more than he has to.

So for the first fucking time, Roy wonders if maybe, just maybe, Jamie might want this, too.

“What do you want, Roy?”

Roy grits his teeth, his hands clenching on the wheel, and growls low in his throat. The drive home is silent without Jamie, who’s got some fucking PR thing going on, which means that Roy gets to stew in his thoughts in an empty car because there’s no prick around to distract him. Fucking fantastic. 

It’d be depressing enough even if he didn’t have Rebecca’s words echoing in his head, but it’s a million times worse now that he does.

“What do you really want, Roy?”

Roy’s grip tightens. 

“You’re just so convinced that you don’t deserve anything good in your life that you’d rather eat a bowl of shit soup and then complain about the portions!”

He flicks on his indicator, turning off onto a side street.

“Get out of your own way, man.”

He swallows hard. 

The memory starts again.

“What do you want, Roy?”

It always comes back to that. It always fucking comes back to that.

Roy’s not fucking stupid. He’d known he’d been lying when he’d told Rebecca that all he wants is to be left alone. He wants a whole fuckton of things, and that isn’t fucking one of them. 

He knows what he should want, too. He should want fucking Keeley, because she’s fucking amazing and everybody should fucking want her if they have any sense, but Roy must not have any fucking sense because he doesn’t. Not anymore. He loves her, and it’s so fucking painful to know that he’s the reason things are awkward between them now, because he really does wish that things could go back to the way things used to be, when they still talked to each other like it wasn’t pulling fucking teeth. But he doesn’t want her. Not like he used to.

No, Roy has known what he wants for a long fucking time now, and he’s just ignored it, because Rebecca’s right. It’s so much easier to stick his fucking head in the sand than face his stupid fucking feeling. Sticking his head in the sand can’t hurt him.

Except it has, plenty of times. But the other option is fucking terrifying, so it may be a bad call, but ignoring everything is so much easier. 

Roy’s not fucking stupid. He knows exactly what he wants. He wants Jamie fucking Tartt to be in his car right now, cracking dumb fucking jokes that somehow still manage to make Roy smile, filling this suffocating silence with an incessant chatter that Roy sometimes forgets he doesn’t mind until it’s fucking gone. He wants to be taking Jamie home, cooking for him and playing FIFA with Jamie’s legs thrown over his and running with him in the dark and fucking asking him to stay for fucking once afterwards, because it gets so fucking lonely when he’s gone. He wants to pull Jamie into his arms and keep him there for as long as he possibly can. He wants to fall asleep at night listening to even breaths and basking in the warmth of another body — Jamie’s body — held tightly against his chest. He wants, so, so desperately, to cup Jamie’s perfect fucking face and kiss his perfect fucking lips and make him fucking Roy’s, in any way Jamie will fucking have him, and he doesn’t want to ever have to let go.

His house is empty and dark, lifeless without the one person who’s been lighting it up lately. But remnants of Jamie are there, in the clothes he’s forgotten, in the ridiculous hair and face and body products he’s moved into the guest bath, in the vase of sunflowers in the kitchen that Roy had bought because he knows they’re Jamie’s favourite, because Jamie’s grin when he saw them was so fucking blinding and yet Roy couldn’t look away. There’s bits of Jamie everywhere, and Roy can’t help but smile despite himself.

He pulls out his phone. His lock screen is a picture of him and Phoebe, but it’s not his only one, because he’s not an actual fucking pensioner, he knows how to use technology. His second is a closely-guarded secret. Nobody has ever seen it but him. But safe in the silence of his home, Roy can switch it over. 

He smiles a little wider, looking down at that dumb fucking selfie Jamie had taken of them. Jamie’s grinning, tongue on full fucking display, and Roy’s just glaring at the camera, and it’s so fucking special to him that it’s actually fucking stupid. 

He stares at it for a little while longer, gathering his courage, and opens his messages.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Roy begins to type.

Are you busy earlier tonight? I have something I want to talk to you about before we train. 

Jamie stares down at the text from Roy, a hundred fucking scenarios zipping through his head to explain what the fuck that could possibly mean. Does Roy want to stop training him? Did Jamie do something to piss him off without realising it? Oh, fuck, did Roy finally figure out what Jamie’s been trying to hide for so fucking long, that ever since Roy started letting Jamie touch him it’s like something’s broke inside him, ‘cause now he doesn’t know how to stop? No, no, no. Roy can’t have figured it out. He can’t have. ‘Cause if he had, he wouldn’t be texting Jamie. He’d never fucking talk to Jamie again. 

Fuck. Okay. No, it’s okay. Everything’s fine. 

Probably. 

Maybe. 

Shit. 

His hands are shaking slightly as he types back.

yeah mate just finished up. i can come over like now???? if that works for u

The first message was delivered almost an hour ago, and yet Roy’s response comes immediately.

Yeah, alright. See you soon.

Jamie reads the words over and over again, slowly becoming more and more terrified of what might await over at Roy’s, but very, very bravely gets in his car and begins the drive over anyway.

His fingers tap out a nervous, erratic beat on the steering wheel, his mind still racing with possibilities for what Roy could want to talk about even as he zips down the motorway. 

Jamie’s been so fucking good, is the thing. He’s good mates with the rest of the lads now, and he’s a team player, and they’re all getting a proper hang of Total Football. He’s not been a prick in ages, least unless it were necessary like with the Arsenal match. And he’s been working so fucking hard to be good for Roy, specifically, throwing his all into whatever Roy tells him to do without any complaint and always, always coming back for more no matter how much he sometimes wants to just collapse and melt into the ground because his body’s basically turned to mush. And, yeah, all the pain is worth it because it’s improving his game and everyone can see it, but it’s not just that. It’s also worth it because sometimes, when he does a really good job, Roy’ll tell him so, and suddenly Jamie could fucking fly even if he’d just been dying seconds before. It’s also worth it because it means Jamie gets to spend time with Roy, like, all the time, which is fucking mint. Spending time with Roy is like the greatest thing ever. Which is why he makes such an effort to be fucking good for him. He doesn’t want to go back to lonely mornings and boring afternoons and a life without Roy in it. He can’t.

He’s been good. He’s been a good friend — just a good friend — because that’s what Roy wants from him, and he doesn’t even care if it’s not the same as what he wants from Roy as long as he gets to stick at Roy’s side. Well, he does care — a lot, actually — but he tries really, really fucking hard not to. The only thing he’s ever done otherwise is the touching thing, because he just can’t fucking help it, not when it’s Roy and not when it’s them. That tiny little detail can’t have ruined everything, though, could it?

The drive is way too fucking short for Jamie to do much of anything except rile himself up even more, ‘cause soon enough he’s pulling into Roy’s drive with the sinking feeling that he’s fucked it all up forever. 

He forces himself to take a deep breath the way Dr. Sharon taught him, ‘cause it’s been a year since she left the club but her advice still helps him, and sure enough it does calm him down enough that he can get out of the car, walk over to Roy’s front door, and hesitantly knock.

It immediately swings open like Roy’s just been waiting on the other side for Jamie to get here.

Roy looks like shit.

Well, no, that’s not true. Roy never looks like shit, obviously. He’s one of the fittest blokes Jamie knows. But he does look fucking stressed out, and he’s frowning like he’s in pain, and he won’t meet Jamie’s eyes, like, at all.

Jamie begins to panic again.

“If I did summat to make you mad, Coach, I’m so sorry and it’ll never happen again, promise!” he blurts, hoping to stop whatever’s about to happen before Roy starts yelling. “Please don’t be mad at me. I don’t know what I did but I didn’t mean to, swear down. ”

Roy stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “What? No, I’m not mad at you,” he replies like that’s ridiculous even though it is, quite historically, not. “I just need to talk to you about something.”

Jamie blinks. “What d’you need to talk about if you ain’t mad?” he asks, now genuinely confused. In all the scenarios he’d imagined, no matter what he’d done, Roy had been angry with him. 

Roy, for some reason, frowns deeper. He’s back to not looking at Jamie. “Stuff,” he grunts. “Just. Will you come inside?”

“Yeah, alright.” 

Jamie figures things can’t get any more confusing than they already are, so he follows Roy into the living room, plopping down on the couch and gesturing impatiently for Roy to take a seat next to him.

Roy does, except he sits way on the other end like he never does anymore, so even though he’s apparently not angry, Jamie knows whatever he’s about to say must be serious.

“Jamie, I…” Roy growls, looking up at the ceiling. His fists clench and unclench in his lap. “You… I… We’re friends, right?”

Jamie stares at him, thrown so incredibly off guard that it takes him multiple seconds before he can find the words to haltingly say, “Er, yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Roy nods. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

Under different circumstances, this simple sentence would have Jamie fucking jumping for joy, but Roy still looks like he’s fucking dying, so he really only feels a deep sense of dread. 

Roy clears his throat. “Right. Well. Rebecca yelled at me today. Asked me what I want and shit. And it’s something I’ve been thinking about lately…” He suddenly focuses in on Jamie, staring at him intensely. “Are you still in love with Keeley?”

This, too, takes Jamie by far more surprise than probably necessary. “What?” is all he can think to say at first.

Roy winces. “Are you—“

“I heard what you said,” Jamie interrupts, shaking his head. He shrugs. “I dunno. She’s great, and she means a lot to me, but if you’re asking if I’m gonna like, have a problem if you two get back together or summat—“

“What?” Now it’s Roy’s turn to look confused. “No, we’re not getting back together. That’s all over. We’re just friends now. I’m talking about you and her.”

“There isn’t a me and her?” Jamie replies, although it comes out more like a question. He has no idea why Roy’s asking any of this if he’s not looking to date Keeley again. “Like, we’re friends, but that’s it. I love her, yeah, but as a friend, not like I used to.”

Roy nods. “Right. Me too.”

“You’re not in love with Keeley?” Jamie asks, gobsmacked. 

Roy sighs, shaking his head. “I was for a long time, but not anymore. I probably need to talk to her, too, but that’s not the point. You’re really not in love with Keeley?”

“No?” Jamie’s entirely lost now. “And you aren’t, either?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Jamie nods like any of this makes sense, and stubbornly squashes down any of the hope that’s trying to rise inside him. Just because Roy doesn’t love Keeley anymore doesn’t mean Jamie has any fucking chance. “So… Why’d you ask?”

Roy immediately goes right back to glaring at the ceiling. “Because. I. Have been thinking. About what Rebecca said.” He closes his eyes. “About what I want. And I needed to know if you were still hung up on Keeley before I said anything, because… Fuck, this is hard.”

Jamie frowns, growing concerned, and hesitantly scoots closer, reaching out to lay one supportive hand on Roy’s shoulder. “‘S alright, mate. Whatever you need to say, take your time. I’m listening, yeah?”

He’s sort of copying the words that Dr. Sharon always said to him when he couldn’t figure out how to get all his thoughts out of his head, except she said it a lot better, but maybe it works anyway, because Roy sighs and opens his eyes, looking right at Jamie.

Slowly, Roy reaches up and covers Jamie’s hand with his own.

Jamie’s heart skips a beat, but he tries his best to look unaffected.

His heart stops entirely, though, when Roy leans in, reaching up with the hand not holding Jamie’s to gently cup Jamie’s cheek, and kisses him.

Jamie makes a noise in the back of his throat that he didn’t know was physically possible, because holy fucking shit, what the actual fuck, but Roy must think it’s a bad thing, because he starts to pull away. 

Well, Jamie’s not having that, obviously, so he just follows Roy’s movement until Roy’s trapped between him and the arm of the couch, which is fucking lovely because it means Jamie can hoist himself onto Roy’s lap, wrap his legs around Roy’s waist, and kiss him right back with their chests rested against each other. It’s right where Jamie knows he belongs.

Roy gasps, just a little hitch in the back of his throat, but thankfully gets with the fucking programme again, his hand curling slightly against Jamie’s jaw. Fucking hell, Jamie never imagined that their first kiss would be this fucking gentle, but it is, all soft lips and slow, almost shy tongues. Jamie never fucking wants it to stop. He’s still got one hand on Roy’s shoulder, but he brings his other up to pull himself even closer, ‘cause every centimetre of space between them needs to go right fucking now, how is this even real?

Roy squeezes Jamie’s hand, running his other through Jamie’s hair, which is so fucking lovely that Jamie might actually fucking whine, and pulls back. Not much, but enough that they’re not kissing anymore.

This time, Jamie definitely whines.

“Why’d you stop?” Jamie asks, far more breathless than he has any right to be.

Roy’s looking at him like he can’t quite believe this is real, either. “I didn’t think you… I didn’t know you felt the same way.”

Jamie gapes at him. “I didn’t know you did! What the fuck, Roy?” He’s not mad, obviously. He can’t be mad about something as amazing as this. But he is fucking shocked.

Roy chuckles, clearly just as thrown. “We’re fucking idiots, aren’t we?” 

“Definitely,” Jamie agrees. He runs a hand through his hair, and when it bumps into Roy’s, he just intertwines their fingers and pulls their hands back between them. “Fuck, how long have you liked me? How long could we have been doing this?” 

“Months. Probably longer.” Roy shrugs. “You?”

“Fucking ages,” Jamie answers truthfully. “Ever since I were a lad, honestly. ‘Cept it’s different now that I actually know you.”

“Why? Do I not live up to your expectations?”

Jamie shakes his head. “Nah, mate. You’re better.”

Now it’s Roy’s turn to make a sound Jamie’s never heard a human make before, kind of like he’s been punched in the throat, but then he’s smiling, so it must be a good thing. 

“So, wait,” Jamie says, staring down in something like awe at their tangled-up hands, running his thumb over Roy’s knuckles just because he can, which is fucking mental. “The thing you realised you wanted… was me?”

“Fucking obviously,” Roy replies, but his tone is light. Affectionate.

Jamie breaks out into a grin. “Fucking mint, ” he says. “Fucking knew you liked me. Not like this, but, you know. In general.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Roy tells him, but he pulls Jamie’s hand up and kisses it softly.

Jamie smiles wider. There’s really only one thing that would make this better — well, two, he supposes. They could kiss again. But the other thing… 

“Hey, can I do something?” he asks, entranced by the image of Roy’s lips against his skin.

Roy nods. “Sure.”

So Jamie does. He lets go of Roy’s hands — both of them, which is fucking sad but unfortunately necessary, and, like he’s been wanting to do for so fucking long he barely remembers what it feels like not to, pulls Roy into a hug.

Roy sighs like he’s feeling the exact same wave of relief that’s hitting Jamie right about now, and hugs him back.

“Been wanting to do this for ages, too,” Jamie mumbles, bending to press his face into Roy’s shoulder and just breathing in the smell there, a smell he associates with comfort and safety. It’s part of why he wears Roy’s kit all the time. That and the fact that he just likes being dressed in Roy’s name, of course. “You have no idea how much I want to touch you all the fucking time. It was driving me mad.”

“Fuck,” Roy breathes in that way he does when he’s realised something.

Jamie makes a questioning sound, nuzzling closer into the crook of Roy’s neck. When Roy brings a hand up to start petting his hair, Jamie thinks he could actually float away. 

“You have no idea how much I want to touch you all the time,” Roy replies.

Jamie curls a little closer in response. “Fucking do it, then. Whenever you fucking want. Please.”

“I’m a lot,” Roy warns. 

Jamie doesn’t know how Roy could ever think that. “You’re perfect.” He smiles into Roy’s skin, pressing light kisses against his neck. “I like having you around all the time. Never want you to have to go.”

“Fuck,” Roy sighs. He squeezes Jamie tighter, practically crushing him with the force, and it’s so fucking amazing that Jamie might cry. “I don’t, either.”

“Then don’t,” Jamie tells him. It’s really quite simple. He doesn’t know why they haven’t figured out this solution earlier. They’re definitely idiots. 

“Okay.”

Jamie hums, satisfied.

“Have you eaten yet?” Roy asks. His chest rumbles against Jamie when he talks, and Jamie thinks it’s one of the best things he’s ever felt.

“Nah. Was gonna order summat, though.”

Roy kisses the shell of his ear, which makes Jamie’s heart do a funny little flip in his chest, and says, “I made salmon. I saved extra for you if you want it.”

Jamie considers it. “Do we have to get up?” He’s not ready to let go quite yet. Or ever.

“To go and get it, yeah.”

“Don’t wanna.”

Roy huffs a laugh, warm breath ghosting over Jamie’s skin with how close the two of them are. “How about if I hold your hand until we can sit down again, and then we can cuddle while you eat?” he suggests. 

“Fine,” Jamie huffs, mostly because he knows he’s going to regret it if he skips dinner, and lets Roy hoist both of them to their feet.

True to his word, Roy presses right back up to him as they squish onto the bench in the breakfast nook, running his fingers through Jamie’s hair and down the back of his neck as Jamie makes quick work of his dinner. Then they’re back to the couch, ‘cause that’s a lot more comfortable than a wooden bench, and Jamie curls into a ball in Roy’s lap, feeling safe and protected and so indescribably comfortable that he could probably fall asleep right here and get some of the best rest he’s had in ages.

“Jamie.”

“Hm?”

“It’s time for training.”

Jamie blinks open his eyes, his head fuzzy like he’s just woken up, and finds that they’ve moved slightly so that he’s laying on Roy’s chest, head nestled into the crook of Roy’s neck and one of Roy’s hands still petting Jamie’s hair. Fuck, he actually fell asleep, didn’t he? 

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Five more minutes.”

Roy chuckles, kissing the top of his head. “Yeah, alright.”

Jamie smiles, moving up to lazily kiss Roy as a way of thanks, and then he’s right back to nuzzling into Roy’s neck. He thinks he might be the happiest he’s ever been.

They don’t end up training. They stay on the couch, instead, holding each other close, with Roy’s hands in Jamie’s hair and Jamie’s limbs tangled up with Roy’s, until it’s time for bed.

“Stay?” Roy asks, running a gentle thumb over the slit on Jamie’s eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, relieved that he won’t have to go home. Hopefully, he won’t have to go home ever again. At least, not the one that doesn’t really feel like home anyway, not without Roy around. “With you, right? Not the guest room?”

Roy chuckles, shaking his head. “Not the fucking guest room.”

Jamie grins. “Mint.”

Jamie never realised how much of his stuff was actually here until he gleefully moves it all, setting a dozen different products right next to a bottle of fucking 3-in-1, because Roy’s an actual fucking caveman, but Jamie doesn’t even mind because the sight of all of them together makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything. Even 3-in-1. 

And when they’re both done getting ready for bed, Jamie back in the KENT 6 shirt because he gets cold upstairs, and also because there’s no way he’s not wearing it, not tonight, Jamie snuggles up against Roy like it’s coming home and closes his eyes, utterly content.

“You can keep the kit, you know,” Roy whispers into his ear. “You look way fitter in it than I do.”

Jamie smiles, hugging himself a little closer to Roy’s chest. “Please. It was already mine.”

“Prick,” Roy says, his voice light.

“Granddad,” Jamie sighs happily.

Roy chuckles, pressing a kiss against Jamie’s hair. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

“Goodnight, Roy.”

Jamie falls asleep so easily, safe in Roy’s arms, and Roy falls asleep so easily, too, knowing Jamie is safe in his. And somewhere deep, deep down, an ache fades. For both of them.