Chapter Text
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
You.
-Boo Forever, by Richard Brautigan
It starts with a post-practice locker room comment from Issac.
“Hey bruv, what’s it on your back?”
Jamie, halfway out of his kit, turns around to see half his teammates looking at him with curiosity. “What?”
“There is a giant bruise on your back, Jamie Tartt!” Dani says, as sincere as ever. Sure as shit, when Jamie twists to look in the mirror, there is a bruise. An ugly little fucker too- a blotch the size of a fist, painted blue and purple over the right side of his back below his shoulder blade.
They’ve been practicing for five hours, double conditioning and everything, so yeah there’s probably half a dozen bruises of unknown origin on his body. He says as much, rolling his eyes good naturedly as the team makes crude jokes about his sex life. “Whatever mate, at least I’m getting laid!” Jamie jokes back, complete with eye brow wiggling and a smirk. Which is a lie because honestly, Jamie's been abnormally tired this pre-season so thoughts of hooking up have really gone out the window. Instead, there’s been many evenings in front of the telly and early nights curled up under his fuzzy blue blanket in bed.
The bruise sticks around for a long time, longer than any of his other training bruises. Little marks appear here and there, deep hue of blue and giant splotches of purple, all in random places. Places he doesn’t remember hitting during training, like the back of his ribs, the inside of his bicep, the fleshy part of his right thigh. They grow bigger and more colorful before they fade. But they do fade so Jamie brushes it off.
A few weeks after the bruises start, Jamie gets the scare of his life when he wakes up in the dead of the night with a wet face and a pillow case drenched in blood. The scream he lets out is one he’ll be taking to his grave, thank you very much. It takes an hour, a discarded hand towel, and a entire box of tissues for the bleeding to slow down. Looking down at the basket of bloodied paper, Jamie has half a mind to freak out, but he’s tired and there’s training in the morning and Colin was complaining about allergy season the other day so Jamie puts it aside and tries to catch another hour of sleep before the day starts.
But then two days later, Jamie’s getting reamed out by the team’s nutritionist for having dropped a full stone since his last weigh in. He argues and argues with her because he’s a fucking professional, okay? He eats his meal plan, without deviation, every single day. He doesn’t fuck with his caloric intake because food fuels his body and his body is a fucking temple. A six pack doesn’t maintain itself and he didn’t get to be one of the best players in the Premier League without understanding the importance of nutrition.
The nutritionist suggests making an appointment with Dr. Sharon and Jamie can hear the unspoken accusation- that’s he’s not eating, that’s he’s losing weight on purpose, that he might have an eating disorder. The door of her office slams against the wall when he storms out and he doesn’t apologize until two days later. He ends up with a different meal plan and a warning that if he’s dropped any more weight at his next check in, then they’ll have to bring in coaches. It’s stupid, but Jamie doesn’t argue.
It isn’t until he wakes up on a Thursday two months later with his body aching and a raging fever that Jamie even considers going to the doctor. Jamie is sure he’ll go in, test off the charts for the flu, and spend a few days recovering in bed.
The doctor takes one look at the bruising on his arms and the tiny red rash that had mysteriously appeared overnight and cautiously tells him that they’re going to run some bloodwork.
Whatever, it’s just the flu.
Only, it’s not just the flu.
It’s much, much worse.