Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jamie doesn’t know when it starts exactly. Well, he knows how this starts, this right here starts with fucking Zava. He means that he doesn’t know when he started feeling like this. Sometimes, he thinks he always has.

Anyway, it doesn’t really fucking matter, does it? Because Jamie is feeling like this right now. Empty and aching. Alone, discarded, abandoned. Just really fucking miserable in general.

And it’s not like he doesn’t get it. Of course he gets it. Zava is an amazing player and they can really use him out on the field and they’ve been winning with him there. Of course Jamie can understand why everyone is excited.

It just also hurts. It really fucking hurts.

Because everything Zava is doing, is all the things the team hated him for. Jamie has pulled himself up from the lowest point he reached, embarrassed himself by crawling back and apologizing to everyone, because he wanted to be the person Ted thought he could be. That Keeley thought he could be. That mummy believed he already is. Put himself through way too much self reflection and work and talking, to mold himself into a person the team could like.

Yeah, Jamie doesn’t regret it, likes who he is now a whole lot better than who he used to be. But seeing Zava get away with all the things Jamie got ousted for. Seeing Zava get celebrated for the same things Jamie had to change about himself in order to be worthy of affection. That fucking stings.

He had always thought that those parts of him were undesirable – sure he gets to be a prick on the field sometimes, but only when it’s useful, only when others allow him – but as it turns out, it’s not those personality traits. You can be an arrogant, goal hogging prick. You just can’t be Jamie when doing those things.

That realization is probably going to stick with him for the rest of his life. For however short the rest of his life might be, at least.

Like Jamie said, he feels really fucking miserable.

Today has been the shittiest day to date, a new low. A shit fucking mid-week match… that they won, but Jamie didn’t go out to celebrate. Didn’t feel like it. He still hasn’t scored this season and Zava being here is starting to mess with his stats, and if his stats get fucked, he might as well say goodbye to his career and a possible call up for England. But Ted doesn’t seem to care about it, not like he did when Jamie was the one doing it.

But that’s not even the worst part. It’s the way everyone crowded Zava after, like he is some sort of Messiah or some shit. How none of them seem to notice Jamie doesn’t join in. Like he can just disappear into the background and no one would notice. Like no one misses him.

Jamie knows he craves attention a bit too much from time to time. Knows he needs to get a healthier relationship with his need for attention, he does, truly. But this doesn’t feel like that. He’s not sulky, because he didn’t get the spotlight, he’s upset because all his friends are ignoring him.

A part of him can’t help but wonder if they were ever his friends at all. If they can drop him this easily, who is to say they ever cared in the first place? Jamie has been replaced by a shinier model. By a teammate who scores all the goals, but still gets celebrated.

His lip wobbles as he realizes that none of the lads were his friend, that they just put up with him because he scored and they needed him and him doing better made him tolerable, but it was never about him as a person. That they were all happy to drop him the moment they could. That Jamie has been pathetically thinking the others like him, while he is merely a nuisance to put up with to them instead.

It aches. His throat burns and the tears he refuses to let out make his eyes itch. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He doesn’t want to have to go into work tomorrow and hear all about this crazy night out that he didn’t attend, because he was feeling like shit, but no one else noticed he missed.

He’s tired.

He’s done.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore.

In a bout of upset, he goes to his bathroom and fishes out a bottle of the strong painkillers that he never used when he was injured that one time, because he was still telling himself that taking painkillers means you’re a pussy.

Jamie is already shaking the pills into his hand when he remembers there are two steps to this process and he’s doing them out of order. Annoyed, he shakes the pills back into the bottle and goes searching for a pen and a notepad or something.

He ends up finding one on the coffee table, probably left there by Keeley, because she sometimes comes over and works on his couch. She hasn’t done that in a while either. Jamie tries to convince himself it’s just because she’s busy, but he doesn’t succeed.

Sniffling and blinking away the tears, he sits there on the floor next to his coffee table, legs crossed under him, notepad in front, the pills just off to the side, ready to be taken when he is done with writing this.

This being a suicide note. Because that is what Jamie is doing. Or planning to do anyway. And he knows this is a part of it, right. To say goodbye. Give closure as to why. Confirm that you did it yourself and shit. He knows this.

Hell, it’s not even the first time he thought the two steps through; 1) Write letter, 2) Kill yourself. Easy steps. Simple.

It doesn’t feel simple now.

He sits there in front of his coffee table and feels a little bit like a knob, unsure where to even begin now that he’s here. Probably an opening right? A sort of greeting to the person reading.

To whoever is reading this , he starts. He studies it, then scowls a little. It doesn’t really feel like that’s how you should start your suicide note, he feels. He thinks that you should at least direct it at someone, right?

So, he crosses it out and starts again: Dear everyone, but that also makes him stop. Kind of presumptuous right? To assume everyone will care. That anyone will care really.

Tears well up again, because he’s not even directing this at anyone specific, because he doesn’t know if anyone will care and he’s trying to convince himself that they do – like he’s done for the last year – by starting it like this, but they probably don’t. None of them care.

A few drops fall onto the paper and Jamie swallows thickly, crossing out those words too with a heavy heart.

Afterwards, he just stares blankly at the notepad in front of him, wondering who the fuck he’ll write the letter for instead. Who will notice he’s gone? Will anyone? Will the lads be worried when he doesn’t come in tomorrow and go check? Will one of the coaches, annoyed with him for skipping training? Or will it be the neighbors when he stinks? Are the houses too far apart for that?

Jamie doesn’t really know and that makes him sad. He hopes someone will find him. That someone will care. Though, he also feels bad about whoever does care. That he’ll make one final mess for someone to clean up.

Spurred on by the guilt, Jamie writes down: To the person who just found me. I’m fucking sorry, I - he hesitates, unsure what his explanation is. After a beat, he finishes: I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t mean to make your day hard. I’m sorry.

And now he’s fully crying again. Crying hard. He’s full on sobbing. Because he truly didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it.

He never meant to be so much of a prick that everyone hated him, he didn’t mean to make everyone’s life hard, didn’t mean to make everyone put up with him. Didn’t mean to make himself part of a team that didn’t want him. Truly. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have forced himself on everyone outside of training, wouldn’t have said yes to the in hindsight obligatory invitations, wouldn’t have made himself a part of celebrations. Swear down.

It makes him feel even more miserable and shit, to put together how annoyed everyone must have been every time he said yes. How they probably kept hoping he’d say no, but he was too stupid to do so every single fucking time. How glad they must be to be out there celebrating without him. How none of them probably miss him.

Jamie cries and cries, heaving sobs that wrack through his body as the room becomes too blurry to even make out, hands shaking. It hurts to sob the way he is. Like his chest is trying to cave in on itself and his eyes can’t bear to be open anymore.

In the end, he sobs until he falls asleep face first onto his coffee table. The 90 minute game he’d played earlier that evening along with the emotional exhaustion of his breakdown catching up with him and pulling him under.

When he wakes up, he has a pounding headache and his eyes are puffy beyond saving. He’s already going to be late, so he decides to take some time with an ice cube and some products to try and get the redness down. He feels incredibly embarrassed now that it’s morning. Like who tries to fucking kill themselves because his friends made new friends? They fucking won yesterday, didn’t they? His life is fucking great. He was just being dramatic.

That belief gets rattled somewhat when he skids into the empty locker room, the four cubbies marking Zava’s importance looming over him as he gets ready.

And it’s rattled more when he makes it onto the pitch – only five minutes late – and Ted smiles: “Hiya there, Jamie. You out late celebrating? I hope you’re ready to sweat it off,” before nodding at him to go run laps. Only Roy sends him a furrowed brow look.

Now Jamie knows the coaches don’t always go out celebrating, but they’re usually somewhat up to date on what happened out during the celebration and Jamie begged off while still in the locker room. They could have missed that, but had no one mentioned Jamie skipping out?

The knowledge sits heavily in his stomach as he does his laps, worming into his brain and messing with his head. Naturally that leads to him having a shit day when it comes to training, which would have been bad enough on his own, but it’s made worse by the fact that no one seems to notice or care that Jamie – Jamie – is fucking up.

He knows that’s egocentric and he shouldn’t think like that, but it claws at him anyway. How no one there tells him to be a goldfish. How no one needs him to be good anymore. How he can play like shit and it all doesn’t matter anyway.

Jamie carries the bad feeling all the way home.

At home, he drops his bag right by the floor, stumbling over to the couch, ready to drop on it and sleep until tomorrow. To say fuck eating, fuck more comfortable clothes. Just unconsciousness.

But unconsciousness doesn’t come. He flops onto the couch and even though he feels exhausted, he is no longer tired. His eyes burn, but they refuse to close. Due to this, his eyes fall onto the his project from the day before, the notepad and pills staring back at him.

This morning, he felt embarrassed by it, but now, the sight somehow makes him feel better. Which is probably fucked up, but he’s too exhausted to care about any of that right now, because he feels like shit and he needs something to make him feel better. A suicide note might not be the ideal pick-me-up for everyone, but it works for Jamie right now.

It feels final, in a sense. Like it’s going to be over soon, like he doesn’t have to keep doing this, doesn’t have to keep feeling like this. It’s nice. He just has to write his letter, take some pills and he can leave it all behind him. It makes him feel peaceful.

Since sleep isn’t going to happen, he slides off the couch and onto the floor, taking a seat in front of the coffee table once more.

He looks over the starts he wrote yesterday and decides they’re all a bit too pathetic. He still feels bad for whoever is going to find him, but seeing as it’s probably going to be a copper doing a wellness check or some shit, maybe he shouldn’t address the letter to them. However, he also doesn’t want to assume everyone will care. He needs a middle ground.

Jamie mulls it over for a moment, chewing at the end of his pen, before writing down: To whomever it may concern.

Cocking his head, Jamie frowns to himself, trying to decide what he thinks. It doesn’t really feel like him, does it? He thinks others won’t associate it with him at least, but it’s what his mummy always started her emails and letters with.

She likes sending strongly worded letters to the council for them to fix the lanterns when they go out or to fill the potholes, or to tell them they need to do something about the unsafe crossing near the school. They never do, but she keeps writing. She always told him not to underestimate the power of a polite, yet forceful email.

But Jaime doesn’t think his last goodbye should be a strongly worded letter, or a polite yet forceful email. That doesn’t really feel like the way he wants to go. Besides, what would be even write? There is nothing for him to say. Nothing that wouldn’t make him sound like a moody little bitch.

And he wouldn’t want to do that to everyone either. They might not care about him, but they’re all good people, unlike Jamie, so they’ll feel bad if he does that. Even if right now he’s feeling hurt, it’s not their fault Jamie mistook their kindness for friendship. He doesn’t want to accuse any of them for making him feel like this, even if they do, because it’s not like they’re doing it on purpose.

Which makes him wonder why he’s even writing them the letter. Sure, they’re the closest by, so there is a chance someone might notice him gone and go check, but they don’t really care about Jamie beyond obligation. He shouldn’t force them into this as well. He’s already done that enough.

There is only one person, who has ever loved him unconditionally. Or maybe even one person, who loved him, period. One person, who would actually miss him. One person he misses. One person who would want to hear from him.

Mummy.

Fuck, he fucking misses her.

He hadn’t really spoken to her in years until last year. Back when he was still playing with City, he was in so deep with his dad that it just hurt them both to talk. He felt too bad, hearing how she’d know something was wrong and tried to push and he would snap just to keep her away. He’d always want to keep her away from him . Especially since it was Jamie that got him back into their life.

So, it weren’t until he was playing full time at Richmond and basically dirt on the boots of his dad, meaning he didn’t care enough to berate Jamie – something he should have been grateful for, but that hurt nonetheless, like he wasn’t even worthy enough to be mad at – he found it in himself to contact mummy again.

Jamie had tentatively invited himself to her Christmas celebration with Simon, so fucking relieved when she was only happy to have him there.

They’ve been calling since. He doesn’t go to visit her. Not really. He wants to. God, does he keep wanting to. And he knows that if he goes, it’ll be like it always is and he’ll feel better, like he did at Christmas.

But he always stops himself. Can’t make himself go into her space, her life. The life she built in his absence, because he had his head too far up dad’s arse to even realize how he was hurting her. How she always supported him, even when he wasn’t talking to her. How he made her proud , even when he didn’t deserve it.

He always feels like he’ll taint her life somehow. Like he’ll touch it with the skin that dad poured so much shit in that it’s bound to leak out and fuck up her life. Like he’s too much his father’s son now to ever go back to being the mummy’s boy he used to be.

Again tears prickle in his eyes, because he knows that this will fuck her up too, but at least it’ll be the last time he does it. So he swallows thickly and writes down: Dear mummy, and the words look right on the page for the first time.

The only thing that makes it look wrong is that it’s underneath all his other attempts. The ones not directed to her, as if she’s some sort of afterthought instead of the most important person in his life. Tearing the page off, he puts it to the side carefully. He supposes he should crumble it up and toss it away all dramatic like, the way they do in the movies.

But it’s not the movies now, is it? And he likes the way it looks on his table, so he doesn’t. Instead he turns to the new page and once more writes down: Dear mummy,

Feeling satisfied, he nods to himself, before he remembers he now has to figure out what to write down next. He knows he wants his letter to be for mummy, but he also doesn’t want to put her through more hurt.

It hits him and he writes down: Mummy, I love you so much, please don’t be sad. I never want to make you sad. Never wanted that. Ever. I’m so sorry I made you sad all those times. I know I hurt you and I’d take it back if I could. Swear down. You were the best mummy I could have asked for. You’re the only person who made me feel loved and that meant so much to me. You mean so much to me. You deserve the fucking world. You deserved a better son. You deserve to be happy. So please don’t be sad, I love you.

Mummy, I’m sorry I didn’t call more, that I don’t come to visit. I’m sorry for not being a better son when you deserved it. I’m sorry for believing dad. Sorry for following him so much. Sorry for smearing his shit in your life for so long.

Writing it all down, seeing his own words and feelings reflected back at him, makes shame curl up in his stomach. It curdles there and he dry heaves, nearly vomiting on his rug. He fucking likes that rug and he thinks it’s probably more embarrassing to be found next to a pile of vomit.

There is nothing in his stomach to throw up. Didn’t see the point of eating when he’s not really going to use the energy anyway. It means that the little bile that comes up is acid and it burns in his throat when it comes up, his nose too when he nearly chokes on it and it goes up, before he can swallow it back down .

Jamie feels gross and pathetic and he wants mummy and he wants to cry an get a hug, but he’s all alone and he’s made mummy sad enough times to not want to do it again.

Can he do this now?

Can he make her sad like this?

Is it presumptuous to assume she’d even be sad after all he put her through?

He hugs his knees to his chest, curling up right in front of his couch and burying his face between his knees. As if he can hide from his feelings in the comfort of a fetal position. As if holding himself will ever feel like someone else holding him.

Fuck, he really doesn’t want to be alone right now. He’d prefer to be curled up in mummy’s arms, but it’s not like he can drive four hours, get a cuddle, drive four hours back and be on time for training. He was already late yesterday.

…But, a voice in his mind whispers, no one cared that you were late yesterday and if you go through with this, you won’t make it to the end of the season to pay that fine anyway. He can just fuck off, get a hug from his mummy, say sorry to her properly instead of through a letter, then leave her knowing it wasn’t her fault and that she can be happy to be rid of him. He can do that.

But Jamie knows he won’t.

He still cares about the team, even if they don’t care about him. He doesn’t want to leave with them thinking he’s gone back to his uncaring prick ways, even if it might make his final days easier.

Guiltily, he can admit to himself, that he also doesn’t want to do that, because a part of him is scared to get the confirmation that behaving like that, isn’t okay when you’re Jamie. That even though he already knows that is the case, he’ll get the confirmation that it’s true. That when he goes back to acting like Zava is now, he’ll get glares for it.

That they’ll hate him.

He doesn’t want them to hate him…

Jamie just wants his friends to be his friends. To have them care about him and know that they do, instead of feeling like this. That they love him, like he loves them. That they’re all Richmond until they die and he is a part of them.

God, he wishes he weren’t such a coward. That he could pick up his phone and text Colin to see if he want s to play some FIFA or Dani to see if they can hang, or Sam if he need s help at Ola’s. But reaching out means they might say no. Means they might say yes, but don’t mean it and Jamie will know that now.

So, he doesn’t call, doesn’t text, doesn’t reach out. Just sits on the floor and feels sorry for himself. It’s fucking pathetic that he can’t even seem to do this right. That he’s still stuck on fucking step one of a simple two step plan. That he can’t even write a letter without being a soft pussy about it.

He rips the page out of the notepad and crumbles it up angrily, before realizing what he’s done and trying to smooth it back out. He can’t salvage it. It feels symbolic.

Trying not to let it get to him, he tells himself it was a rough draft anyway and he doesn’t care. Sniffles and rubs his eyes, before starting over: Dear mummy,

I’m so alone. I don’t want to be alone. No one here wants me, no one has ever wanted me, except for you. You always kept your door open to me. I know I can reach out. I know you’d be here, but I don’t want to make you sad. I always seem to make you sad. I’m sorry for making you sad now, but I promise it’ll be the last time. Please don’t be sad for me.

His eyes blur so much that he can’t see through the tears anymore. He doesn’t know why this is so hard, why he feels like he flays himself open . Why he wants this letter to mean something. Why he doesn’t just keep it short and simple, so he can move on. Not like anyone will care. He rips the page out once more and starts again:

Dear mummy,

I’m sorry for doing this to you. I just feel so unwanted and I can’t do it anymore. I thought they were my friends, but I wasn’t. It’s okay to act the way I did that made everyone hate me, as long as it’s not me doing it and knowing that is killing me. That it was always me that was the problem. That I can’t make myself into something lovable. I’m sorry I’m going to make you sad again. Please don’t be sad, mummy. I love you too much to want to make you sad. I’m sorry I can’t seem to help myself. That I always hurt you without meaning to.

Live your life for me, don’t be sad. I love you,

Jamie.

He looks at it. Short and simple.

It should be a relief.

It’s not.

At it’s core, it’s exactly what is happening right now. How he feels, displayed out there yet so achingly empty. He doesn’t like feeling empty. He hates it. He fucking hates it. He doesn’t want his last words to be words he hated.

He knows that no one except mummy will care, that he’s not going to be around long to feel bad about it, but right now he feels like nothing he did ever mattered. He wants it to matter. He needs it to have mattered. He needs everything he did to have been for something. Needs to show everyone that he changed and that was good. That he was a person and he was sad and it wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t love Jamie, but it wasn’t Jamie’s fault either.

Again he starts: Dear mummy,

Again. Dear mummy,

Again. Dear mummy,

Again. Dear mummy,

Dear mummy, I’m scared.

Dear mummy, I want it to stop.

Dear mummy, I don’t even know what I did wrong.

Dear mummy, did you ever love me?

Dear mummy…

He rips out page after page, his coffee table slowly becoming filled with attempted suicide notes, like he is a lawyer in some high case thriller movie, trying to find the clue in a bunch of files. Like if he tries enough times to pour his heart out over the page, he’ll be left with words he’d want mummy to have. That they’ll be good enough for her.

The words never seem to come. He just keeps trying and he only spirals more, because it’s not just Zava and the team, is it? Jamie has always felt like this. Has never been able to escape the ache that made itself at home in his chest, before he even knew what it was. Hurts piling up on top of hurts that he never had the courage to speak about , but has always wanted someone to know without having to face them afterwards. It all just comes pouring out.

By the time he comes up for air after ripping himself to shreds, it’s because his alarm is going. He has to get moving if he wants to get to training.

For a moment, he just stares at his phone, letting the alarm go even though it grates on his ears, because he is too tired to move to even turn it off. He debates whether he should even go to training. He has enough letters for mummy that she’s bound to like one of them, right? He could just go right now and be done with it. Cross step one off the list and move onto step two.

However arbitrary, he feels like suicide is the kind of thing you do at night. It doesn’t feel like a morning activity. Mornings are for fresh starts and facing the world. This is a shameful thing to be hidden in the night, tucked away from the eyes of sensible people, who aren’t fucked in the head like he is.

So, Jamie removes himself from the floor and stumbles over to the shower. His legs feel wobbly like a baby deer and he is exhausted to all hell, but he manages to make it, shucking off his clothes and leaving them on the floor as he goes.

He tells himself he’ll pick them up later and knows that is a lie. Laundry has been piling up for weeks now and so have his dishes. The house smells rank, since he hasn’t opened a window in ages, and dust floats around, because he canceled on his cleaning lady, Margret, too many times in a row now. He still pays her, of course, because he’s not a monster, but she hasn’t been here. Maybe she is the one to find him when he finally does do it. He feels bad about that, but not enough to not want to change.

Under the shower, he is too tired to do anything other than stand there and even that he gives up halfway through. Sitting on the tiles makes him feel gross, but he supposes it’s better than nothing. He wonders if you can drown in the shower, then decides that’s too undignified.

It is also pretty undignified when he crawls out of the shower, because standing is too much and he usually wouldn’t be caught dead in the ensemble he manages to squeeze his body into, but they were just the first clothes he got his hands on that didn’t smell too disgusting.

For breakfast he chokes down a protein bar, which is definitely not enough to make up for the dinner he missed yesterday, nor to have as breakfast in general. However, he’s not sure if he can keep anything else down and the empty ache in his stomach is a distraction from the empty ache in his chest.

When he rolls up to Nelson Road without a minute to spare, he wonders if he can do it. Then he stumbles into the dressing room and Sam frowns: “Are you okay, Jamie?”

“Yeah, mate, just slept like shit,” Jamie smiles back. It’s a lie, but it’s not. He didn’t sleep, but that also kind of means he slept like shit, don’t it? Besides, the little kernel of care is enough to make him feel better, even if he knows he’s pathetic for that. Sam cares, even if that only is because Sam cares about everyone.

“Okay,” Sam says, looking like he doesn’t really believe him when he does. “I’m here, though. If there was anything.”

“Thanks,” Jamie tells him, hoping he sounds grateful and knowing he’s never going to take Sam up on the offer. They already put up with him enough, he doesn’t want to push more on them. He has his plan, he’ll set them free. No need to burden them before that.

Training goes a little bit better, despite everyone seemingly realizing that Jamie is exhausted. He feels embarrassed about that. Feels almost caught. Feels like they can read on his face why he is so tired and form their judgments about him because of it.

However, it also makes him feel so good. Because yeah, everyone is making faces at him and he is so ashamed he can’t just take it and has his suicide note waiting at home next to a bottle of pills. But they clap him on the back and at the end of training Ted says: “Make sure you get some rest, kiddo. Can’t have you sleeping on the field tomorrow, we need you out there,” and Jamie feels like he’s flying.

They care.

They care .

It’s only for a moment, only because Jamie looks undeniably shit, but they noticed. They care. They need him out there. And that is enough to carry him home and into bed.

His clothes trail behind him and he sleeps in the shirt he pulled out of some crack this morning that is definitely not meant to be slept in. He skips dinner again too, because he’s too tired and he ate a big lunch at the club anyway.

H e knows it’s not good, but Ted said to get his rest. Ted said they needed him. Jamie wants to be needed so badly that he sleeps instead of sitting at his coffee table and maybe that has to be enough for now.

Of course they win their match that Saturday. His hair is a right fucking mess and the breakfast he ate didn’t make up for all the food he’s missed out on. Zava scores all the goals and no one jumps on Jamie to celebrate.

It’ s okay though. Ted said they needed him. He made two of the assists out there today. No one is chanting his name, but Richmond is winning. That’s good. That’s all he should care about.

Jamie slips out of the locker room without even giving an excuse about why he’s not going out with the lads to celebrate. Isaac is probably going to fine him for it at the end of the season, but then again, Isaac has to notice he’s not there in order to do that.

When he gets home he’s so exhausted, he flops down on the couch, confronted with the mess the coffee table has become. The step one he can’t seem to get through sprawled out in front of him accusingly, daring him to finally finish it.

He doesn’t know why he can’t seem to go on with it. He has fel t like this so often , but now he’s finally doing it and that brought him peace, but still he can’t seem to make himself do it. Why does he have to fail at even the simplest of things?

It should be done now. He has a letter for the only person that matters. It doesn’t have to be perfect, he can let her read them all, hope she’ll be able to make sense of them and hope that is enough. He can literally just take the pills and it’ll be over.

But he doesn’t.

Maybe if he’d knocked back those pills this Wednesday, hadn’t bothered with the letters and decided that enough was enough, things would be different now. But they aren’t.

Not entirely, of course. Jamie still feels so fucking alone and like he doesn’t matter and he hates Zava for what he took from him, for what he made Jamie realize. And that doesn’t feel like anything that will just go away. Not unless that hurt is soothed.

Writing those letters helped. It made him feel more in control, less like he was one inconvenience away from exploding or bursting into tears. Made him realize that while he is lonely, he isn’t entirely alone and there is one person he never wants to leave like that.

Jamie lies back on the couch and orders food that is not at all nutritionist approved, then dials a comfortingly familiar number. “Hi, mummy.”

He eats food until he’s nauseous and lets mummy’s voice wash over him. She knows something is up, but she lets him deflect. Another time he might have been tempted to tell her, even though he knows he’d feel shit about worrying her, but today he doesn’t. He feels like he already told her in away.

This time when Jamie falls asleep in his living room, it’s not because he cried himself to the point of exhaustion, it’s because he’s sleepy and satiated and mummy is talking in his ear and it’s like he’s eight again and she doesn’t have to work the night shift.

When the sun rises the next morning, Jamie decides to take some of that fresh start energy. The state of his house is way too overwhelming for him to even begin to think to tackle, but the state of himself seems manageable.

If he’s not going to kill himself yet, he should probably stop looking a mess. He wants people to care, but he doesn’t want them to worry . He’s been acting worryingly lately, that needs to stop. He isn’t going to force everyone to care just because he’s too much of a mess. He won’t put that on them. He is staying for mummy and that’s it. He doesn’t need anyone seeing this ugly part of him. He’s already unlovable enough on his own.

So he chokes down a nutritionist approved breakfast. He draws a bath, reminds himself he’s not going to drown himself and haphazardly moves through his skin care and hair care. He air dries laying on his frankly disgusting bed, then pulls out one of his last sets of clean clothes.

By the time he’s done with that, he is exhausted. He forces down his lunch, then lies on the couch for a nap.

The mess on the coffee table stares back at him.

He should probably clean that up.

Get rid of the evidence

Cleanse himself of it.

Jamie already decided he’s not going to do it, so he should get rid of all that stuff. Fresh start to stop feeling like a pathetic loser, who wanted to kill himself because his friends didn’t carry him on their hands anymore. Like how fucking sad is that?

It would be the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, which naturally that means Jamie isn’t going to do it. No, of course not.

Because, yeah, Jamie decided he’s not going to do it, but it’s mostly a ‘not going to do it now’. He knows the feeling will come back. It always does. Ever since he was a sexy little baby and he took to not looking before crossing the street after a bad practice, because then he didn’t have to go home to dad yelling at him, or mummy looking so devastated after.

And this is the first time he actually took a more active approach, where he didn’t just stop looking before stepping onto the road, didn’t just take a bath drunk while knowing he could drown, didn’t just defend mummy, because maybe this time dad would take it too far. He actually acknowledged what he was doing and made a plan.

Making a plan and getting all the stuff out was freeing in a way he didn’t know before. And yeah, he’s not going to do it. Not now. But knowing he can? Knowing he has everything there and when it all becomes too much, he can just take the pills without thinking? That helps. Makes him feel better.

So, he naps on the couch and leaves the mess on the coffee table. Strips the bed, but doesn’t feel like making it, does a load on laundry, but lets it get ruined by forgetting to put it in the drier. All failed baby steps, but baby steps nonetheless.

He goes to training the next day and acts like himself the best he can. It’s easier when no one is really watching him and that makes him feel like shit.

When he gets home, he sits in front of the coffee table and deliberates again. Is this the moment he does it? Or does he feel okay about tomorrow? Sam had looked kind of worried, hadn’t he? That was nice of him. Even if it was just Sam being Sam.

Sam doesn’t deserve to just get left behind without a letter. He’s good and kind and despite Jamie making his life hell when he was still a loannee instead of a full fledged Greyhound, Sam would feel bad about Jamie dying, because Sam feels bad about everything.

Without thinking, he grabs the pen and a new sheet of paper: Dear Sam, you’re a good man. I hate that I treated you like that. I don’t expect you to care, but I know you will on some level, because you’re better than me. You’re better than everyone.

Writing the letter to Sam makes him feel better. Makes him feel that if he does do it, he won’t leave Sam behind hurt. He’s done that enough too, best not to add to it.

After that, it kind of becomes a habit. To write the letters to everyone. He’s under no illusion that anyone would want a letter from him after he kills himself, but getting it all out on the page makes him feel better. Makes the bottle in his chest where he keeps everything locked up feel less crowded and ready to burst. Makes him feel like he can get through the next day.

And so the words keep spilling out.

Dear Ted, thank you for believing in me. For letting me come back to the team, even when they didn’t want me there. For letting me try to become something worthy of being there. I’m sorry I couldn’t become the person you saw in me. I’m sorry I gave up. I swear that I tried. God, I fucking tried, okay, Ted? I want to be that person, I just can’t. I’m not made to be worthy. I only know how to fuck things up and I’m sorry I made you give me that chance when I couldn’t do it.

Dear Roy, I have always looked up to you and I never stopped. Even when you hated me, I just wanted you to like me. I always wanted you to like me. I don’t even know why you didn’t when we met. I know I was a right prick then, but I genuinely tried at the start and you hated me anyway. Will you ever not hate me? Will you care that I’m gone?

Dear Dani, I hope this won’t take away that football is life and that I don’t give you the yips like Earl did. I know I shouldn’t compare, because you didn’t kill me. But I miss you. I fucking miss you. I hate that you love Zava. I hate that you could drop me so easily. I hate that I miss you. I wish I was a good enough teammate for you to miss me too.

Dear Keeley, I’m sorry for telling you I loved you. I know I already said, but I wanted to again. I always kept messing up your life. Seems that’s just the way I am. I want to be accountable for all that, because that matters to you. And it started to matter to me too. I weren’t lying when I said it, but it weren’t right either. I hope you can be happy, I hope you find someone and that Roy weren’t too much of a prick to you after you broke up.

On Wednesday, Jamie manages to wash and condition his hair. It’ll take a second to recover from the neglect Jamie’s put it through, but he’s proud of himself anyway.

Dear Beard, I still don’t know how to talk to you. Fuck, I don’t even know your name. But thank you. I am too scared to say it to your face, because then you can tell me how you hate me for it. But thank you for throwing my dad out. And I’m sorry he hit you. I know you didn’t say, but I saw the bruise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I could have taken it. You didn’t have to. But thank you for taking it instead of me, even if I hate myself for it.

Dear Sam, I hate how loved you are. How you have a good dad, who taught you how to be better instead of putting you down. How Roy liked you better and how easily you take to the team. You are so fucking talented and you’re gonna go so far and I’m so fucking jealous sometimes and it makes me hate myself, because you deserve it more than I do, but goddammit, I just want to have a bit of what you have. A scrap of the love you get. I wish I were better than that, but I’m not.

Dear Ted, I hate you for sending me away, for sending me back, for walking away from me then , for giving up, even if it was only for a moment. I hate you for not being who I thought you were. I hate you for believing in me. For making me try when it was always me that was the problem. I hate you for making me believe I could be loved. I hate you for letting Zava do the things I was a prick for. I hate that you’re a hypocrite. And I hate I can’t make myself hate you.

On Thursday, Jamie makes a second attempt at a load of laundry, successfully this time, and finally puts the sheets on his bed again. He’d forgotten how nice that is.

Dear Roy, I don’t know how to be like you. How to be all tough and intimidating. I try, but it never works. Why doesn’t it work when I do it? Maybe if I were more like you, dad would have loved me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

Dear Keeley, no one has made me want to try and be better as much as you have. I want to be a man you can love, even though I know that’s not possible. I wish I could rip out all the bad parts of me and be who you think I can be, but I can’t. I tried. I’m sorry for treating you the way I did. I’m sorry for being the way I am. I’m sorry for writing you this letter. I don’t want to hurt you. I never do. I love you and I’m sorry I love you too. You don’t deserve that. I never deserved you.

Dear Isaac, I’m sorry you and Colin got dragged into my bullshit. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better teammate. I’m sorry I’m leaving you with a player down, though that’s that arrogant thinking that got me here. You’re one of the best skippers I could have asked for. I’m grateful for getting to play with you, even if you never wanted me there. I’m sorry for not being a better teammate.

They have a match next Saturday to and Jamie almost feels like himself again. He’s still smarting about the team ignoring him and how Zava’s presence ruins everything for him. But it’s a dull, resigned sadness.

Jamie knows they don’t want him there, but they have to let him be there and that is okay. He doesn’t want to keep putting himself out there, only to be hurt. He doesn’t want to sit between them and know they’re only letting him, because they are kinder than he’ll ever be.

The only reason he goes out with the team after they win once more, is because he told himself he weren’t going to bother them with his shit. If that means primping himself up and going out to Ola’s, then he will do it.

However, he doesn’t force himself to be a part of the team, just sits in his corner, while trying and failing to look less dejected than he is. He can’t help but hope someone will notice him being alone and come to check on him. That someone will see him and want to talk to him. He can’t help but hate himself for hoping that too.

Then Roy comes to sit next to him. Roy notices. Roy comes to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him in his own Roy way.

And yeah, it doesn’t feel great when Roy calls Zava the best on the team, but that sting is soothed by the fact that Roy thinks he used to be the best. That Roy thinks he can surpass Zava if he works hard enough.

If Jamie can be better than Zava, then the lads will want him there again. Then they’ll look at him again. There is nothing he craves more than that.

So he says yes to extra training. Immediately. No hesitation in the slightest. I mean, who the fuck would say no to that? It’s Roy f ucking Kent offering to personally train him. He’d have to be mental to reject that.

When Roy tells him they start at 4:00AM, his heart sinks a little, because there is no way that Roy would willingly get up that early to spend time with him of all people. And that sucks, because Jamie actually felt hope for a moment. But then again, it’s the hope that fucking kills you.

He gets home that night and looks over at his coffee table, wondering if he’s going to do it now. He has enough letters that no one should feel left out. Maybe too many and many too honest. Is there a thing as too many suicide notes? Will anyone even bother reading them all? Does he even want some of his thoughts to see the light of day?

Half of these were more to vent then to actually say goodbye and Jamie is too tired to sort through them all to make sure the right ones are found. Besides, if it’s the hope that kills him, then it’s a good thing Jamis was dying already anyway, because even if Roy doesn’t want to actually train him, he still makes Jamie believe that he can be good enough to get back into everyone’s good graces. And that’s as precious as gold.

So, Jamie tucks himself into his now clean sheets and knocks the fuck out. He sets an alarm for 5:30, because he’s not that much of a masochist, like why the fuck 4:00 AM? But he does want to start pushing himself. Doing more.

When his doorbell actually goes at 4:00AM and he finds Roy on his doorstep, he’s so embarrassed about not believing him, he can only bring himself to be a little bit rude about it. But how can he not be ashamed when he thought so little of himself, he wound up disappointing Roy over it?

Trying not to let it show too much that he wishes he were already up and ready when Roy knocked, Jamie hurries off to get changed. He wants this. He wants this so badly it hurts. And yeah, it may be the hope that kills you, but Ted asked them if they believed in miracles.

Now, Jamie never really has believed in miracles, but if there is one miracle he wants to believe in, it’s that Roy can make him good enough to beat Zava. Make him good enough to be able to stay. Make him good enough that being alive doesn’t feel like such a burden.

Chapter Text

Jamie is a fucking Muppet, but Roy – loathe he is to admit it to himself and even more so to Jamie – finds him to be to be a good lad. Endearing sometimes even. Which is fucking nuts. Two years ago they were fighting on the pitch and now Roy is endeared by Jamie’s behavior. The damage Ted has done to him can never be undone.

However, just because Roy finds Jamie an acceptable person now, doesn’t mean they’re close. He is actually coaching the lad out on the pitch, but outside of team bonding, where they don’t hang out, they only see each other at Nelson Road.

Still, Roy knows Jamie well enough to see he’s unhappy with the coming of Zava.

Naturally, this isn’t too hard, since everyone with eyes can see Jamie is annoyed by the man, not to mention that he’d gone to the coaches’ office to complain about Zava, before they’d even played the first match with him.

And look, Roy gets it. He too was once the best on the team and then no longer the best on the team. It happened and it sucked and he doesn’t begrudge Jamie his upset. If he’s honest, the lad is handling it better than Roy had, though he soothes that sting by telling himself it’s because Jamie isn’t in decline, in fact, he’s the best he’s ever been and only going up. That must make it easier to bear.

Despite taking it pretty well all things considered, Roy can’t help but keep an eye on Jamie. Maybe because he knows his own head was in a shit place when it happened to him, maybe because Ted’s caring bullshit has rubbed off on him. Point is, Roy watches.

Because of that, he notices Jamie pulls away from everyone. He doesn’t revert to being a prick, but he does revert to not being part of the team. Off the field that is. On the field Tartt is still one of the best there is, managing to be an important cog in the machine they’ve created. When they get to the locker room, however, Jamie keeps his distance.

Roy doesn’t blame him for that reversion either. Jamie is seemingly the only player who hasn’t bought into Zava’s shtick, maybe one of the few on the entire premises. Roy can admit he bought into it a little bit at the start, because, fuck, does he love to win. And Zava wins .

However, while the win streak is nice and Roy can admit that Zava is fucking great at his job, the awe has kind of worn off. As marketed, Zava is indeed a bit of a diva and that has never mashed with Roy’s personality well. And watching Jamie’s face as Zava steals his goal, he can understand why Jamie doesn’t like him.

But it’s not really something for Roy to worry about. Yeah, Zava is a bit of an egocentric prick and yeah, Jamie is pulling back which could cause teamwork problems in the future. But so for Zava’s ego isn’t messing with the way they’re winning and Jamie isn’t pulling back so much it’s a problem.

When Jamie comes in two days in a row looking like he got hit by a bus, that shifts.

No one else really seems too concerned, just sending Jamie a glance here and there without speaking up about it, maybe a small probe that gets deflected. With Jamie it’s always difficult to calculate when to push and when that will turn him into a hissing, cornered animal.

Though, seeing how some of the players look over to Zava, then to Jamie, hesitating, before falling silent, Roy realizes that maybe Jamie pulling back is already a problem. That Jamie’s worries about Zava throwing off team cohesion were right and they should have listened.

So, Roy, being the bigger person, nudges Ted on Friday and nods over to Jamie. Ted follows his look and frowns, before nodding back. When Jamie passes, he stops the lad and says: “Make sure you get some rest, kiddo. Can’t have you sleeping on the field tomorrow, we need you out there.”

It’s not the inquisition about what the fuck is wrong with him that Roy was hoping for, but seeing how Jamie lights up and nods does assuage some of his worries. And the worries are even more settled when Jamie comes in for the match the next day looking better and plays beautifully.

In fact, it doesn’t start to creep back in, until they’re at Ola’s a week later celebrating another win and Jamie is sitting off on the side by himself. Moping.

Roy wants to tell Ted to get over there and figure out what is wrong, but that would involving telling Ted that he cares enough about the Muppet to be worried about him, which is marginally more embarrassing than going over there himself and gruffly pretending he doesn’t care, while still questioning Jamie.

As expected, Jamie is moping because of Zava.

A part of Roy can’t help but be a little annoyed with Jamie, because doesn’t he realize how good he has it? How much potential he still has? How he can be better than that prick and he doesn’t have to pull this Pre-Maddonna bullshit? Or prima donna, whatever.

However, another part of him can recognize that the annoyance is because Roy didn’t have that potential when he was no longer the best. He just looked around one day and realized he wasn’t anymore and that that would never change again. And that was fucking shit.

Jamie doesn’t have that though. Jamie doesn’t have to sink away in that shit like he did. The fucker is going to be one of the best, if only he gets his head out of his arse and gets to fucking work. And if Roy has to drag said head out of said arse, then he will, because fuck it if he lets Jamie mope the height of his career away because his feelings got hurt.

So he finds himself offering to train Jamie, the same way he’d been training when he was at the he i ght of his own career. To make him better than Zava, to make him the best. Last season, he couldn’t have comprehended offering that to Jamie Fucking Tartt, yet here he is, and the weird part is that he doesn’t even regret it.

Sure, he likes winning, but he likes molding the lads too. Likes being a coach, talking to them, seeing them grow. Being a person they come to with their problems and helping them fix it. Roy has always been an overwhelming person, who needs to be needed, having to spread that out over a whole team of players has helped a little.

The coming of Zava, though, has also changed Roy’s job. The strategy of get the ball to Zava worked, but it meant that it was harder to focus on helping the others improve individually. Meaning that Roy had been feeling a little useless. Training Jamie could be nice.

Roy’s not ever going to admit that to the prick, though. Never. That’s way too soft of an underbelly to show to someone, especially Jamie. Roy now knows that Jamie isn’t as much of a prick as he made himself out to be, but the way he jabbed at Roy’s tender spots back when he was still his Captain is too fresh in his memory.

“But only if you fucking mean it,” he growls, because that’s the only way he has to show a bit of that uncertainty. The hint of vulnerability he can’t keep locked away entirely.

Which is why he can’t help, but feel a flash or irritated hurt when he knocks on Jamie’s door and Jamie isn’t ready. Roy is putting himself out there offering this, least the prick can do is take it seriously. He can’t deny that he expected better from Jamie.

Still, Jamie seems eager enough for the hour to jump into getting ready, so maybe he really just thought that Roy was joking. And Roy is up anyway, might as well go through with it.

With Jamie off getting dressed, Roy can’t help but look around curiously. He’s never been inside Jamie’s house before, only knows where it is, because he dropped Keeley off there once back when they were dating. He’s curious how Jamie lives.

He expects gaudy decorations, the wild spending of a twenty-something year old with too much money on his hands and not enough braincells. Though, that is still there, it’s not as there as he expected it to be. It’s quite nice overall. Modern, but alright.

Only two things stand out to him, really.

First, is the smell. Despite the open plan lay o ut and the spacious feel to the room, it smells dingy. Like a teenager’s room, instead of a grown man’s house. Roy wonders if Jamie knows you need to let the air in sometimes as he wrinkles his nose.

Second, is the coffee table. Overall, the house is tidy, which is a surprise. The overflowing garbage bin and dishes stacked on the counter feel less out of place than the empty table and neat coat rack. As if no one lived there. The coffee table is an exception. It feels like someone lived in that spot of the house.

Intrigued, he wanders over to investigate a little. He feels like Jamie can’t be too huffy about the invasion of his privacy, since he should have been ready on time if he didn’t want Roy poking around in his house.

Besides, knowing your players means you can push them to be better. It’s for his own good anyway, definitely not because deep down, Roy is a nosy person, who likes a good gossip from time to time.

He gets to the coffee table and freezes. From the door he’d seen the papers strewn about and he’d vaguely wondered what Jamie of all people would feel the need to write down, amusedly came up with a flight of fancy where Jamie is secretly a writer. Then he gets close enough to spot a bottle of pain pills nestled between the papers and a cold feeling spreads through his gut as he realizes what those papers might actually be.

With shaking hands, he moves closer, reaching out to one of the papers and hoping he’s wrong, even though he knows he’s not.

Dear mummy,

I’m so alone. I don’t want to be alone. No one here wants me, no one has ever wanted me, except for you.

His eyes blur, before he can read the rest, but it’s pretty fucking clear what he’s holding. He’s holding a suicide note. Jamie’s suicide note. One of Jamie’s many suicide notes.

Roy feels like he can’t breathe, looking at the little set up in front of him, the way it’s the only place in the house that feels lived in. The damning story that is laid out in front of him. How Jamie apparently has had this all set up, ready to go when-

When what? Roy doesn’t know what would have been the final thing to trigger Jamie into following through, but it’s obvious he’s ready for it when that hits.

Suddenly frantic to know, Roy starts shifting through the piles of letters, reading flashes of anguished words that Jamie never intended anyone to read while he was still alive. But G-d fucking dammit, the Muppet is still alive. He’s still fucking alive and Roy wants him to fucking stay that way, so he reads, hurt words swimming in front of his eyes.

I’m sorry for making you sad now, but I promise it’ll be the last time. Please don’t be sad for me.

I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t mean to make your day hard.

I want to be a man you can love, even though I know that’s not possible. I wish I could rip out all the bad parts of me and be who you think I can be, but I can’t. I tried.

I don’t even know what I did wrong.

I’m so fucking jealous sometimes and it makes me hate myself, because you deserve it more than I do, but goddammit, I just want to have a bit of what you have. A scrap of the love you get. I wish I were better than that, but I’m not.

It’s okay to act the way I did that made everyone hate me, as long as it’s not me doing it and knowing that is killing me. That it was always me that was the problem. That I can’t make myself into something lovable.

I’m sorry for doing this to you. I just feel so unwanted and I can’t do it anymore.

I fucking miss you. I hate that you love Zava. I hate that you could drop me so easily. I hate that I miss you. I wish I was a good enough teammate for you to miss me too.

I hate you for making me believe I could be loved. I hate you for letting Zava do the things I was a prick for.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I could have taken it. You didn’t have to. But thank you for taking it instead of me, even if I hate myself for it.

I love you too much to want to make you sad. I’m sorry I can’t seem to help myself. That I always hurt you without meaning to.

I’m grateful for getting to play with you, even if you never wanted me there. I’m sorry for not being a better teammate.

Dear mummy, I’m scared.

I’m sorry I couldn’t become the person you saw in me. I’m sorry I gave up. I swear that I tried. God, I fucking tried

Mummy, I love you so much, please don’t be sad.

It makes Roy feel fucking sick to read all this, to see the hurt Jamie’s been suffering in silence splayed out for him. That he thought the lad was doing fine, that he was taking it well, while he was instead just slowly dying in front of their eyes.

When he sees his own name on the top of a page, he wants to fucking vomit. A part of him doesn’t want to know how he contributed to this, another parts needs to know. That’s the part that wins out in the end.

Dear Roy, I have always looked up to you and I never stopped. Even when you hated me, I just wanted you to like me. I always wanted you to like me. I don’t even know why you didn’t when we met. I know I was a right prick then, but I genuinely tried at the start and you hated me anyway. Will you ever not hate me? Will you care that I’m gone?

Fucking hell. Fucking, shit fuck, shit. Roy knew he was an arse to Jamie when he first came to Richmond, was an arse to him when he first started coaching too. Jamie told him about the fucking poster and he never took that seriously. Never reconciled the Jamie he knew with a scared kid living in the Manchester estates.

Roy doesn’t hate Jamie, maybe never had, but definitely doesn’t anymore. In fact, he’s become fucking fond of the lad and instead of ever telling him that, he vowed to himself to never let Jamie know. He was planning on never letting Jamie know…

Jamie has been planning to fucking kill himself over everyone turning away from him with the arrival of Zava and Roy cared so much about his hardman exterior that he couldn’t even bring himself to tell the fucking twat he thought he was an okay lad. He almost let his pride kill Jamie.

There is a second letter with his name at the top and he almost doesn’t take it. Almost lets himself give in to the ostrich urge to put his head in the sand and pretend none of this is happening. But he can’t allow himself that. Not after he already turned a blind eye to too much.

Dear Roy, I don’t know how to be like you. How to be all tough and intimidating. I try, but it never works. Why doesn’t it work when I do it? Maybe if I were more like you, dad would have loved me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

If the first letter made him feel guilty, the second one fills him with a deep ache. A hole in his chest that sucks the breath out of him as he imagines a little Jamie, looking at that poster and wondering what he’s doing wrong to make his dad hate him so.

It’s fucking heartbreaking.

This whole situation is heartbreaking. Roy’s head feels like it’s spinning with everything he discovered about Jamie in the past few minutes. It’s a much bigger breach of privacy than just poking about, but Roy can’t make himself regret it, because if Jamie has letters and means, then that means Roy might have just barely been on time.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from having no fucking clue what to do now and it doesn’t at all prepare him for Jamie’s voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts: “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Uhm,” Roy looks at him like a deer in headlights for a beat. Then gruffly – more gruff than he’d like but unable to soften it, because then his voice will crack and he’ll start to cry and he refuses to fucking do that – he says: “You left the door open.”

“Yeah, so you wouldn’t fucking freeze to death, not snoop around my house,” Jamie snaps, his voice edging into hysteric. He clearly also knows what Roy has just discovered and he clearly does not want Roy to have discovered it.

Irritation surges over him, suddenly, because being angry with Jamie is much easier than the mess of feelings he is actually feeling right now. “Well, maybe if you didn’t want people finding out your fucking suicide plans, you shouldn’t be leaving your own fucking murder weapon on the fucking coffee table with your fucking drafts!”

Guilt comes over him once more at his words when Jamie looks cowed, hunching in on himself with embarrassment as he mumbles: “I weren’t gonna do it.”

“You… weren’t going to do it?” Roy repeats, unsure if he heard that right and knowing he’s not going to believe it if he did. The evidence to the contrary is too strong for him to believe Jamie. Besides, he’d rather not believe this, than believe it only to find out it was a lie far too late.

“I mean, I were at first,” Jamie admits softly, his hands tangled up in the front of his shirt.

And Roy can feel his throat close up at the admission. How fucking close it got. Hoarsely, he can only bring himself to repeat: “At first?” hoping that that means what he prays it does.

“Uhm, yeah, but it’s two steps, right? You write a letter first, then you actually do… it. Like I said, two steps,” Jamie explains tentatively, as if this isn’t an incredibly fucked up situation. He has the gall to look embarrassed as he says: “I kind of got stuck on step one.”

Roy isn’t sure why Jamie keeps talking, if he wants to defend himself or explain, or just needs to let it all out now that he’s caught. It doesn’t matter to him either, he’s just happy to listen. He’s always been better at listening anyway.

“You need a letter, you know, or- or people won’t know and they might be upset or blame themselves and I- I didn’t want that, but then nothing I wrote felt right and I had practice, so I went to that, because I didn’t want everyone mad at me for skipping, and then I tried again, but it felt weird to write to people that didn’t even care, so I wrote to mummy and then-” his breath hitches, but he doesn’t break down, in fact, he sounds vaguely detached from it all when he speaks again. “Then I just kept writing her and none of the letters were perfect and I wanted to have a perfect letter for her, because she deserves to have a good letter. ‘s the least I could do, you know? So I kept writing them and they made me feel better. Knowing I had goodbyes for people. Getting to vent. Letting it all out. It- It was comforting. I- I needed people to have the letters. Just in case.”

Roy has never been so grateful that Jamie got stuck on step one, that Jamie found the two steps to be necessary and managed to get stuck on one of them. That whatever happened in his brain delayed him long enough for Roy to find out before he did anything stupid.

Still, being stuck on step one, doesn’t mean step two isn’t going to come after. There is still that bottle of pills on the table, his plan is still laid out on the coffee table. So, Roy swallows thickly and prompts: “And what then, Jamie? When were you planning on doing it?”

The fact that Jamie hesitates at that makes his heart stop.

Softly Jamie says: “I- I don’t know. I don’t know if I were gonna do it. I thought I could, but maybe I’m too much of a pussy to go through with it. I- I just- I like having it there, you know? Have it- have it be there. Like I said,” he shrugs, “it’s comforting.”

Jamie finding his suicide plan ready for when he feels like it comforting, makes Roy feel very not comforted. He wants Jamie as far away from this. Now, preferably. However, he doesn’t know how to make that happen and the words get stuck in his throat.

Instead, he just fucking stares at Jamie like a knob and Jamie starts to shuffle under his gaze. His shirt is probably stretched beyond saving and he is going to break the skin on his lip if he keeps biting like that. “I’m sorry,” Jamie offers quietly.

Instantly the sorries he’d read earlier flash through his mind and without conscious thought he snaps: “You don’t got to be fucking sorry.”

“I- I don’t?” Jamie asks uncertainly, as if he truly expects Roy to be angry at him for planning to commit suicide.

Admittedly, Roy is pretty angry, but not at Jamie. He’s angry at the team for not showing Jamie they cared more, angry at Zava for making Jamie feel like this, angry at Jamie’s dad for setting him up to feel like this, and – most importantly – angry at himself. For not noticing. For not pushing. For nearly letting it happen. For not knowing what the fuck he’s doing now.

“No,” he says firmly, trying to keep his voice level and not let that anger show. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re hurting. You need help.”

The anxious, insecure look Jamie has been wearing ever since Roy snapped at him about this, gets wiped off his face. He scowls: “I don’t need fucking help. I said I weren’t gonna do it, didn’t I?”

“No, it’s just your fucking back up plan in case you have a shit day. That’s not fucking healthy, Tartt, that is fucking dangerous,” Roy scowls right back.

“Fuck off, you don’t need to care, just because you saw I’m fucked in the head. You think I don’t know that I’m fucked up there? That I’m broken and fucked up? I do, Roy. I do.” Jamie was yelling until his voice cracks, then he just sounds broken. “I know I’m fucked, but you don’t need to make yourself care, you don’t have to pretend you do, okay? It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Roy should have seen the explosion coming, should have maybe even seen the contents of the explosion coming, but he still blinks for a moment anyway. Then he frowns: “I’m not pretending jack shit, you prick. I fucking care about you. I don’t want you fucking dead. Fucking hell.”

“I told you I’m not going to do it!” Jamie argues. “You don’t have to worry, okay. You can fuck off and sleep easy. You did your good person shtick. I’ll still be here next match.”

“You’re fucking insufferable,” Roy growls, knowing that if other people heard him growling that at a suicide risk, they’d judge him for it. But it’s Jamie and he’s Roy and this was never going to go smoothly anyway.

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Jamie yells.

Roy is about to yell back when he realizes that he should be the one in the better mental state and not a child, thus the bigger, more rational person about it. So he takes a deep breath, then grunts: “Jamie. When the fuck have I ever done anything I didn’t want to do?”

“Uh, never,” Jamie answers after a moment, clearly unsure why the fuck Roy is asking him that.

“Correct,” Roy nods. “So I wouldn’t fucking be here, if I didn’t fucking want to be, now would I. I wouldn’t care if I didn’t want to either. So believe me when I say that I’m here and I care and I want to fucking help you.”

“But- but you think I’m a Muppet and- and you hope I die of the incurable condition of being a little bitch,” Jamie stammers. “Why- why would you care?”

He said those words over a year ago already now and he hadn’t even meant them that much. He just liked bitching about everyone. Now he regrets ever letting them past his lips, ever thinking it were a little funny, because it wasn’t. It’s never been. If Jamie ever manages to go through with it, he knows those words will haunt him for the rest of time.

“I didn’t mean that,” Roy says softly. “Well, I half did. You- You weren’t exactly my favorite person back then now were you. But all the pundits exaggerate. If we’re all honest centralists, then no one wants to watch. It was a fucking rude thing to say and I didn’t mean it like that. Just meant you’re a bit of a prick.”

“Oh,” Jamie swallows. Then he softly asks: “Do you mind, you know, that I’m such a prick? That- that I can’t seem to help it?”

Roy is pretty sure he wouldn’t have asked it, if Roy hadn’t read those letters already. The question vulnerable, showing off an insecurity Jamie will probably never fully shake, offering up a soft underbelly by asking and hoping for reassurance in return.

“You being a prick got us back in the Premier League,” Roy tells him. “You being a prick is good. We need you being a prick, especially because you’re not one anymore.”

“I’m not?” Jamie asks, his voice a mix of confusion and hope.

“No, you’re not,” Roy says, hoping his voice conveys how much he means it. “I honestly didn’t think you could do it, but you did. You’re not a prick anymore, you’re just capable of being one and you know when it’s appropriate. You’re fucking golden out there. And I don’t fucking mind you being a prick. Ever. Not the way you do it now.”

Jamie smiles at that. It’s the first smile Roy’s gotten from him all morning, maybe even since Friday, and it feels good to have it. It feels even better when Jamie says: “Thanks, Coach.”

“Course,” Roy replies, feeling like a knob, but not having anything better to say.

They’re quiet for a moment, before Roy breaks it again: “We do need to talk about this more, you know that, right, Jamie? You need help. Actual fucking help.”

“Maybe,” Jamie shrugs. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” Roy asks incredulously, not sure how Jamie could look at where he is now and not realize that he needs help right the fuck now.

“Yeah, I dunno,” Jamie shrugs again. “I mean, I always have periods where I feel like that and yeah, I took it a bit far this time, but I’m not going to do it and I- I did me laundry, put sheets on me bed, even washed me hair, you know. Doing stuff again. Feeling better. I’ll be over this in no time. Swear down.”

The words are less comforting than Jamie probably thinks they are and Roy feels very fucking helpless in the face of them. “Jamie,” he starts cautiously. “It’s not normal to feel like this. Ever.”

“Oh…” Jamie looks like he’s not sure what to do with that information. He looks like a fucking child and Roy wants to hunt down every fucking person, who ever made Jamie feel bad, who ever made Jamie feel like feeling bad was normal. But he can’t. He has to be here and provide fucking emotional support and shit.

So, he nods sympathetically like a fucking knobhead. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s, uh- It’s okay,” Jamie swallows. “I’m fine.” His smile isn’t convincing, but he doesn’t let that deter him. “Can we just train right now? I want to train. I want to be better. I need to be better. Being better will help, training will help.”

Roy is pretty sure the needing to be better, the thinking he needs to be better to earn love or whatever, is part of the problem. However, Roy needs a moment to fucking think and plan and he’s not going to be able to do that in Jamie’s stale house, so he just grunt: “Fine. Get jogging, Tartt.”

“Yes, Coach!” Jamie chirps, looking relieved at the reprieve of having this conversation. Roy can’t blame him, he’s a little relieved too. Besides, it can’t have been the worst decision with Jamie looking more at ease like that again.

For a moment, Roy considers going easier on Jamie than he’d planned. However, that idea is quickly tossed out. Jamie does need to be handled more delicately than Roy expected, but Jamie also seems determined to be the best. It’s something he is willing to stay alive for and Roy doesn’t want to mess with that, nor does he want the potential fall out of Jamie realizing he’s going easy on him.

So, he sticks to what he’d planned before he’d shown up to Jamie’s house and found all those letters and the pills. But if he is a little nicer than planned, then that’s nobody’s business.

Throughout the entire workout, Jamie does as told with minimal complaints and Roy keeps eyeing him, trying to figure out where his head is at. He seems to do okay, better than what Roy has seen since Zava’s arrival at least. His eyes sparkle in the light of the rising sun, flush of exertion on his face from all the running Roy has him do. He looks alive.

Roy has never really thought about how Jamie looks, just thought he was a vain little prick, who should stop spending so much time in front of the mirror before a match and start spending more time stretching.

However, after observing Jamie worriedly the past few weeks, he knows that Jamie is genuinely looking better. Less empty and slumped, more energized. Maybe the prick was right about training being good for him. It’s something Roy can do for him at least.

Still, Roy isn’t just going to take his word for it, after seeing how much Jamie could hide away under a thin veneer of being okay, Roy isn’t going to believe Jamie about how he’s feeling for a long time. In fact, Jamie will be lucky if Roy lets him out of sight long enough to pee.

This isn’t really a conscious decision, but one he doesn’t back away from once it has popped into his mind. He promised Jamie he’d make him better, he knows the lad can take the football world by storm… and maybe he also cares about him. H e’s not going to let him die, before he can live up to the potential Roy knows he has. He’s his coach, it’s just duty.

Yes, Roy knows it’s not. Knows that he doesn’t have to hide behind being a coach, that it’s basic human decency to want to make sure a person is okay after you found out they wanted to commit suicide, but Roy also knows that what he is about to offer might be a step further than basic human decency.

However, he knows what being a footballer is like, he knows that Jamie isn’t going to check himself into a facility that could help more than Roy can, because it’s going to be plastered on the cover of the Sun tomorrow. Roy gets that. And Roy wants to believe Jamie when he says he’s not going to do it, but he also wants to be sure. With his own two eyes. At all times, preferably.

So, his decision is made.

Said decision does not come up until Jamie is stumbling back into his house, rubber legs and sweating like a pig. He complains: “Ugh, I feel fucking rank. I’m gonna shower.”

“No.” The word is out Roy’s mouth, before he realizes, but he’s not going to take it back. Leaving Jamie alone in the bathroom is very low on the list of things he wants to do.

“What’d’ya mean, no?” Jamie frowns back. His confusion is sincere, like he truly can’t come up with the reason why Roy thinks that’s a bad idea. “You want me to stink, Coach? Will that make me better or something?”

Roy rolls his eyes: “No, you idiot. I’m not letting you lock yourself in there alone. The only way you’re showering, is if I’m there supervising.”

Jamie’s expression is absolutely gobsmacked. Then he frowns. “What the hell, mate. I asked you to coach me, not micromanage me. What kind of perverted request is that?”

“It’s not a perverted request. It’s a safety request,” Roy tells him, keeping his voice level in a way that doesn’t broker any arguments. If Jamie doesn’t want to let Roy do this, he’s going to have to call triple-9 and he really doesn’t want to have to do that.

“A safety request?” Jamie repeats and if Roy didn’t know very well what Jamie looked like when he was taking the piss, he’d think the lad was being willfully obtuse.

“Yes, Tartt, a safety request. After your supervised shower, you’re going to pack a bag and you’re going to stay with me, until I let you leave. You’re on suicide watch now and that is non-negotiable,” Roy explains kindly but firmly.

“Suicide watch?” Jamie chokes out, eyes wide. “No, no, Roy, I swear that’s not necessary. Like I’m fine now, right? Totally mint. Work out helped. I’m doing better. I don’t need to be supervised.”

“You can call someone else to watch you or check yourself into a facility, but those are your only other options,” Roy tells him, softening his demeanor somewhat when he sees Jamie’s face. “This isn’t a punishment or a burden, Jamie. I want you to be okay. I don’t mind the company, might actually be nice, in fact. And keeping an eye on you would give me a lot of peace of mind. So please, let me do this, yeah?”

Roy can’t be sure if it’s the assurance that it’s okay or the please, but Jamie sags slightly, giving in. He swallows: “Okay. Uhm, yeah. Sure. I guess. But it’s really not necessary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Roy tells him, not unkindly. “Now, you do reek, so mush. Where’s your bathroom.”

“Still unconvinced this is not something perverted,” Jamie says as he leads the way, though his voice is teasing and bright.

“Oh fuck off,” is all Roy replies.

Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet while Jamie showers is a little weird, so after a while Roy starts going through his cabinet. He collects all the remnant pain meds Jamie has lying around as well as the razors. Jamie can shave supervised too, if he’s so determined to stay clean shaven.

Internally, he also starts to plan. He’ll need to suicide proof his house when they get there. He’s pretty sure he still got that cabinet that locks from when Phoebe was a toddler, who loved putting everything she saw in her mouth, he can put stuff there. Jamie might be able to sleep alone, but Roy also has a pretty big bed. And Roy needs to think about if he’s going to tell anyone and who he is going to tell.

What he stumbled on by accident is incredibly private. The letters are filled with hurts and vulnerabilities that Jamie doesn’t need to share with anyone. However, it’s also kind of important people know to support him, that he has a network of people to rely on. That there is someone other than just Roy looking out for him, because as much as he’d like to, he can’t hover 24/7. If he brings Jamie to a coach’s meeting or requests to share a room with Jamie during an away game, Ted is going to have questions and rightfully so.

In the end, it is somewhat up to Jamie, who he wants to tell, but Roy knows that if Jamie wants to tell no one, he’s going to have to push him to change his mind, maybe even go behind his back and betray the fragile trust Jamie is placing in him. Because Jamie is placing so much trust in him.

Roy already knows he fucked up when Jamie first came to Richmond, that he wasn’t the captain he should have been, that he wasn’t the coach Jamie deserved either, even if he’s changing that now. The letter just confirmed it. And it makes Roy feel like shit and the fact that Jamie still trusts him, because he’s Roy Fucking Kent, makes him feel even worse.

However, there is no changing that, only moving forward. And Jamie is trusting him with this and Roy isn’t going to fuck that up. If he has to push, he’ll push for Jamie to tell a therapist, let someone with a medical degree be the one that breaks that news to Jamie. But that’s a conversation for tomorrow at least, when they’ve settled in a bit more. Roy is taking it step by step and right now the priority is getting Jamie out of th is house.

So he takes his collection of potentially hazardous items into the shower with him when Jamie comes out, ordering him to stay in the fucking bathroom unless he wants to be on the cover of the Sun with a naked Roy chasing him, which probably isn’t the smartest thing to say, going off the glint in Jamie’s eye, but he obediently stays and does his skin care.

Roy tells himself that Jamie doing skin care is a good sign. If Jamie cares how his skin is going to look and ag ing , that means he wants to stay alive. In a way, watching the over the top and in Roy’s opinion highly unnecessary twenty step skin care routine through the fogging glass is the most soothing sight since waking up this morning.

After his own shower, he follows Jamie to go pack. Jamie rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t complain, seemingly resigned to his fate. Roy decides to let the attitude go and doesn’t even poke fun at all the nonsense Jamie is packing. If Jamie get happiness from that bright pink sweater, then Roy is going to let him have it in peace.

Some of the things Jamie packs are dirty, fished straight out of the laundry or from the ground, but Roy doesn’t care about that either, he has a washing machine too. Jamie deserves to have his favorite clothes with him.

Downstairs, Roy decides that Jamie can’t leave his house with all this stuff still lying about. There is some food in the fridge, but it’s a sad thing. So, he just tells Jamie to make them some tea.

Jamie looks confused about that request, but goes to do as told, while Roy rolls up his sleeves and opens the dishwasher. He thinks the all dishes can fit in it, so they can just turn it on and leave. They’ll be okay in there and not rot. Plus they can empty the garbage bin on the way out.

The dishwasher is empty, save a few stray dishes. If Roy had to guess, it had been full at some point, before Jamie started taking the clean dishes from it, never unpacking it and never repacking it. He decides that the few clean dishes can live on the counter and they can be put away later, since he doesn’t want to ask Jamie over and over where everything goes and he’s not going to make the lad help when he’s clearly been struggling with tasks like this.

He gets all but two dishes out of the dishwasher, before he is interrupted by Jamie, who exclaims: “Uh, what the fuck are you doing?”

“…Unloading the dishwasher?” Roy replies, unsure what’s so confusing about that.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jamie tells him, hands waving about and cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I- I can do it. It was on my to-do list. Swear down. It’s fine. I even did laundry this Thursday. I was getting to it.”

“Jamie,” Roy says as sternly and gently as he can manage, so it probably sounds like gruff grumble. “I am helping you, remember? Let me fucking help. You focus on tea, I’ll do the dishwasher.”

“But my dishes are gross and it’s a lot more work,” Jamie whispers, shamefully looking at his toes.

He’s not wrong. These dishes have clearly been out there for a while and Roy will probably have to scrape some food rests from them that have become sentient. However as much as Jamie is insisting he’ll do it, he’s not offering a timeline and his proud achievement is laundry three days ago. Everything about it screams that Jamie is struggling with this, that he needs help and Roy has already made up his mind about helping.

So Roy shakes his head: “I don’t mind. Not much grosser than the locker room showers or Phoebe’s breath last Christmas. That was fucking rank. I don’t think anything can fucking beat that.”

“Phoebe’s breath?” Jamie frowns in confusion, successfully distracted from the conversation.

The kettle clicks off and Roy pushes Jamie towards it gently, waiting until he’s moving to start unloading the dishwasher again and to start talking: “Yeah, she’s allergic to her fucking cat and her allergy meds made her breath reek. It was fucking horrible. Never smelt shit like that before in my life, including all the locker rooms. All of them.”

“Wow, that must’ve been something,” Jamie comments, more a filler and a prompt to continue than an addition to the conversation.

“Yeah. Little twat in her class gave her mouthwash and shit, she was in a right fucking state,” Roy goes on as prompted, small scowl coming to his face as he thinks back on it.

He angrily starts fishing out cutlery to put in first and ignores the way Jamie raises a brow at him as he asks: “And is said little twat still alive?”

“Yes,” he replies maybe a little haughtily. “Keeley wouldn’t let me punch the fucker. We made him cry with poster boards instead.”

“Poster boards?” Jamie laughs incredulously.

“What? Think I’m not creative enough to wield poster boards as a weapon?” Roy shoots back, having to admit to himself that he’s having a good time bantering with Jamie in the kitchen. G-d, if him from a year ago could see himself now, he probably wouldn’t have fucking believed it.

“You know what, I take it back, I can totally picture it,” Jamie grins, sticking out his tongue. “How do you take you tea?”

Roy takes it with milk and sugar, but he doesn’t trust the carton of milk he saw in that fridge for a second and he doesn’t want to make Jamie feel bad if he doesn’t have sugar. So, he grunts: “Like this is fine.”

“Really?” Jamie asks, as if he knows Roy is lying.

In return, Roy only grunts.

“Mate, I’ve seen your tea, that shit is white,” Jamie tells him with a tone that says ‘stop taking the piss.’

“And right now I’d like to have it plain. Milk sits fucking heavy in my stomach, I don’t want to fucking vomit in your fucking house,” Roy snaps back, because it’s fucking tea. Why the fuck does Jamie need to interrogate him about it? He stews for a second, scraping something that might have been rice into an emptied out takeout container that Roy is using since there isn’t any space in the bin itself.

“Oh,” Jamie says and his tone makes Roy pause. He looks over to find Jamie look at him guiltily, eyeing the plate still in Roy’s hand. He softly says: “I’m sorry.”

Roy now realizes how that could sound and instantly feels bad. “No, I was being a prick. Your milk just looked expired and you don’t have to go looking for sugar. I’ll live with a plain cup. We can eat breakfast at mine and I’ll have a proper cuppa there.”

The insecure look still isn’t fully gone and Jamie checks again: “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“… Okay,” Jamie nods, seemingly more to himself than Roy, before turning back to where he was pouring two cups.

While Roy’s tea cools, he finishes up with the dishes. Even if it wasn’t hot, he would have waited. He wasn’t lying when he said the dishes are gross and he feels better once he has washed his hands. As he nurses his cup, his eyes fall back onto the coffee table that started this all. The bottle of pills is still in the middle.

That fucking bottle.

Those fucking pills.

They’re taunting him.

Roy hates them for existing, hates them for giving Jamie the option of a step two, hates them for the loss he almost had to suffer. A loss he hadn’t realized he would feel so deeply until the possibility stared him in the face.

Snatching up the bag of other banned items, Roy marches over to the table and stuffs the pill bottle into it with an angry finality. He needs to throw this shit out. Right now.

“Uh, Roy? Are you okay?” Jamie asks worriedly.

A part of Roy wants to laugh at the question, even though it’s not funny, because it’s just so fucking absurd. Jamie wants to kill himself. Jamie nearly killed himself. It’s only a huge fucking coincidence that Roy even found out about it. And the fucking Muppet is asking if he’s okay.

G-d, Roy wants to fucking cry. He wants to have a bit of a breakdown himself, but he’s made himself responsible for Jamie and he’s not going to let the prick see him crack. He’s not going to let it show for a moment how fucked up Roy is about it. He can lean on other people, he can deal with it when Jamie is not there to see. Jamie needs him and Roy is going to be the fucking pinnacle of stability and strength, a sturdy pillar for Jamie to lean on.

So, he doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t cry, instead just announces: “I’m throwing all this shit out. And I am locking up all I have when we get there. If you want to shave, you tell me and I’ll be there. You want some fruit or some shit, you get me to cut it for you. Am I clear?”

Jamie looks at him as if he’s insane – which has heartbreakingly been par of the course throughout this whole ordeal, as if it is truly that strange for Jamie to have someone care about him – however, he seems to have accepted his fate, because he just goes: “Yes, coach.”

“Good lad,” Roy nods, then marches back to the bin to stuff this garbage among the other garbage, having to pull out another bin bag for everything to be portable.

He has Jamie follow him outside when he goes to throw it away. As they make their way inside, Roy says: “Do you clean your own house or do you have a cleaning service? Because I will hire someone to clean your house. Air it out.”

“You don’t have to,” Jamie is quick to say. “I- Usually Margret does the cleaning, but I canceled on her the last few times. Didn’t want her to have to deal with, uhm, all that…” he trails off embarrassed of the mess Roy cleaned up.

Roy squeezes his shoulder: “Well, tell her you’re not canceling this week. We got through the worst of it. Let her do her work. Nothing to be embarrassed about. My house was in a right fucking state when I just had my knee surgery.”

“Yeah, you had surgery,” Jamie scoffs as if he’s made a point.

“I did have surgery. Something got fucked and I needed help. Just like you,” Roy deflects that kind of thinking bluntly and without hesitation. If he wants to help Jamie, then Jamie is going to have to accept that it’s okay to need it, that he deserves it.

Jamie doesn’t look sold, but doesn’t protest. Instead he asks in an annoyed tone: “So, can I drive my own car or are you worried I’ll drive it off the road?”

He obviously still thinks Roy is overreacting, which is something to unpack later. For now, Roy simply answers: “Say hello to your own personal fucking chauffeur. Don’t get a big fucking head about it.”

“As if I could in that mum car of yours,” Jamie rolls his eyes, but doesn’t fight him on it either. He truly has accepted his fate, which is more than Roy could have hoped for honestly.

“Excuse you, my mum car wins in a car crash,” Roy grumbles, because he doesn’t give a fuck about what people think of his car, if he has Phoebe in the back seat, she’s a lot safer in that than in a flashy sports car.

“Of course you’d fucking view it like that,” Jamie mutters, but the bite is gone and he sounds fond again.

Together they load Jamie’s luggage into Roy’s car, which only leaves the one other elephant in the room; the suicide notes.

A part of Roy wants to fucking burn them. To spiritually cleanse the world of the hurt in them. If it worked with the ghosts of Nelson Road, then why couldn’t it work for Jamie? Why couldn’t they just exorcise his hurt like that?

But he knows it doesn’t work like that and Jamie has technically created a pretty good documentation of why he’s feeling like this, which could be useful to show a professional, since G-d knows the Muppet probably won’t talk.

So, Roy goes over to the dreaded coffee table and gathers the papers into a neat and sickeningly thick stack. He wishes Jamie’s hurt was smaller, that the proof wasn’t so damning, but he cannot change that now.

Jamie looks nervous again as he watches him, his shirt truly beyond saving now. Cautiously he asks: “What are you going to do with those?”

“Hang onto them, in case you want them to show to a therapist or want to use them to talk about it. I’m not going to show them to anyone, Jamie,” he promises softly after he explained. “I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to hold onto them.”

“But they made me feel better,” Jamie replies with a small voice, sounding like a lost child.

“I know,” Roy says, because he knows they did and he is grateful for them, since they kept Jamie from doing something irreversibly stupid. “It’s just not healthy. Start a fucking journal or some shit. You can give a silly name and everything.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says, voice distant as he looks at the start of letters wistfully. At least it’s not a hard no, just like he didn’t make a peep about the therapist comment.

“You can think about it,” Roy assures him, moving over to lead Jamie out of that house with a hand on his shoulder. Away from that fucking coffee table. “Come on, I’ll let you break your diet for today and I’ll make you pancakes. How does that sound?”

“Pancakes?” Jamie repeats hopefully, cheering up as hoped at the promise of a treat. “You know how to make pancakes?”

“Yes, Phoebe likes them.”

“Mint!” Jamie exclaims, bounding forward and into the car. Were it not for the stack of letters still tucked under Roy’s arm and the telling mess in the house, he almost wouldn’t believe Jamie got so close to ending it all. The lad’s a good actor… or less in touch with his emotions than Roy, both of which would be bad.

Now that Jamie is in the car, Roy gives himself a moment to let it all sink in. To let the anguish of the discovery wash over him in a way he hadn’t since he first realized what the papers on the coffee table were.

He has no clue what he fucking signed on for and he hopes Jamie okays Roy talking to his sister about this just so he’ll have someone, because he knows it’s probably not going to be easy. But fuck it, he wants Jamie to be alive and happy and fuck anyone who wants something different. Including Jamie him fucking self.

With a final deep breath, Roy gets in the car too. Definitely not what he had in mind when he offered to train Jamie, but he doesn’t regret it either. He thinks offering Jamie to become better has been the best decision he’s made in his entire career.

Jamie might be a fucking Muppet, but he’s Roy’s fucking Muppet and Roy is going to make fucking sure the fucker stays that way. Would be boring on the pitch without him. Would be quieter in Roy’s life than he’d ever be comfortable with too. Fuck, he really fucking cares about the lad.

Chapter Text

Sam doesn’t know what is up between Jamie and Roy, however he’s sure something is. He’d missed it happening, but apparently Roy offered to train Jamie personally after the match the day before yesterday at Ola’s.

He knows this, because Jamie cheerily and proudly informs everyone of this fact when they react with confusion about the two of them showing up to the club in Roy’s car, like it is normal for Roy to drive around anyone, let alone Jamie, around.

Sam doesn’t know why Jamie of all people thinks he needs more training, since he is the best player on the team after Zava – a fact that is easier to acknowledge and admit now that Jamie isn’t a prick – but it’s not Sam’s business and Jamie looks to be happier for it.

At least, that would have been Sam’s stance on the whole thing, if Roy and Jamie weren’t being weird about it. Because they are being weird about it.

From that first day, they’re weird. Jamie tells them all that Roy showed up at his house that morning to make him work out until he puked, before he made them both breakfast and drove them here. Roy making them work out until they puke is not that weird, Roy making Jamie breakfast on the other hand? Very weird.

Then it gets weirder when they’re running drills and Jamie moves to the side and towards the tunnel during the break.

“Oi, Tartt,” Roy barks and for a moment Sam thinks it’s all back to normal again as Jamie looks back to Roy confusedly. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Uh, I have to piss, mate,” Jamie replies, sounding like he’s unsure about why Roy is asking, which is a pretty reasonable response. Sam can’t remember the last time any of them were asked about quickly taking a leak during the break, they’re not in school anymore.

However, instead of nodding, because that is a normal answer and letting Jamie go, Roy gives him a glare, eyebrows furrowing. Jamie frowns for a second, then realization hits. “Ooohhh.”

Roy rolls his eyes, then gestures for Jamie to hustle, while following after him. Sam looks over to the others, wanting confirmation of what he’d just seen, but they’re all surrounding Zava instead, a common sight these past few weeks.

Sam bites his lip, unsure what to do now. Technically, it’s nothing too weird. Jamie doesn’t exactly have a habit of skipping practice – apart from that one time, he does actually take his job seriously – but he does have a tendency to get distracted. With Roy training him, he might be cracking down on that habit. Or he might not go to the toilet with Jamie at all, he might have forgotten something or realized he had to pee himself too.

Still, the fact of the matter is that Sam just witnessed Roy ask Jamie where he was going and then tag along when Jamie informed him he was going to go pee. And that sits weirdly in his chest.

The knowledge jumbles around in his brain, combining with the fact that Roy made Jamie breakfast, then drove them both to work. The sudden closeness that comes out of nowhere after Roy apparently made time to train Jamie one on one when before this weekend, they had only been okay coworkers.

Something has happened between their last match and this morning to make them as close as they suddenly are and for the life of him, Sam can’t think of what that might be.

So, he just observes the two of them.

They come back three minutes later, which is a normal pee window, he supposes and neither of them act weirdly throughout practice. More merit is added to their training story when Roy shouts additions to the drill to Jamie to make it harder and tells him to lift more when they’re in the gym after.

Roy also hustles Jamie out of the locker room when it’s time for Zava’s meditation to go visit the nutritionist to talk about Jamie’s diet with the extra exercise. Jamie always skips Zava’s meditation and a part of Sam wonders if he should call him back over to them to join them this time. He’s sure Zava’s meditation will be better for him then having Roy yell at him, since Roy always yells at him.

However, Jamie is already skipping out of the room eagerly before Sam can, so he has to let them go, instead turning back to Zava and trying to clear his mind.

He doesn’t see Jamie for the rest of that day, but tells himself it’s okay. Roy has always been an intense guy and if they just started then there are more components he needed to organize, like the nutritionist. Jamie is fine, he looked more than happy to follow along.

In fact, Jamie looked better than he did the past two weeks. He had those two really shitty days when Sam genuinely worried about him and while he seemed better after, he’s still been quiet. Being around Roy seems to have cheered him up, so it’s probably not something bad, just weird.

To be sure, though, Sam sets to observing the two, not something creepy, just wanting to look out for Jamie. Because Jamie has become his friend and as much respect he has for Roy, he knows the two of them have a tumultuous past and he just wants to be sure Jamie is okay.

So, Sam watches and observes.

Roy and Jamie come in together again the next day and they leave together too. Sam watches from the parking lot as Jamie circles around Roy as he rambles away while they make their way to Roy’s car. He waits for Roy to snap, but he looks vaguely pleased at Jamie’s chatter. The riding in together is a trend that continues.

Alongside the coming in and leaving together, Roy keeps up the yelling at Jamie to make the exercises they do harder or make him do more. It’s shaking up the locker room again after Zava’s arrival. They’ve all been kind of playing in a haze, but now that haze gets cut with an : “Oi, Tartt!”

On day four of this, others are even catching on, sending Jamie looks every time it happens. Jamie seems more than content to do it, but still, Isaac asks: “Bruv, are you okay?”

Jamie perks up when Isaac talks to him, grinning widely, though that face falls instant and gets replaced by confusion as he replies: “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Uhm, coach Roy has just been kind of intense about your training,” Sam says, voicing his own concerns about Jamie’s well being.

“He’s just trying to make me better,” Jamie tells them, the tone he says it with a lot more fierce than they expected from him.

“Seems like there’s a lot of yelling involved in that, boyo,” Colin butts in.

“It’s Roy,” Jamie rolls his eyes, which is pretty fair as an explanation, yelling is how Roy shows affection and, well, all his emotions really.

Around them everyone kind of nods then goes back to what they were doing, but Sam hesitates. Besides the coming into work and the yelling, he has observed that Roy never leaves Jamie out of sight, except maybe when they’re all in the shower. But other than that? Roy is always there.

Like the first day they came in together, Roy follows Jamie to the bathroom every time he goes. He also follows him when he goes and fills his water bottle and tags along when Jamie has a meeting about PR stuff. Furthermore, he makes Jamie hang around his office until Roy goes home, which Sam knows because he forgot his phone once and had to go back.

All in all, it seems like Roy is determined to spend every single moment with Jamie and Jamie more lets it happen than anything else.

Sure, he seems more than happy to flutter around Roy and clearly likes being pushed in training by the man, seeing as he just defended him about it. But despite the fact that Jamie thinks Roy has good intentions, he also looks confused sometimes and Sam has observed him roll his eyes at Roy’s overbearing more than once.

Sam wants to check again if Jamie is okay, but he doesn’t know if he can. Since the arrival of Zava the locker room has been different. There have been less personal interactions and while it’s still fun, Sam feels self conscious breaking that now.

Still, he does care about Jamie and he knows his father would be disappointed in him if he didn’t check up on his friend. So, he says: “Just tell us if you need a distraction if you want a moment to breathe,” clapping Jamie on the back.

Jamie blinks for a moment, his face doing a complicated thing, before it settles on a smile. “Ah, thanks, lad. I’m good, but… thanks. Means a lot.”

“Of course,” Sam replies, feeling like he’s missing something important, but not knowing what to ask. It has to be enough though, because Jamie’s smile becomes broader, before he ducks his head and turns back to his work out.

Sam takes a moment to watch him, trying to see if he can spot anything wrong. There isn’t. Jamie seems to be content to lift his heavier weights, blowing out a steady breath to keep control.

As he turns back to his own set, he spots Roy watching the two of them. Suddenly feeling nervous, he swallows, before giving Roy an awkward nod-smile combo. Roy continues to glare at him for a moment longer, before he nods approvingly. Must not have been a glare then, just his normal face. Feeling more confused than ever, Sam does his own reps.

This confusion lingers and continues to grow after the match they play that Saturday. They’ve bagged another win courtesy of Zava and everyone is in high spirits. It feels good to be on a winning streak, good to have the best player in the world backing them.

While they jump around the locker room, planning their celebration out on the town, Sam spots Jamie sitting on his bench, smiling at everyone, though looking tired. He is about to go over there when Roy beats him to it, nudging Jamie and saying something Sam can’t hear over the noise.

Whatever was said, Jamie replies with a hand waving motion, as if dismissing what Roy said. Curious and worried, Sam moves closer, interrupting as if he didn’t notice the conversation with: “Jamie, are you coming too? We’re planning on going to that club Richard went to this week.”

Sam is asking more to creating an entry point, since it’s pretty much a given Jamie will come out with them. He always does. Everyone does. Celebrating together is important and Jamie loves the bright parties and attention.

So, he’s pretty surprised when Jamie hesitates and looks over to Roy instead of instantly saying yes. It is as if he is asking permission to go.

Now Sam is looking at Roy too, then back at Jamie, then back over to Roy, a small furrow appearing between his brows. “Is everything okay?”

Roy grunts then asks: “Who else is going?”

“Uhm, everyone?” Sam answers, confused why that is a question.

“Hm,” Roy hums, looking over to where the rest is still celebrating. Dani is hanging off Zava, big grin on his face, while Colin and Isaac jump, arms thrown around each other. Even Jan Maas is staring at their new star player with a big grin on his face.

They both look back to Jamie, who seems oblivious to it, observing the spectacle with a down turned lip instead of his usual grin.

“No,” Roy says, snapping Jamie out of it.

Sam is about to repeat the word, wondering what Roy means by it, when Jamie gives him an apologetic look: “Ah, sorry, mate. I want to, but this grumpy fuck still expects me for morning training.”

“Really?” Sam exclaims to Jamie, then turns to Roy: “You’re making him run laps at 4:00 AM after a match? Sorry, coach, but that is crazy work.”

Roy seems pleased instead of offended at the words, which Sam doesn’t know what to do with. “Good lad,” he nods, then walks away without another word.

“Jamie, you cannot think that is healthy,” Sam turns to Jamie, since clearly debating Roy about it is not going to work.

“I know, Sam,” Jamie smiles with a blush, ducking his head down. “He don’t mean it like tha’. We’ll probably do stretchin’, like yoga and stuff. Nothing heavy. It’s ‘bout keeping a rhythm. I’ll take a nice nap after, swear down.”

His worries are not lessened by Jamie’s words and he checks again: “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man, I’ll be mint, don’t worry. Coach doesn’t do nowt without running it by anyone with a fancy degree and shit. He used to train like this, he knows what he’s doing,” Jamie assures him.

That does make Sam feel a little bit better about it all hearing that, but before he can ask more, Roy calls out: “Oi, Tartt. Mush!”

More people now notice that Jamie isn’t coming with them, causing a round of jeering and disappointing calls to echo through the locker room. Jamie glows under all the yells, bright flush on his face as he jeers back: “Sorry, lads, can’t all be amazing. No alcohol and sleeplessness for this temple. Not my fault I’m Roy’s favorite!”

“If that’s being his favorite, I want to be his most hated,” Colin calls out boisterously, causing everyone to laugh, while Jamie sticks up his middle finger, before slipping out the room with Roy.

Sam tries to put it out of his mind for the rest of the evening, trying to go up in the festive masses and ride the high of their win streak. He’s successful for the most part, but he misses Jamie there with them too and hopes he isn’t feeling too left out. Zava is buying them rounds, it’s great. Sam was cautious to get into the footballer party world , however, with the locker room culture Ted cultivated, he’s dared to go and it can be quite fun.

He’s quite drunk around 4:00 AM and he sends Jamie a text that is probably only slightly legible, but seeing as he gets a string of emojis back, which mostly consists of hearts and sparkles, he feels like he got the message across. The fact that Jamie is actually awake makes him slightly mournful for him, but he does appear to have signed onto this himself, so Sam lets it go.

Over the course of the next week, their behavior becomes more and more normal for everyone, even though nothing changes .

Jamie looks to be okay with it all and Sam can’t deny that whatever Roy has Jamie do, it works. Whenever they do have conditioning, Jamie is outrunning them, or at least less winded. The only person that still beats him out is Zava, but that is understandable.

Sam still isn’t entirely sure what to think of this sudden shift into closeness, but he decides to leave it be for now. Everyone else doesn’t seem to think it notable, so maybe Sam is just being dramatic.

After the break up, Roy needs a pick me up and Jamie seems to be more content to be that person. Him getting the stick out of Roy’s ass is kind of nice, since that means less yelling and rough training sessions for the rest of them. And Jamie hasn’t had those worrying days since it started up.

Then they have that horrible match with Westham, where it all goes to shit, with everyone playing more aggressive than smart. It’s an embarrassing match. Sam barely dares to call his father after, knowing how disappointed he’ll be in all of them for not being the bigger person.

That match against Westham is the start of a lose streak that has all of them down. The atmosphere in the locker room is bad and not even Zava can cheer all of them up. It sucks.

Throughout that whole ordeal, Sam doesn’t think much of Jamie or Roy. Not any more than any other teammate. They’re all just trying to get through it. Sure, Jamie looks downtrodden about it all, but everyone does. No one likes being on a losing streak.

Everything shifts again when their next match arrives and Zava is not there. Richmond loses to Man City 4-0 without Zava and it feels like a punch in the gut.

Sure, they have been losing, but with Zava there, it at least felt like they had a chance. Now an air of inevitable defeat hangs around them. Richmond is not make to win like this, stripped of the man power they held for a moment, they’re nothing.

This feeling hangs over everyone, though maybe not everyone. On Monday after that horrible loss, Sam overhears Jamie in the hallway: “This isn’t necessary, Roy. Zava was kind of the factor behind it, right? And he’s gone now. I’m good.”

“Fuck off, you and I both know he wasn’t the only thing,” Roy growls. “I’m sticking with this, whether you like it or not, so suck it up, Tartt.”

“But it’s embarrassing,” Jamie whines.

“Well that’s your fucking problem, now isn’t it. You’re either with me or you fucking tell someone else and stick with them. Those are your options,” Roy replies, his voice brokering no argument.

“Ugh, you always do this,” Jamie complains. “It’s not that serious.”

“It fucking is!” Roy roars and Sam flinches away at the raw tone, wondering what the hell that is about, sticking around to listen in even if he feels guilty about eavesdropping.

“Sorry,” Jamie says, sounding smaller than before.

When Roy speaks, he’s gentler once more. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it just- it’s fucking important. It’s only been a little bit, you have ways to go. It’s not bad to want the help, to need it. We’re both fucking improving with all this shit.”

“Yeah, I s’ppose,” Jamie nods.

“Good,” Roy agrees. “Now, w hy don’t you want the others to know? They’re good lads, they know this is fucking serious. They’re not going to take the piss.”

Sam’s stomach fills with apprehension, wondering what it is about. He assumed it had been about their extra training, but everyone knows about those, so that can’t be it. Wondering what would be so serious makes him nervous.

He suddenly remembers the last time Roy and Jamie suddenly became a lot closer; Wembley. The time when Roy let Jamie cry on his shoulder after they all watched his dad belittle him, before Roy took him home. No one had really mentioned that night again, but the last bit of frost there had been between Roy and Jamie melted away and Roy treated Jamie like any other player.

Maybe it had been something so serious that could explain that sudden closeness now. But that started weeks ago, if something like that happened, Jamie wouldn’t have kept it from everyone, right? Certainly Roy would have told someone like Ted, Higgins or Rebecca. No, that can’t have been it. Sam doesn’t want to believe it.

Because he’s so deep in his panicking thoughts, he almost misses Jamie quietly answer: “I know, just don’t want anyone to feel bad, you know. Not their fault an’ all that.”

“You know that’s not on you, or them. It just fucking happened. It was a shit situation, nothing else to say about it,” Roy tells him. Sam doesn’t really know this side of Roy, but if something has been going on with Jamie, he’s glad that side of Roy was there with him, instantly feeling guilty about how suspicious he’d been when it first started.

This guilt doesn’t become any smaller when Jamie says: “I mean, I know that, but… still working on it, yeah, mate. Just don’t feel ready to share it yet.”

Fuck, Sam has just been here listening to a conversation that is not his to hear. What would his father think of him now? Before he can hear anything else, he quickly walks away, guilt continuing to churn in his gut after.

Over the following few days, it follows him. Haunts him. He’s pretty sure it had something to do with Amsterdam, but he doesn’t know what. He wants to ask Jamie, confess he overheard and apologize, but he doesn’t know how.

Not only is Jamie never alone, Roy is ever present as his shadow, Sam also doesn’t even know what he is asking either. If it is nothing with his dad, then Sam doesn’t want to be the person to bring it up. He also doesn’t want to push Jamie to talk to him about it when he has explicitly heard Jamie say that he’s not ready to tell anyone yet.

By the time they’re on a bus to Amsterdam, he still hasn’t talked to Jamie yet. He hypes himself up to do it in the hotel, but when he knocks on Jamie’s door, he either isn’t there, doesn’t hear or doesn’t want to talk to Sam.

Instead, he sends Jamie a text, asking him if he’s okay for the match tomorrow. Jamie texts back immediately with an encouraging text that they’re going to kick ass, which rules out the latter two reasons, meaning Jamie must not be there.

They all have their own pre-match rituals, so Jamie must be out doing something to generate luck for them. Sam isn’t going to disrupt that or throw Jamie off his game, they can use all the luck they can get. He can talk to Jamie after the match.

However, that moment doesn’t come. Instead of being in the hotel with the rest of them, Jamie is out there in Amsterdam somewhere with Roy, training while the rest of them have fun.

Sam wonders if he should have tried harder to talk to Jamie. From the sound of it, he was trying to quit and while it might not have been training, it had been something to do with Roy. He should have pushed harder, why didn’t he? Sam always worries about everyone, but the time it matters, he lets himself overthink again.

But then he overthinks himself the next day too, when Jamie comes back into the bus bursting with excitement, big grin on his face as he informs them all of the fact he and Roy saw a windmill.

Despite their lack of sleep, Sam stays awake long enough to hear Jamie describe the tulips they ended up seeing along the way in great detail to Dani, as well as recall their bike stealing escapades with great enthusiasm, before Jamie’s exhaustion outpaces the hyper feeling and he drops off.

Maybe it’s not his business. By the sound of it, Roy is helping Jamie with something and as far as Sam can see, it is helping.

If further thoughts of talking about it should arrive, they’re erased from Sam’s brain by Ola’s being vandalized right when his father comes to visit. And that is going on at the same time when they’re all trying to impossibly master a new way of playing football. It’s a lot and he’s only twenty-two. He is trying his best, but things slip through the cracks.

Having his father there is both amazing and horrible. Sam wishes he could have seen Ola’s when it was perfect, that he could visit Sam when he was doing great and amazing, not when he is feeling so angry and helpless. At the same time, he is so grateful that his father is within hugging distance when this all happens. That he’s not alone.

It’s not until they win and he decides to bring his father to Ola’s despite it all and they find the team fixing it up instead, that he is reminded of Jamie acting weird again. Namely, by Jamie acting weird again.

Sam has shown his father around once more and is just smiling at his father talking with Moe about some weird conspiracy when Jamie slides up next to him. “Y’alright, mate?”

“Me? Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m doing well. This… this is amazing. Thank you all so much,” Sam answers sincerely. He truly can’t believe they all did this for him and he’s so touched.

“’Course, lad. We weren’t gonna let you deal with this on your own,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious they would have done this. The way he finds it so self-evident that they’ll help out is something Sam can’t rhyme with the Jamie he played with that first season, but it endears him to the Jamie that is his friend greatly.

“Still.” He smiles at Jamie and Jamie smiles back

They’re quiet for a moment, then Jamie starts fidgeting, before checking: “But you’re feeling okay now? Nowt bad or something?”

“No,” Sam assures him, wondering why Jamie feels the need to make sure. “It has shaken me up, but they will not bring me down. Ola’s is not for them and I will continue to fight forward.”

“That’s mint, Sam,” Jamie tells him, looking proud. Then just to be safe he asks: “So you’re good?”

“I’m good,” Sam says again, hoping Jamie picks up on the question as to why Jamie keeps asking him that. Does he look weird?

Instead of clarifying, Jamie just nods to himself, before clapping him on his back. “Well, I’m done for the day. Roy’s a granddad with a boring bedtime and he’s infected me. I need my beauty sleep.” With that, he says his goodbyes and bounces out of the restaurant.

Sam sees him get into Roy’s car and he only has a split second to question why Roy is playing chauffeur to Jamie, before he gets pulled into another conversation and he’s distracted with the restoration of Ola’s and his father being there.

That Sunday he also spends with his father, making the most of the time they have, since his father will be flying back to Nigeria that evening and he’ll miss him so much. He also talks to his father about Jamie and what he overhead and how he acted yesterday.

His father assures him that he’s doing well, that Jamie will come to him when he’s ready and he might have been feeling out where Sam was at yesterday. As for the eavesdropping, he gets a scolding for it, but his father also tells him that keeping it to himself wasn’t a horrible thing to do. Jamie didn’t want him to know, forgetting is respecting that. He can always reconsider what to do with what he heard when Jamie does come to him and he gets more context for the information.

Sam tries to keep those words in mind when Jamie continues to act weird on Monday. It’s nothing too obvious, but he just keeps hovering around Sam, making it seem like he’ll say something, then saying nothing or deflecting in a quite obvious manner.

It leaves him sitting on the locker room bench in confusion at the end of the day, looking at Jamie in front of him, playing with them hem of his shirt as he anguishes over something. “Is everything okay, Jamie?”

“Uh, yeah, ‘s fine. Just…” Jamie starts, trailing off helplessly, before looking over to where the coaches’ office is.

Unsurprisingly, Roy is standing there, observing the interaction. He rolls his eyes at Jamie, but comes to his aid anyway, barking out: “Obisanya, stay,” which invites a round of ‘oooooooh’s from the other lads and an apologetic look from Jamie.

“Yes, coach,” Sam simply replies, because while it is weird, he’s pretty sure he’s not in trouble. In fact, he might finally get to know what all the strangeness he’s been observing is about.

So, he stays after training and is a little confused when Roy invites him back over to his place for a dinner and a chat, Jamie now hovering behind Roy’s shoulder nervously as he nods at Sam. Reluctantly, Sam agrees, the urge to know overriding whatever apprehension he might have.

Still, his eyebrows are raised from leaving the club to getting to Roy’s couch. While he knows that Roy and Jamie have continuously come into work together, he hadn’t expected just how at home in Roy’s life Jamie had made himself.

In the car, the passenger seat is lined up with Jamie’s stuff and his phone easily connects to the bluetooth where he puts on his own playlist without asking permission or getting a complaint from Roy. He moves as if this is normal, dropping his headband in the center console where a collection has accumulated, before fiddling with a fidget toy that’s in the pocket in the door.

At the house, Jamie bounds up at the door without issue as if it’s normal that Roy invited both of them to his house. Sam has to correct that thought to inviting Sam to Roy and Jamie ’s house, because a chunk of the shoe and jacket collection at the door is Jamie’s and he moves through the house like he lives there.

Fuck, does Jamie live there? Are they dating or something and want to talk to Sam about it because of what happened between him and Rebecca? Do they know about that? How did they find out?

He desperately tries to keep a straight face through Jamie saying: “You okay with pasta for dinner? Roy is no Simi, but his cooking is great, swear down,” until they’re all awkwardly sitting around the dinner table eating Roy’s cooking.

“Uh, so, what is this about?” Sam breaks the silence, unable to take it anymore.

If he expects both of them to get uncomfortable because they’re going to be talking about dating, he is sorely mistaken. It’s only Jamie, who hunches in on himself, playing with his food. Roy’s face remains unchanged, but he rumbles comfortingly when Jamie stays quiet.

After some more hemming and hawing, Jamie finally says: “Dr. Ingrid gave me homework.”

That is not what Sam expected. “Dr. Ingrid?”

“Uh, yeah, Dr. Sharon referred me to her after we called her on the phone, cause we didn’t really know who to go to,” Jamie says, explaining, but not elaborating. “Anyway, she’s mint. We’ve been talking and stuff about all the, uhm, brain shit I’ve got going on.”

Okay, this sounds serious, Sam thinks, mentally adjusting expectations and bracing himself for what he is about to hear. He didn’t know Jamie continued therapy after Dr. Sharon left at the end of last season and he is curious what homework he could have given Jamie that involves Sam.

“Anyway,” Jamie clears his throat. “She says that my support system shouldn’t be just Roy and I need to branch out more, lean on other people, or whatever.”

Support system? Lean on other people? Jamie apparently living with Roy is put in whole other light all of a sudden and Sam feels a dread pool in his gut.

“I think it’ll be fine, but Roy and Dr. Ingrid disagree, even though I weren’t gonna do nowt,” Jamie continues on, getting a warning growl from Roy that he ignores. “And it’s really no big, just silly when you think ‘bout it, cause I don’t really need it, but we got shared hotel rooms on that away game, so people will notice me being gone and I want to be more independent like.”

“Jamie, what is going on?” Sam interrupts whatever dismissal or disclaimer this is, because he is starting to get worried and he wants to know what is happening .

“Well, uh,” Jamie starts, gesturing for a moment as he tries to come up with words, before looking over at Roy, his eyes asking him to take over and tell Sam… whatever is going on.

Roy complies with a blunt voice that would sound unfeeling if Sam didn’t know Roy well enough to spot how he’s suppressing how much he is feeling. “You and Jamie are going to be rooming together tomorrow and he needs you to be his suicide watch.”

At the words, Jamie whines in embarrassment, but Sam’s brain doesn’t register anything after that sentence, static playing between his ears as he tries to process what Roy just told him.

Suicide watch.

Suicide watch.

Jamie’s suicide watch!

What the actual fuck, is all that plays through Sam’s mind. Just an incomprehensible jumble of what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, playing on a loop. Half delirious, he thinks that Jamie hasn’t seemed very suicidal, before he hysterically realizes that he just fucking missed it.

Somewhere in the past however long, Jamie contemplated suicide seriously enough that he’s been on fucking suicide watch under Roy and talking to a therapist over his brain shit. And Sam didn’t fucking notice. Or worse, he brushed it off. Told himself it was nothing. What kind of shit friend is he?

“You okay, Sam?” Jamie’s voice barely makes it through the crazed frenzy in Sam’s brain.

He is grateful for Roy saying: “Give him a fucking second, you Muppet. He needs to fucking process, unlike you, other people actually realize this is a big fucking deal,” because Sam 100% needs to process this for a beat more.

“When- What- How- Are you okay, Jamie?” Sam finally manages to stumble and squeak out, wanting to sink into the ground with mortification after he does, because of course Jamie’s not okay, he’s on suicide watch.

However, Jamie seems to find it funny, snorting at the question. “I’m grand, mate. This grumpy twat has just blown this out of proportion. I weren’t gonna do it.”

“Tell that to the pills and letters I found,” Roy grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring at Jamie, who at least has the decency to look ashamed about it. Not that Sam cares, he is too hung up on the new information.

Of course he realized it had to have been pretty serious for these measures to have been taken, but Roy’s words feel like a fresh punch to the gut. Not only had Jamie been feeling horrible enough to want to take his own life, he’d gotten far enough to have a letter written and a means to do it.

“I didn’t even notice,” he wheezes out, the horror that has dawned on him overtaking him.

Jamie’s face changes instantly, the smirking mask he’d been wearing dropping for a more compassionate and vulnerable expression. “It’s alright, Sam. Didn’t want people to notice, now did I? Were really careful ‘bout it and owt. You, uh- you actually helped a lot.”

“What?”

“Yeah, uhm, you checked up on me. When I were feeling real shit. I, uh, I got hung up on writing the letters, made me feel better and shit. I nearly did it, but you’d asked me if I were okay, so I wanted to give you one and then I didn’t do it. Plus you kept checking up on me the whole time, even when Roy was already watching out for me. Made me feel proper cared for. So, uhm, thank you. Might have saved me life with that,” Jamie admits, looking a bit embarrassed as he explains.

Sam tries to go back to find when he is talking about, a terrible feeling taking a hold of him as he realized just how long ago that was. Though, he does feel a little better about making Jamie feel better, about being a person that at least checked up on him, even if he didn’t notice all this.

Overcome by emotion, he chokes out: “I’m glad I checked in. I- I don’t- Fuck, Jamie, I- I’m so sorry I didn’t notice.”

“Stop that, I already said it were fine, didn’t I?” Jamie deflects and Sam realizes he must be a bit uncomfortable with Sam’s guilt about it. He suddenly remembers a flash of the conversation he overheard: ‘ I know, just don’t want anyone to feel bad, you know. Not their fault an’ all that’

He wants to apologize again for making Jamie feel bad about Sam feeling bad, but then they’ll just get stuck in an unproductive loop. Instead he clears his throat and says: “Okay. So, uh, suicide watch, what, uh- what does that look like?”

“Nowt really, mostly just hanging out,” Jamie tells him.

After hearing Jamie talk about it himself, he isn’t so sure that is all there is to it, therefore he turns to Roy instead and asks: “Roy, what do I do?”

“Hey, unfair!” Jamie pouts, sulkily putting a bite of pasta in his mouth.

“Good lad,” Roy nods proudly at Sam, which makes him feel like he is capable of doing this. Then Roy explains: “It is mostly making sure Jamie’s not alone, so supervise him when he showers, when he pees, always. You do not let him leave your sight unless I am there keeping an eye on him.”

Sam listens intently, that explains Roy following Jamie to the bathroom like he’d observed. Luckily showering together is already something they do, though it might be more odd in a hotel. He interrupts Roy for a moment, before he can talk more, so he can grab his phone and write all this down.

Roy waits patiently until he’s caught up, the goes on: “I have his razor, which I’ll keep.” He turns to Jamie for a moment: “If you want to shave, you can come do that in my room.”

“Ugh, you suck,” Jamie complains. Sam now gathers that the conversation he’d overheard had been about Jamie wanting to quit his suicide watch, since he clearly seems to think it’s all unnecessary. Sam wonders what Zava had to do with all this and if Jamie will ever tell him more about how he’d been feeling.

However, he doesn’t have time to think about it, because Roy just ignores Jamie’s complaint and moves on. “I don’t expect you to stay awake until Jamie has dropped off, but try not to go to bed before he’s in his own bed ready for sleep. Jamie should wake you up when he wakes in the night, but he’s a pretty heavy sleeper. Is that okay?”

“You don’t have to,” Jamie immediately jumps in, assuring Sam he doesn’t have to fuck up his sleep before a match.

If Sam had any apprehensions about it – which he fucking doesn’t because he’s not a monster – those are gone in an instant and he fiercely says: “Of course I’m going to.”

It earns him another approving nod from Roy, who closes off: “Those are the big things. I’m checking his bag before it’s even on the bus, so he shouldn’t bring anything dangerous. Be conscious of what you pack and keep potential hazards out of sight, but Jamie is doing better, so I don’t suspect that will become a problem.”

“Uh-huh!” Jamie pipes up excitedly. “I got a diary that’s all fun like, with the dots everywhere and I’m having more purple and pink days!”

Translating, Roy says: “Pink and purple are good and neutral days on his mood tracker.”

“Ahh,” Sam nods, before he smiles: “That is great, Jamie. I’m glad.”

“Thank you,” Jamie smiles back, both proud of himself and a little embarrassed about it . Sam wishes he could take that embarrassment away, wishes he could take a lot more feelings than just the embarrassment away, but all he can do is give Jamie an encouraging nod and vow to himself to follow the rules Roy gave him as best he can.

After that, dinner is slightly awkward. Jamie doesn’t seem to be in a mood to talk more about it and coming back from a topic such as this, isn’t an easy task. They try, but it remains stilted and Sam is somewhat relieves to say his goodbyes and leave at the end of the evening.

Jamie has given Sam permission to talk to his father about it, since Roy talks to his sister about it too. It is not fair, according to Jamie and Dr. Ingrid, to ask people to carry that without letting them have support of their own. However, he did ask Sam not to tell anyone at Richmond, including coaches and Keeley.

So when he gets home, he calls his father and cries with him on the phone, because oh my god, his friend nearly killed himself recently. The reality of it all crashing down on him. Three years ago he couldn’t imagine that a reality without Jamie would horrify him this much, but it does. Jamie has become a good friend, someone he cares deeply about. He cannot believe he’d been so caught up in himself that he hadn’t even known. That none of them had.

It almost doesn’t feel real, but it is, since here he is, talking with his father on the phone as he packs his bag, trying to decide if his stuff is dangerous. Wonders if his pants can be used as a noose and he shouldn’t risk it, or if just taking the ones without a drawstring will be fine. If he really needs those paracetamols or if he’ll be fine asking one of the medics for them if he does. And on a scale from one to ten, how badly does he need to shave?

Packing has never felt like this, not even when he came here from Nigeria and had to decide which parts of his life to take with him and which ones to leave behind. There had been an ache then, a feeling of missing, but it felt nostalgic and hopeful. He was moving onto better stuff. This just hurts.

He spends the rest of the night on the phone with his father, even when he falls asleep, just feeling comforted by the fact he’s there. He tries not to think of the fact that Jamie doesn’t have that. That he n ever did.

Sam knows he’s the one being weird the next day, but he can’t help it. His eyes just keep drifting over to Jamie, wondering if he can see it. If the things he missed are obvious now that he knows and he should have seen it earlier.

Did Jamie’s smile always look like that, or is it a fake? Does it reach his eyes? Does he keep it up when no one is watching? Is there a slump to his shoulder s , or is it normal? Can he see it? Is it there?

If Jamie notices he’s being weird, he’s a good sport about it, comfortingly bumping into Sam here and there as they run their drills and talking to him as always. It makes Sam both feel better and worse, since it does seem sincere, but it’s also the same as Jamie has always been, bar those two horrid days where Sam did nothing more than ask once. He could slip again and Sam might not know once more.

Getting to the hotel that evening, does not alleviate the weirdness. In fact, it might sharpen it. There is no Roy hovering in the corner, no he said goodbye at the door of their room after dinner, pressing his own room number onto their hearts once more, before leaving. Sam is now in charge.

He doesn’t know why he out of everyone has been trusted with this responsibility, but he is determined to take it seriously. Even if it’s a little weird to be the person that has to make the decisions right now. As far as Sam can remember, he’s never been that person, there had always been his father or coaches or a captain to look to for guidance, even Simi helps at Ola’s . He doesn’t have that here.

Fortunately, Jamie seems wholly unconcerned, which maybe should be worrying, but Sam can’t help but be grateful for Jamie flopping onto a bed and saying: “I’m good not showering, since we did at the club, but I’ll play a game on my phone on the bathroom floor if you wanna. Or do my skincare. You’re gonna have to stick around for that, even if you don’t shower, sorry.”

Grateful for the direction, Sam answers: “I don’t mind hanging around the bathroom. What time do you wanna go to bed?”

“Roy got me on a boring old people schedule, so I’m gonna be in by 9:00,” Jamie semi-complains. He doesn’t sound too put off by the early bedtime.

“I can do 9:00,” Sam says, figuring it can’t hurt to go to sleep early with a match day tomorrow. He can probably also use the rest. And even if he can’t fall asleep instantly, he has come to appreciate just spending time with Jamie.

“Mint,” Jamie grins, rolling off the bed and going to his suitcase where he proceeds to take out an unnecessary amount of products.

“Jamie, it’s 7: 30 , what are you doing? What is all this for?” Sam asks, eyeing the whole thing with confusion.

“You think I effortlessly look this good? Nah, mate, takes work, don’t it,” Jamie replies, gathering all his supplies and making his way to the bathroom, Sam trailing after him.

He sits on the closed toilet and watches Jamie go through an obscene amount of creams and serums and masks and whatever else he felt like he needed to do. Jamie doesn’t seem to mind his audience, instead narrating what he is doing like he is a lifestyle influencer and convincing Sam to let Jamie put a mask on his face and take selfies for social media with them on.

Sam almost forgets that he is there to function as suicide watch for Jamie. As much as the comment was to undersell how serious and bad it was, Jamie also wasn’t entirely wrong about it being close to hanging out together either.

Of course, Sam can’t forget entirely either . Staying in the bathroom while they both pee is more intimate than he otherwise would have gotten in a hotel with another player on a regular day. However, he doesn’t feel as nervous about the whole thing anymore, once they’re both in bed.

Jamie messes around on his phone for a bit, telling Sam that he texted Roy and is going to go sleep now, but that Sam can continue to make noise if he wants to. Sam himself has gotten his own check up text from Roy and replies to that, before wishing Jamie goodnight and telling him he’ll be quiet.

He messes around on his phone for a bit more, asking Simi how the restaurant is doing and ensuring his father he is doing better now, as well as checking up on his socials and liking the picture Jamie posted. As he does, he keeps looking over to Jamie, who keeps tossing, not dropping off.

After ten minutes of this, Sam wonders if he should ask Jamie if he’s okay or check up on him in some capacity. It has only been ten minutes, but Jamie seemed confident about being able to fall asleep easily earlier.

“Jamie?” Sam whispers, unsure why he’s whispering. It just feels appropriate in the dark room, which is plunged further into darkness when inactivity makes his phone screen darken.

“Yeah?” Jamie replies, voice equally hushed.

“Are you okay? Am I keeping you awake?” Sam asks worriedly.

“Nah, nah, you’re good, mate, just… it’s silly,” Jamie replies.

“You can tell me,” Sam says immediately. “You can always tell me anything, I will not think it’s silly.”

Jamie is quiet for a moment and Sam holds his breath, wondering if he messed up or if an answer is coming. Finally, Jamie confesses: “I miss Roy.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Sam sighs sympathetically.

“I know,” Jamie whines, like Sam said something completely different. “But it’s like, he’s right down the hall, but it’s different then when we’re at home. It’s more real. I only moved to my own room two weeks ago. We used to share.” A beat, then Jamie speaks again, this time his voice like he can’t truly believe it: “I had sleep overs with Roy Kent .”

Sam lets out a disbelieving and amused huff at that, unable to help himself. It’s not necessarily that funny, since they’re talking about Jamie’s suicide watch, but the mental image of Roy at a sleep over trips him up regardless.

Luckily, Jamie does seem to mind, rolling over to his side and grinning widely at Sam as he gleefully informs him: “Roy cuddles. I got spooned by Roy Kent .” He giggles and repeats: “Holy shit, Roy fucking Kent spooned me.”

Now Sam is giggling too, just because Jamie is. It’s nice that he sounds childishly happy, instead of uncomfortabl y embarrassed like he did earlier.

Sam feels a little comforted by the fact this is a change for Jamie too. Sam is not the only one floundering with the situation they have found themselves in. Though at the same time, it hits him that this is a huge step for Jamie. Spending the night with Sam instead of under Roy’s supervision. The fact that he’s been trusted with it hits him right in the chest.

He doesn’t think he will ever forget that fact he missed Jamie getting that bad, but he cannot change it, he can only fight forward. Go on now that he knows and support Jamie the best he can, whether that means carefully packing his ba g , sitting in the bathroom while Jamie does skincare, keeping an eye on his every move, or giggling over cuddling with Roy.

“Want to know if I spoon better?” he finds himself offering, before he can overthink. Jamie trusted him with this and Sam is going to make sure Jamie feels comfortable tonight.

“Are you serious, not taking the piss?” Jamie asks, perking up onto his elbows to look at Sam better through the darkened room.

He sounds so hopeful about it and honestly, Sam can’t see a downside. He lifts up his blanket and says: “I am completely serious. Me and my sister used to have sleep overs all the time when we were younger. I am a great cuddler”

“Mint,” Jamie grins, rolling off his bed and quickly making his way over to Sam’s, who shuffles back to make room for Jamie to slip under the covers with him.

They lay next to each other for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. Jamie fidgets, then asks: “You’re sure it’s not weird. I- I can go, if you want.”

“No, you’re good,” Sam assures him. “I was just putting away my phone. I am going to hug you now.”

“Oh. Nice,” Jamie replies, relief tinting his voice.

Sam rolls over and tugs Jamie into his arms. Despite the fact that Jamie has been bulking up recently and is a pretty big dude overall, he is eager to be hugged and Sam’s not a small person himself either, so he manages to wrangle Jamie into a comfortable position.

While he did offer a spooning service and does try to go for that, he ends up more octopus-ing Jamie’s back instead. While Jamie is lying on his stomach, Sam has thrown one leg over the back of his thighs and one arm is slung over his back, the other tucked between them. “This okay?” he checks.

“Yeah, this is fucking great, mate, thank you,” Jamie replies. “Night.”

“Night,” Sam returns the greeting. It seems Jamie means the assurance too, because he is out in an instant, just like he claimed he would earlier. Seem s he just needed to be comfortable to be right. Sam feels a strong sense of pride in making him feel like that.

The next morning, Sam calls Jamie insane for thinking that 6:00 AM is sleeping in, but begrudgingly follows him out of bed so he can pee and take a shower, before hand delivering him to Roy’s room, who is a sadist and is going to make Jamie run light laps, whatever that means, instead of their usual work out, since it’s match day.

Crawling back into bed, because he is a normal person, Sam tries not to miss the comforting warmth Jamie had provided during the night. He sleeps again until 8:30, which is a much more reasonabl e hour in his opinion and goes down to breakfast to find Jamie again.

While he knows Jamie is with Roy and therefore fine, he wants to be there for Jamie. Him and Roy are his support system together and he wants to help him. He isn’t sure Jamie catches onto that fact, but he is pretty sure Roy does. He’s probably happy Sam is there to follow Jamie into the toilets, since that is a lot less likely to result in a call to HR.

Together they got Jamie, and when Jamie starts spiraling again a few weeks down the line, they know they have back up when they lock eyes behind Jamie’s back at that press conference.