Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keeley sat next to Rebecca in the stands, leaning in to hear the commentators on Higgins’ phone, eyes intent on Roy standing on the side lines, pointing and shouting at the Richmond lads, a blob of black against a sea of green.

It was Richmond’s first match against City with Roy as gaffer.

Arlo White’s voice came from Higgins’ phone. “I feel bad for the Richmond lads really, Chris, it must be awkward. Like playing a game against your gaffer’s son!”

“Yes Arlo,” Chris’s voice. “Can you imagine being the player who fouls Tartt? Not really fair for the Richmond boys, is it?”

“Honestly, was it strange when you started dating Roy?” Rebecca inquired, eyes focused on the pitch.

“Not that awkward, honestly. I was his agent first before I started going steady with Roy,” Keeley replied, turning her head to keep the ball in view. “And it’s like dating someone who had a kid when they were fifteen or something. Like having a really, really old stepson… oh, sorry, Simon. I know you are his real stepfather…”

Simon and Georgie were in the row behind them in the VIP area. Jamie always got them tickets when City was playing at home. Always in the VIP area. Only the best for Jamie’s beloved Mummy.

Simon reached down to place a friendly hand on Keeley’s shoulder. “Oh, no worries, duck! Our little Jam Tart made it very clear. I am Jamie’s coach, not his stepfather. And well… Roy Kent is … Roy Kent, innit? No one would ever be like Roy Kent. Not to Jamie. It takes a village anyhow…”

Keeley smiled, “Yes, and Jamie Tartt is Jamie Tartt. No one would ever be like Jamie to Roy Kent…”

Keeley still remembered that interview when Roy started coaching at Richmond. Trent Crimm asking if Roy Kent would take on another protégé, help another young player improve. The Roy Kent Effect at work. Only for Roy to sit there, and stonily insist that there would only ever be one Jamie Tartt.

When Roy was still in his post retirement funk, Keeley had tried to suggest that Roy work as a coach for one of the academies. Maybe back at Chelsea with Coach Doyle. Since Roy had enjoyed coaching Phoebe’s team so much. “You would be good at it, babes.” Only for Roy to shudder and look at her with wide haunted eyes. “It’s too much fucking responsibility. Fucking… I did not see it with Ruth. What if I miss it in one of the lads? What if I lose my temper in training and they don’t dare tell me what’s going on at home? I would never be able to fucking forgive myself. I look at those little faces and all I see is fucking Jamie fucking Tartt looking back up at me. Fuck… I just … can’t.”

Keeley had stopped insisting, understanding Roy’s fear even if she did find it irrational.

Keeley gasped as Jamie jumped up to knock the ball away from City’s goal, colliding with Jan Maas before falling awkwardly onto the grass.

“Fuck.”

Chris’ voice over the speaker. “Tartt looks injured. I think it’s the ankle…”

Keeley could only watch, white knuckled as Jamie limped to the side lines, helped by two physios. Predictably, Jamie made an immediate beeline for Roy fucking Kent. Even from the stands, Keeley could see Roy’s shoulders hunch up with worry.

“’No, see, am fine, swear down, just a sprain, can still play, stop worrying about me Grandad…’” Keeley muttered to Rebecca, mimicking Jamie, before switching to her Roy impression. “No, you fucking muppet, you will listen to the fucking physios, a game is not worth your career, fucking do not play on that fucking ankle…’’”

Jamie gave Roy a quick hug before limping back over to Pep who just shook his head and motioned for one of the other players to get onto the field from where he had been warming up.

Keeley could hear Simon let out a breadth in relief, patting Georgie’s hand to reassure her. “I think Pep wants him better rested for our last game of the season… No need to risk Jamie getting more injured when we could still win the Prem even if we lose to Richmond today. You can go fuss over him later, love.”

“Well, Arlo, I would not want to be Jan Maas in the locker room today after the match…”

“No Chris, though Tartt does not look seriously injured, so that may save him from the worst of the famous Kent temper…”

The match was finally over. A tie. Jamie had managed an assist at least before he fucked his ankle. So, neither man would be pouty at dinner with Georgie and Simon, thank fuck. Roy and Keeley were staying the weekend before flying back down to London in Rebecca’s private jet. Keeley was looking forward to a dinner where they did not dissect football, though knowing Roy and Jamie, Roy would spend the whole dinner lecturing Jamie on the importance of rehab as Jamie sat there, listening, reverant, like a congregant in church or a saint hearing the voice of God. At least Georgie was fun to talk to…

Roy went to shake Pep’s hand. Jamie went ambling over to the two men, as a harried physio hovered behind him with an ice pack. Roy finally reached out and ruffled Jamie’s hair, which Keeley knew Roy had been wanting to do since the start of the match. Her boyfriend had spent half the coach ride grumbling about the little muppet's latest hairdo. Pep laughed good naturedly, patting Jamie on the back.

Roy and Pep slowly started walking off the pitch together, bickering. Keeley sighed. She recognised that expression on Roy’s face from endless rants and post-match dinners with the City lads. It was his Jamie would be better if he lost a bit of weight and was leaner expression. And Pep was doing his “but Jamie fits the team better with more muscle and we must politely agree to disagree” face. A well worn conversation both men could do in their sleep.

Jamie bounced between them the whole while, his ankle in a brace, like a child of amicably divorced parents: just happy both his parents were in the same room again, together, and all the attention was on him.

Chapter Text

Simon delivered the same safeguarding lecture to all new hires every year. To get them up to date on City’s policies. They did it by batch. It was a yearly occurrence. Delivered to everyone who joined, from the janitorial staff to members of the first team. Anyone who could interact with the Academy lads.

It was a simple speech. See it, say it, sorted. One abuse case going undetected was too much. Rather report a false alarm than let one child slip through the net. Never again.

Simon always started the talk with Jamie’s story, all names redacted of course, to stress why it was so bloody important that everyone keep an eye out. Though, Simon reflected, he should probably change the details up even more, say that the Academy boy had gotten transferred to one of the European teams or something… When Simon had given that speech with Pep in the crowd, he had watched as Pep’s eyebrows went up and up and up before they sank back down. Jamie was starting to make a name for himself, wasn’t he? And there were only so many City Academy boys who ended up in London… People were starting to fucking piece it together.

So, when Jamie’s contract offer was discussed, Simon was not surprised when Pep immediately approved of James Tartt Senior’s ticket ban, and even suggested that the man be banned in perpetuity from training grounds and other areas not open to the public.

Looking at Jamie always gave Simon this …ache. Simon had always wanted a son. Dreamed of it, a little boy with his eyes. At least before that health check brought his castle in the sky crashing down. His then wife left him: what she wanted he could not provide. He had made peace with it. This hole in his life.

Then came Georgie and the hope reignited again. Dreams of taking his son out for a day out on the river, or showing his boy the docks where Simon’s father used to work, or …

But Jamie did not want a father.

Simon had buried that hurt, that ache, down, down, down… Jamie was as good as a son. Simon ruffled his hair, called Jamie duck, the little handful, my Jam Tart, our Jam Tart… nicknames he probably would have called a son anyway.

It was not about what Simon wanted. It was about what Jamie needed. Simon remembered, sitting in that university lecture hall, with his ex-wife. Some parenting lecture from a leading child psychologist, before they realised their fantasy of a little boy with his hair and her eyes and a little girl with his smile and her nose was an impossibility… The expert, staring out into the lecture hall with her glasses at the end of her nose.

“Who promised you, that raising children would be easy?”

But some nights, after Georgie was asleep and Jamie had locked himself away in his room in a fit of teenaged angst, and Simon had finished doing the dishes, he would pad his way up the stairs in his socks, would stand in the dark corridor, outside Jamie’s room, staring at the bar of light under the door. He could feel his mouth, automatically and uncontrollably mouth the words.

Son.

The word that never left his mouth. The word he never gave breadth to, but still let himself shape. This undeniable truth that welled up and needed to be whispered before Simon exploded and the hunger ate him alive.

Jamie, Jamie, my son. Jamie, my boy.

Words James Tartt senior had poisoned.

Simon had been to James Tartt senior’s house once. Back when Jamie was 14 and trying to reconnect with his father. Simon had gotten an eyeful of the house full of City memorabilia and other random bric-a-brac that populated the shelves. The wall of photos of old City teams. Simon had been startled by that old photo filled with autographs, surprised to recognise his own signature. He vaguely remembered that night, greeting the fans before they got on the bus. A lad, a good few years older than himself asking for autographs, something about trying to get one from everyone on the team. Simon had scribbled his own signature before waving over one of the starters. Strange, to think that he had once willingly shaken that man’s hand and that they had been able to exchange a civil word… If Simon had known then what he knew now, he would have spit in that man’s face.

Honestly, Simon’s career in the Prem had not been the most glorious. He warmed the bench most of the time, before his hip injury had forced an early retirement. But, no matter… Simon had always been a better coach than a player anyway. Better with children than adults.

By the time Simon was the head coach for the U-16s, James Tartt senior gone crying to the papers with some sob story about being estranged from his son, which meant Jamie’s story was now public. At least some good did come of it. Jamie enjoyed his position as spokesperson for that children’s charity…

So that year, when Simon delivered his safeguarding talk to the new hires, Jamie was sat next to him.

Afterwards, in the corridor, Simon wiping his eyes as Jamie stretched out the fabric of his hoodie. “Coach… you know that you are important to me, don’t you?”

“Yes, duck…”

“I… fucking meant it, about not needing a fucking father… And that you are me coach and that is much better than a dad…”

“I know, Jam Tart, I know…”

“But you’ve always wanted a son… I’m sorry that I fucking took that from you. Deployed you of that chance, didn’t I?”

Deprived, Simon automatically mentally corrected, used to how Jam Tart talked by now, but this was not the time. “Jamie, Jamie. It wasn’t about what I wanted. I was about what you needed…”

“You shouldn’t have let me be selfish. It wasn’t fair to you, innit?”

“Oh duck, that’s what raising children is about. About putting them before yourself, Jam Tart.”

Jamie looked down, his hands fumbling about in his hoodie. Simon put a gentle hand on the writhing mass under the thick fabric, trying to still the vibrations.

“You can’t be my father. But … maybe… maybe I could be your son?”

Silence. Simon could barely breathe.

Jam Tart finally looked up at him. Simon could not help but remember the 11 year old who had looked up at him, pleading for help, eye framed by that horrid black bruise. “Only if you want, Coach... er... Simon, no pressu…”

Simon crushed Jamie to him, and finally, finally, those long buried words rose out of his throat and spilled out into the silence. “Oh Jamie, oh duck, oh my Jam Tart… Jamie. Jamie, my son…”

Chapter Text

Roy Kent was playing Jamie Tartt one on one that afternoon. A friendly showcase. For Jamie’s children charity. An event Rebecca was honoured to sponsor, though she could not help but be worried about her manager's knee. She wanted him functional and the season would start in a week and …

Ever since James Tartt had fucking broken in to Jamie’s house, Rebecca kept her fucking private jet on call in London. For Roy’s peace of mind really. As long as Jamie Tartt had been playing in Manchester, and in Europe now, with Real Madrid… Rebecca was sure that private jet was the only thing that stopped Roy Kent from fucking finding a club in Manchester and then Spain that would take him on as a coach.

Even back then Rebecca could not understand. How someone could do that to a child, your own child. Your flesh and blood. Her mother had been exasperating on her worst days, nagging and annoying and completely incomprehensible to her. Her father had been, at worst, neglectful, more focused on going out and chasing tail than his family back home. But neither had ever raised a hand to her. How could you? When faced with your own flesh and blood, eyes that trusted you to care for and cherish them, raise a hand to them?

When Jamie had shyly come to her one day after a match against Richmond, accompanied by Roy of course, to ask if she would sponsor his fundraising showcase for his children’s charity, Rebecca had not hesitated to say yes.

She had grown fond of Jamie over the years. For to know Roy Kent was to know Jamie Tartt. The two of them, like a strange package deal.

Rebecca had had plans to hang out with Keeley, only for her to call and ask for a rain check. Something about a crisis. All hands on deck. Naturally, Rebecca had offered to come over and help. The lights in the Keeley Jones Talent Management Ltd offices had stayed on the whole night. James Tartt senior's hateful little face stared out at her from that morning’s copy of The Sun, accusing his son of being a heartless little bitch that had cut off his own flesh and blood, as Rebecca called up Trent Crimm, offering dibs on a tell-all interview with Jamie Tartt, as long as he was fair and balanced and the gentleman Rebecca knew him to be. Roy Kent had snarled in the background, angry that Jamie had had to give an interview at all.

“You’ll let me have 5 minutes with Crimm before he gets his hands on Jamie. Me, Crimm and a piece of red rope.” Roy said, the moment Rebecca hung up.

“I was under the impression you two had buried the hatchet…” Rebecca remembered Ted mentioning something to that effect…

“I trust Crimm. For a journalist, he’s … fucking… fine. But you are asking me to fucking trust him with… Jamie. Jamie fucking Tartt”

Before, Rebecca had not empathised with Roy. Sympathised, really, but did not understand.

But now she did. Now, happily married to Matthijs, with a daughter of her own. She understood how 4 hours could seem like a lifetime. Too long.

An eternity.

Her daughter, now old enough to have opinions, kept nagging her about that private jet. About the importance of being environmentally friendly and not flying private and … But her daughter spent so many weekends with her birth mother in Amsterdam, when Rebecca herself was in London and what if something happened when her daughter was with her and Matthijs in London? Her birth mother would need to fly over immediately, surely?

Rebecca did not really know how to explain. How that fear, that helplessness in Roy Kent’s voice in that corridor, swearing that he should have been in fucking Manchester fucking yesterday fucking haunted her.

Rebecca would keep the private jet. Until her daughter turned eighteen…

But then there was university and what if she decided she wanted to go to school in the States… what about her gap year? And then she wanted to work for the bloody United Nations… Hopefully not in war zones, Rebecca did not need the heart palpitations …

Rebecca would keep the private jet… until her daughter turned thirty… no, forty… fifty… yes, by then she would probably stop worrying…

Chapter Text

Phoebe had always seen Uncle Jamie as more of a peer than an adult in her life. Uncle Roy treated Uncle Jamie like he was Phoebe’s age most of the time anyway. Cooking both of them dinner. Lecturing both of them about playing in the rain. About staying up past their bedtime.

Uncle Jamie was always good for a make-over or a gossip sesh about which of the boys in school were hot, or sneaking her the latest nail polish shades under Uncle Roy’s nose. Uncle Jamie was the only one who understood that even though nail polish was banned at school, a coat of clear polish never fucking hurt anyone, did it? And it wasn’t like her teachers could see past her socks to see that her toes were painted whatever colour she wanted… Uncle Jamie was really the only one who understood the importance of fashion. Painted nails made her feel her best. And feeling her best helped her concentrate in school, so clearly… Uncle Jamie would just grin and help her apply a thin coat of clear varnish.

This was the first time Phoebe saw Uncle Jamie as the adult he actually was.

They had been out for a quick lunch at the Crown and Anchor. Uncle Jamie had just gotten off the plane from Spain: he was in London for a match and had gotten permission to fly in a day earlier. Uncle Roy would meet them after practice. Jamie was determined to sneak into RIchmond. They had sat there in the pub, giggling to each other, coming up with increasingly ludicrous plans to pick the lock and sneak in to surprise Uncle Roy… Though Auntie Rebecca or Uncle Higgins probably would just … let them two in. Their plans got increasingly elaborate and convoluted as Phoebe scarfed down her fish and chips and Uncle Jamie sighed over his meat and two veg, sneaking a chip when Phoebe forgot to guard her plate.

A pint of larger had slammed down on the bar next to Jamie’s plate. The beer had sloshed over the lip of the glass and into his food. Jamie looked up, an indignant “Hey” already on his lips before he froze. “Fucking Ruth got a bloody restraining order more than a bloody decade ago. You can’t be within …”

“Uncle Jamie… who’s…” Phoebe looked at the strange man who loomed over Uncle Jamie. His messy blonde hair, the suit and the tie. The beer gut and the cold sneer. She looked into the cold dead eyes and suddenly she knew.

She could barely recognise him from Mom’s old wedding photos.

“What do we have here? The brat has all grown up, hasn’t he…” the man sneered. “I just wanted to say hello to my daughter, didn’t I? Nothing wrong with that, is there? Am entitled. Would have met her earlier to, if not for her bitch of a mother. But you’ve all poisoned her against me, I bet. You, your bitch of a mother and that psycho of a brother.”

Uncle Jamie stood, shoving Phoebe behind him. Arms outstretched to keep her … father(?)… dad(?)… sperm donor away from her. She could not help but think of those melodramatic movies they used to watch. Gothic castles and vampires and bats and things that went bump in the night. Of ladies in white dressing gowns, holding out crucifixes in front of them, trembling but still brave. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

The last time she and Uncle Jamie had watched a horror movie at Uncle Roy’s, they had stayed up all night in the living room, unable to sleep, jumping at every little sound. Until Uncle Roy got fed up at one in the morning, made them both hot chocolate and had let them both into his bed, muttering about how there were two idiotic little muppets he had to fucking take care of now. It had been a tight fit but Phoebe had never slept so well.

“Please leave, or I’ll call the cops,” Uncle Jamie bit out, reaching an arm out behind him to make sure Phoebe was covered by his body. Phoebe hunkered down behind him, suddenly grateful that Uncle Jamie spent so long every morning in the gym. That he had not lost weight like Uncle Roy said he should. She was completely hidden by him.

“Don’t bother, was leaving anyway,” the man sneered. “My lunch break is short enough without it being ruined by this bullshit.”

The man suddenly turned to her. The sneer was gone from his face, the smile almost pleasant. “Well, my girl, if you ever want to get to know your old man… I regret not being allowed to know you, Phoebe. I would have, if not for busybodies butting their noses in… But you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman with a mind of her own, haven’t you? I’ll call up my solicitor when I get back to the office and…”

“Yeah, thanks but no fucking thanks,” Phoebe managed to bite out, shuddering as that smile immediately morphed into something threatening, something sinister.

“Get the fuck out of here, you nonce,” Jamie almost shouted, shoving the man in the chest.

The man huffed out a breath before grabbing his pint and throwing it in Jamie’s face, slamming the glass back down before marching away.

Mae hurried over, brandishing a pool cue. “You alright, Jamie? You alright, Phoebe, love?”

“Yeah, I think so, yeah…” Phoebe managed to stutter out, watching as Uncle Jamie took some napkins handed to him by one of the regulars. His eyes were strange, staring off into the distance. His fingers shook as he patted at his face with the napkin, shuddering as he accidentally wiped larger into his mouth.

“I’ll get you a new lunch, love,” Mae bustled about, hands fluttering about. “And you can borrow one of the t-shirts from the lost and found…”

The light seemed to turn on again in Uncle Jamie’s eyes. “Actually, Mae, if you don’t mind, can I borrow the phone in your back office? And Phoebe and I will hunker down there until Uncle Roy gets someone to pick us up from Richmond…”

“Of course, of course…” Mae nervously ushered them behind the bar.

“Why can’t Uncle Roy come pick us up?”

“Well, since Uncle Roy almost beat that fucker to death last time, and we both don’t want Uncle Roy to go to jail…”

“Oh. Got it. Sound.”

It only took fifteen minutes for Isaac to show up, with Coach Beard who was bizarrely holding a cricket bat.

“You alright, bruv?” Isaac gave Uncle Jamie a little shoulder shake, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell, I think so, yeah…”

They shuffled into Isaac’s car. Phoebe demanded to sit in front. She loved seeing the road with nothing in the way, now she was tall enough for it.

Uncle Jamie sat with Coach Beard in the back, wincing as he pulled of his beer-soaked t-shirt, nodding in thanks as Coach Beard handed him a grey replacement Phoebe instantly clocked as Uncle Roy’s backup that lived in his locker.

Uncle Jamie kicked the beer-soaked t-shirt as far away from him as possible, burying his face in his hands. Coach Beard simply picked the T-shirt up and bundled it into a plastic bag.

Isaac turned the aircon up to the max.

The smell of beer slowly dispersed from the car.

“Roy said to say that he’s proud of you. He’ll probably tell you in person…”

“Ah, didn’t fucking do much, did I? Just what any decent person would fucking do.”

Phoebe turned to look at the backseat, meeting Coach Beard’s eyes, which seemed immeasurably sad and understanding. He putting a hand on Uncle Jamie’s shoulder. “You did good, kid. You did good.”