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A man toughens his shit out. Yer a man, aren't you, son?
It's called Mancity fer a reason, ha!
Jamie feels it before he can register what it is, and it's too late when the burn radiates from his ankle and shoots up his leg.
He's sprained his fucking ankle at 7 in the morning, and there was no one around to witness it. Gone too hard this time around, and of course he has. He needs to stay in shape, or else he'll lag behind and disappoint everyone around him—like always.
The gaffers told him he's been slow and slacking, and fuck em for it because he's the opposite of that.
An ice dip in a bucket would fix this, maybe, but that would give away that he's training too hard and get something worse than a nose in the corner. No one dips in ice at this time of day, either, and he has to be sneaky until the first break to do so.
This isn't that big of a deal, though, and he could walk it off for now. It's mildly uncomfortable at most. He's seen the team play through worse and win games with a clench of their jaws and a gravelly groan.
And here he is now, jaw clenching with a small limp to physio—fuck, there are a few people scattered around the hall, and he can't be seen with a limp. They would joke and snicker too loud about it in the changing room, and Roy didn't know what a joke was if it hit him in the face. The fucker would take it too seriously and force him to sit on the sidelines with a sore bottom after being caught weaselling his way into training with an injury.
No matter how mild it was, it was a big no-no.
But it isn't an injury, just a minor hiccup that'll sort itself out. He's dealt with worse, and if anything, a few pills would do it.
Straightening himself out, Jamie strolls out of the fitness room, ignoring the small sparks of fire igniting through his ankle. He greets the lads in the hall—Colin, Isaac, Jeff, and Sam—and they dap him up when he approaches them with a smug smile.
Lagging behind them, he limps a bit when they're not looking and breathes through his teeth. It's getting harder to keep this up, and as they pass physio, he makes an excuse, wanting to talk to the new girl for an ice pack.
They take the lie, and he quickly dips away into the room. Thankfully, there's no one there to see him take a bottle of pain relievers from the unlocked cabinets. God’s on his side for once!
They're the extra-strength kind, and he pops two into his mouth. He stuffs the bottle with extra cotton so it doesn't rattle and pockets it, needing it for later. They had plenty, and he would put it back once he's done for the day. Plus, who's going to notice one bottle missing from the dozens on the shelf?
He waits, and when he can roll his ankle with mild discomfort, he walks out confidently that he'll make it through the day without being caught.
Dun't tell yer mum or coaches. Just between us, okay?
Take two now and save the rest fer later. Helps keep that twink body of yers going.
It's the first break, and the pain is starting to crawl up again. The warm-ups have helped, but when they start the match, he knows it'll fuck him up.
But he can't give in.
He has to better himself, or else how will he make everyone proud?
He can't limp in front of everyone just yet from simple fucking warm-ups. Worse, Roy's watching him like a fucking hawk as always. Sasha was struggling to breathe half the time, and Paul barely did anything but jumping jacks, yet none of them got called out for it.
When he passes Roy to go inside, his elbow is yanked back suddenly, and he's right up to Roy's chest, faces close.
“All right?" Roy asks him, and he nods, thinking he's been caught. But that thought disappears when Roy leans in and kisses his forehead and gently taps his backside.
Fuck, that's right. They're dating, and it's still something he hasn't fully registered in his mind. Of course Roy would be watching his boyfriend run around the fucking field and ignore all the other players.
“In front of everyone? Yer fucking brave,” he teases Roy as they walk towards the hall leading inside.
He pauses when the burning sensation shoots up his leg again, and, fuck, Roy's right behind him, too. If he struggles now, it's more than a love tap on his backside for attempting to train with a bad ankle.
But it isn't bad.
Just a hiccup, son.
“Go on ahead, I need to tighten me laces,” Jamie excuses himself with a knee down and his hands fumbling with his trainers. Roy doesn’t say anything but a stroke to his head as he passes and disappears ahead.
Sighing in relief, Jamie looks around to make sure he's alone and takes out the pill bottle. He shakes out two and pops them into his mouth. It goes down easily from licking the salt and grime around his lips for moisture.
Waiting a few minutes, he gets up and shakes off the throbs, jogging lightly to keep up his farce act.
Stop fucking crying, ye pussy. I barely touched you.
Hurts? More where that came from!
A real man toughens it out!
Jamie holds back a moan when he dips his feverish ankle into the ice. This is exactly what he needs, the ice numbing away the pain the pills couldn't. Jeff's here too with his arm dunked up to his shoulder from having elbowed the goalpost when he couldn't stop his sprint in time.
“Foot's bad?” Jeff asks him, and Jamie shrugs.
“Just stiff with an ingrown.” It's a fib at most, and Jeff takes it with a chuckle.
“Does Roy know?”
“Roy knows I'm in here.” Roy didn't need to know shit about this, coach or partner. This is Jamie's problem to deal with.
“Hm, I think I hear him coming.” Jeff looks over to the door, and lo and behold, Roy walks in with a towel and a bottle of Jamie's favourite energy drink in hand.
Jamie avoids those dark eyes looking at him accusingly. He has nothing to hide if he hasn't been caught yet.
“I asked if you're all right." Roy's beside him, kneeling to look at the tub of ice with his submerged ankle. “Are you?”
“Yes.” Jamie lifts his ankle to show Roy his wiggling toes. “Just an ingrown. Killing me with the tight trainers.”
"Hm." Roy inspects the ankle closely. “Looks red around here.” The spot he holds is the exact spot where the pain is at. Holding back a hiss, Jamie rolls his ankle to prove he's okay; he isn't, and that almost made him grunt.
“No shit. It's been in ice. Gunna be red, coach.”
Roy hums, agreeing or just humming to acknowledge his response. Fuck, he can't tell. They've only been seeing each other for a few weeks, and he has yet to learn every little thing about this handsome fucker cradling his foot lovingly.
Roy raises the foot and gives the top a kiss. It takes the pain away for as long as his lips stay planted—his intrusive thoughts scream for him to rip Roy's lips off and tape it around his foot. Wait. Did this count as a foot fetish thing? He wouldn't know; he can’t tell the difference between a loving act or submitting to someone's weird kink.
Don't overthink it, Tartt, but he is because Roy doesn't know how he takes the pain away and makes him feel good.
He can tell him right now and just confess.
“Ew,” Jeff snickers, watching the two with curious eyes. “Like feet, coach?”
Roy pulls away much to Jamie's disappointment, and he holds back from spilling the beans. He would throw a chunk of ice at Jeff for disrupting their moment if it didn't get him in trouble.
“I like it when mine is up your fucking arse if you don't fucking mind yourself, Goodman,” growls Roy, letting go of the ankle.
Jeff puckers his lips at them. “I can't help it when you're in front of me being cute and shit.”
“Hear that, Roy?” Jamie submerges his ankle back into the tub, and it's ten times colder after being held by hands that were a fucking furnace. “We're cute and shit.”
The scoff comes out of Roy hard and heavy, and fuck, Jamie just wants to seal his lips over that mouth and forget the pain he's in. Roy would happily comply, too, but that would be admitting he's been hiding something since this morning and would get a licking on his arse for it.
Instead of asking or admitting anything, he just grabs Roy's head and pulls him up for a kiss. The gaffer takes it without complaint, and those furnace hands are cupping his face in return. They're off the clock for another half hour and they're needy as fuck for each other.
But Jamie knows he'll get an earful about how his boyfriend can't fucking resist him and how he's distracting him from his coachly duties when they're done snogging.
Jeff makes hacking noises from the back of his throat as the two get lost in one another, ignoring the immature man.
Stop being a fucking pussy and shut up!
Aren't even going that hard!
A real man takes it!
Jamie keeps his gaze to the small gap between the cubby and laundry bin, ignoring what's going on in front of him.
“When I say stop, what do you fucking do, Hughes?!” Roy yells right into Colin’s face.
“To s-stop, coach!” Colin stutters out, his face forward and chest out. “Sorry, coach!”
“Sorry isn't going to take back the time I'm fucking wasting here! Like that? Wasting our fucking time for your immature arse?!”
That could be him right now getting a lecture in front of everyone like a child. Colin's lucky he’s getting Roy on a good day for talking through their meeting in the press room. Roy gave him five warnings at the time, and the lad still kept yapping. Funny how Roy used to groan and shout through them when he was captain. Now that he was a manager, the gaffer forgot his roots and acted all high and mighty.
Not that Jamie would complain.
It's hot to watch.
Unless he’s the one under all that anger. Annoying, but weirdly still hot to have all that rage rain down on him.
When the lecture is over, Colin’s sniffling a storm with his eyes red-rimmed and mouth shut.
“Pull your head out of your fucking arse and get ready to go out. Any little jab from that mouth, and it's a proper tanning on that hide. Understood?”
Colin nods solemnly and pulls away. He shuffles over, head down and shoulders hunched.
“Anyone else?” Roy glares at them in warning.
They all shake their heads no. They'd be a fucking fool to say anything. Jamie would throw in a quirky joke and get a warning swat from his favourite gaffer, but he’s too much in his head to do anything of that sort.
Roy's eyes land on him, and he's wondering if he's looking guilty or cute for his man. Being the prick he is, he puckers his lips and winks at Roy, and to his surprise, Roy does the same back right in front of everyone, shifting the tension to a playful one.
Jamie blushes madly and turns away. He doesn't deserve Roy being cute and shit, not when he's lying to the poor man. The lads give him smug side eyes and chuckle at his embarrassment and exchange between the two.
“I think Roy has a crush on someone here," jokes Moe, and the chuckles grow to laughter. Even Colin’s sniffles are jovial huffs, his eyes no longer tearing. Roy scoffs at them, but his eyes are smiling at Jamie.
Jamie smiles back, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
Get yer head out of yer fucking arse, boy!
Are you fucking daft?
That's right, girls are, aren't they?!
Jamie groans under his breath after he finishes his sprints. The pain is worse than ever after the hot sun melted the ice's numbing effect away. Even Roy's kiss lingering on his lips doesn't help distract him. The pill bottle sat heavy in his pocket, and he was already pushing past the limit for the daily dose.
Sighing and forcing himself to jog around, he hears the familiar voice shout out, Whistle! They all stop and go over to their coaches for a briefing.
They're being put into groups, and Jamie's side by side with Colin, who eyes him suspiciously.
“What?” Jamie nudges him as the coaches continue to make teams. “Something on me face?”
“Your foot okay?”
Jamie keeps a straight face on. He hasn't limped or shown how much pain he was in—or so he thought. Colin’s suspecting something, but the lad isn't too sharp and might be trying to bait it out of him.
“What?” asks Jamie innocently; play it cool, play it casual.
“Jeff said Roy made out with your foot and shit, mate,” Colin laughs, and Jamie sighs in relief, nodding. It appears that Jeff had yapped about their little moment, and who could blame him? Not every day does Roy kiss a foot.
“Foot's fine. Just an ingrown.”
“That fucking sucks. Watch out, okay?”
“You two chatty cats!” Beard calls out to them, and both lads pretend they're soldiers, with their postures straight and arms by their sides. Colin’s already got a spit in the face, and he's surely next if he pushes it.
“Jamie, you're circles with the vest. Colin, you're squares with that sweat on your back!"
Jamie and Colin dap up and split to their corresponding teams, jogging to their spots. Isaac throws Jamie his vest, and he's quick to slip it on.
The game begins, and he's jogging now, unable to keep up with most of the lads. The gaffers are yelling at him about it, and he pushes through the pain like he has before.
Just a hiccup, son!
Got this, son!
Be proud of you for doing this, son!
You want to be a fucking man so bad, don't you!?
Keep. Going. Then.
It fucking hurts dad—He stops when he passes the ball over to Dani and slaps his hands on his knees with his mouth gulping for air. Folded over, he focuses on the sweat dripping off his face and the hot air he’s inhaling and exhaling, and not the pain at his foot. Every breath gets harder, and it scrapes out his cinched chest, leaving a ribbon of heat behind.
It hurts it hurts it hurts Tartt it's just a fucking hiccup, son, keep fucking going son you got this you fucking got, WHIIISSSSTLE!
And of course, the dreaded shout of a whistle whips through him. How long had he been standing there for everyone to stop the game and stare at their supposed striker—their star fucking player—bent over and gasping for air like his life depended on it?
There's a hand on his back, rubbing small circles that doesn't help because the pain is from his fucking ankle and not back, but he can’t get mad. So he pretends it's soothing and that it's helping.
He looks over, and it's Jan Maas with the comforting hand, asking if he's all right.
Jamie's all right. He's been better, way fucking better, but he'd pick this over a slap on his fucking arse. He's too deep into this now to pull out the injury card anyway.
“Aces.” He grins up at Jan Maas, giving him a devilish wink and air kiss. “Just fucking cramps. Y'know, those cramps. Yer girlfriend would know. Got me bad there for a second.”
Jan Maas pulls his hand away, his mouth twitching in a small smile. “Oh, I see. Take a break, maybe?”
“Can't. Not with our match coming—” He grunts when someone comes to his other side and their leg nudges against his, making the pain wash up his leg.
“Tartt, what's wrong?” Roy's kneeling beside him. God, he made Roy walk all the way here for his dramatic arse. The look on his face is killing him too, and it's not fucking fair he's being a baby about a sprained ankle.
“Kunt,” Jamie throws him a million-dollar smirk, but it wavers when Roy’s brows are furrowed and eyes are swimming with worry. “Just cramps. Not me best—”
“Cramps?” Roy cuts him off, placing a hand on his tailbone and under his stomach, helping him stand up straight. Jamie exhales sharply and shrinks at the eyes on him from every fucking corner of the field.
“Ingrown and cramps?” Roy asks him like the caring boyfriend he is. Jamie nods slowly, looking past to the street where the cars go by because he can't look at Roy.
“Yeah.” His voice tells the truth, but his eyes would be a dead giveaway.
“Okay. Go sit down for a bit.”
“I'm fine. It'll pass. Just need the bathroom.” Jamie shoves him to the side but holds onto his shoulder to brace himself for the pain. Roy gives him a pointed look but doesn't stop him from leaving his side.
Because Roy trusts he's okay and that hurts more than his sprained ankle.
Nodding at the team with a wave of his hand, Jamie leaves without limping until he turns the corner, out of their sight, and lets out a shuddering cry.
Knock, knock, Jamie-boy.
It's time to train. Why're crying? Don't you want to be the man on yer wall?
Hurry on, now. The sun and yer mum are still sleeping.
He pops a couple more pills—one, two, fucking three—and maybe he should stop because, news flash, these are extra strength and he only has one liver. They barely dull the pain that's throbbing hard against his trainer.
How many has he taken?
Six? Ten? It didn't matter. He stopped counting hours ago. He's supposed to wait at least six hours to take another, but work is nine hours, and he has five more to go; can’t wait that long.
He needs to toughen up. Roy’s played with a bad knee for years before it cracked. O'Brien was getting there, and just last week, Jack got tackled bad, but the fucker got up and back on the field.
"Just a hiccup, Jamie-boy," he tells himself, looking at his reflection, the smudges of greased fingers obscuring most of his features.
He smirks at the man looking back with a red face and hard eyes.
Just a hiccup, son.
A tap is all, son.
A pulled muscle, son?
Tough it out, Jamie-boy.
"Nothing serious, son. A man can take anything that comes his way. Innit true, Jamie-boy?"
And he goes back out, limping, but the moment the field is ahead, he jogs and smiles like it's nothing.
You kick like a fucking pussy! That's what ye' are, innit? Don't look at me like that!
C'mere and I'll show you what a real man's kick feels like!
“Good kick there, Jamie!” Ted shouts out from the sidelines, clapping. “Keep it up, son!”
He lives for those words, and weirdly he wants to yell back, "Thanks, Dad!" But Ted's not his dad, is he? Just a nice fucker who likes to make people feel good about themselves when they're the worst.
And he makes Jamie feel good about lying, stealing, and pushing himself past his limits. He's getting a bit woozy and a little sluggish from the amount of pills in his system, but it's worth it for their praise. Even Beard, who is unreadable most of the time, is looking at him proudly through his shades and shouting out, "Good one, Tartt!"
Then there's Roy, who's watching him closely, and he makes sure he’s playing his best. Jamie does, always, so he doesn't have to worry about him.
Needn’t because he's fine.
Until he's not.
It's the kick to Sam that his body decides to go against him and his pain tolerance.
He hears it before he feels it.
A crack at his ankle after he kicks the ball. Rolled it wrong, and it hit that spot that's been begging for a break.
Well, it's breaking now, innit, son?
The pain shoots up ten plus fucking a hundred times worse, and all Jamie feels is a blinding, excruciating, pure white, unbearable fucking fire that explodes at his ankle. Before he knows it, he's on the ground screaming up to the sky with his knee up to his chest and his arms cradling it.
The sun is blocked within seconds by people surrounding him, shouting, "What's the matter?"
Well.
Jamie might've fucking pushed it too hard this time around.
Ingrowns and cramps don't make someone scream bloody murder and howl the way he's doing right now. A sprained ankle that's been forced to could, and he finally accepts that when it's too fucking late.
Fuck.
Roy yells drastically to make space, and the shadows above part for only a bigger and darker one to engulf him right after.
“Jamie, what's wrong, baby?!” Roy rasps out, and he must've forgotten he's still on the clock because nicknames and soft tones aren't allowed on the field.
“Nothing!” Jamie hisses, pressing his knee closer to his chest. “All good, coach!”
Roy grabs his hurt ankle and takes off his trainer and sock, and holy fuck, he might actually faint from how bad the pain is.
“Hm. Thought so,” Roy mumbles to himself, and murmurs break out around him. “Your ankle is fucking inflamed. Been running on a bad fucking foot for how long, Tartt? Better give me a proper fucking answer.”
Uh oh. The coach's voice is back, and the hold on his ankle is tight. He can't blame Roy for sounding so mean the way he did.
Right now, the gaffer was probably fighting the turmoil of seeing his lover and player on the ground cry like a fucking baby.
God, he's a disappointment to everyone and worse, to Roy.
Sniffling, he shoots Ted and Beard a look, and they watch with worry. Beside them, Jeff is all smug and worried, like he's known since the ice dip. Honestly, if they'd swapped places, Jamie would be looking just as smug and worried as the lad because how daft could you be to do this?
“Just now, coach…” Maybe he can get away with that. But Roy’s growl tells him otherwise.
“I asked you a fucking question and to answer it proper. How fucking long?”
He caves at the demanding tone. “This morning in the training room.”
Gasps break out around him, and he would roll his eyes at their dramatic arses because it's not that big of a deal.
Just a hiccup.
“Christ, Jamie, it's almost fucking two!” Roy sounds beyond mad, and he was valid for it because maybe it was a big fucking deal, and he forgot how high his pain tolerance is sometimes.
Stepped on a nail once and didn't feel it.
Tore off a nail from a hard kick.
Punched and bruised all over by a man he wants to do proud.
“Damn, I knew it!” Colin whispers loudly to Sam. “Remember how he dipped into physio to talk to Kaylee for some ice-packs?”
Roy whips his head to Colin, and, uh oh, he still has the pill bottle in his pocket. Fucking Colin with that big mouth of his.
“Physio?” says Ted next, rubbing his chin. “Earlier Kaylee said she left the cabinets unlocked and someone swiped a bottle of pain relievers. The cameras were under maintenance at the time. Jamie, you didn't… did you?”
Everyone looks at him.
Uh
Oh
“Jamie?” Roy’s glaring at him hard. “What were you doing in physio if it weren't for a fucking ice pack and a chit-chat?”
Jamie swallows dryly, lolling his head. “I, um, wanted to flirt with the new girl—ow!” He's interrupted by a squeeze at his ankle, and that shuts up his lie. How he hasn't confessed this far is by his sheer stubbornness he'll die with, something even Roy can't untrain.
“If I asked Kaylee about a fucking prick trying for her number, what would she say?” Roy's hand starts patting along his shorts' pockets and stops on the bulge of the pill bottle. He doesn't fight the hand digging in, and his face pales when it pulls out the pill bottle for the world to see.
Everyone around him gasps again, and even Beard flips up his sunglasses to take a good look at what Jamie’s got. They're being overdramatic AGAIN, he thinks, but he can't blame them when he's caught with a stolen fucking bottle of drugs.
“That she…” This is the moment he can’t escape, not when Roy's holding the pill bottle up and not when his ankle is redder than the threads of their jersey and his flushed, wet face.
Finally, he gives in, unable to keep it up. “She ein't talk to no prick… coach.”
“Let me ask you again then,” Roy spits out roughly, balling the pill bottle in a fist. “What were you doing in physio if it weren't for a fucking ice pack and a chit-chat, baby?”
Fuck. Roy's mad and dropping the nickname like that, and this means Jamie's sleeping on his fucking stomach for the next few weeks. He can take a coach’s anger but not the wraith of a worried partner.
Sighing, he confesses, his teary eyes up to the sky. “For pills, coach.”
“How many did you fucking take? Asking once and you better fucking give me a proper answer this time.”
“I-I lost count…”
“Damn, Jamie,” Isaac tuts with a shake of his head. “Bruvs a junkie now.”
“Shut the fuck up, Isaac!” snaps Jamie with a growl to whine when Roy sets his ankle down. “Needed em! Swear down, this ain't nothing but a hiccup—owowowow!”
Roy's tapping at the inflamed spot to prove he isn't all right and that he needs to see what he dreads the most—a doctor.
“Lying to my face for what? To give yourself a fucking permanent injury?! Maybe it's too fucking late now!” Roy's standing up now, and he's so tall from where Jamie lies that it's a giant looming over him.
“And not only that, you fucking steal and possibly fucking overdosed?! Jamie, what the fuck were you thinking?!”
“Weren't!” He cries out. “Weren't thinking proper!”
"No, you fucking weren’t! Fuck sakes, Jamie! You never fucking think about yourself!” Roy gestures to Will, and when the words "stretcher" and "hospital" are registered to Jamie, he loses it.
“No!” Jamie screams in pure terror, his face going paler than it is. Doctors and hospitals didn't mix with Jamie, and the fuckers in his life knew that. “Aren't that fucking bad, coach!”
“Stand up, then." Roy doesn't look at him when he says it, still focusing on Will. “Prove to me you don't need one.”
“Don't, Jamie!" Ted's giving him a warning and has his hand out to keep him in place. “You’re pushing it, son.”
Growling through the pain and tears, Jamie slaps Ted's hand away because the fucker isn't his fucking dad. He lifts himself up with his good leg only. He staggers and shakes as he does and has to hold onto Arlo and Sam to find his balance.
“Seriously, bruv, don't push it!” Isaac is behind him with Jan Maas and Kyle, all three ready to catch him if he falls.
Everyone looks worried, but they shouldn't be because it's just a hiccup, and he just needs ice and a pill. Will the fucking wanker is long gone to call for the stretcher, and that's something he does not need! Roy limped off the field without needing a stretcher with that bad knee of his from a tackle and, no thanks to Jamie.
Serves you right, son.
“S'okay everyone!” He stands on one leg, the other hovering an inch off the ground, all while holding onto Arlo and Sam, who are telling him to stop. This isn't justifying his cause, but he doesn't want to admit that he needs them out loud. “Just need a minute—”
“Let go and walk to me.” Roy nods at the two men, and they look unsure if they should leave Jamie to hang by himself.
When Roy growls at them, Arlo and Sam slowly unhook their arms and move away. Jamie huffs, with his arms out to find balance. He stands with his bad foot barely touching the ground and put his whole weight on his good leg.
“See?” He smirks at Roy with lustrous eyes. “I'm all good to train, coach!” he says through gritted teeth and a sharp inhale through his nose.
“One step to me, Tartt.”
“Roy…” Jamie looks up at the sky to keep his tears pooled in his eyes. “C'mon—”
“C'mon, you can train, right?” Roy mocks him, and it wasn't to be mean but to show how daft he sounded. "Foot's fine, innit? I'm just asking you to hurry the fuck up so we can either continue training or take you to the hospital. Either fucking or, Tartt."
“Roy, stop pushing him. Jamie, please sit down. You can't risk further damaging your foot,” Ted says calmly, but his hands are trembling. “Look, I see the stretcher coming—”
To everyone's shock, Jamie smirks and does what a prick does best.
He jogs.
Past Roy.
Past Ted.
Past the lads.
Past his dad's shadow.
And they all watch him fall midway through the field with a scream and faint on the spot, sprawling out on the grass.
Aww, the little princess is crying again? Boo-fucking-woo.
Get off that hospital bed, or else yer going to let our dreams die!
Is that what you want??!
Of course it is, you fucking selfish cunt.
Jamie blinks.
The pain in his foot is only a dull throb, and his head is floating in the grey clouds of dark fluorescent lights above him. Where he's at right now doesn't matter when he feels refreshed yet hollow at the same time.
Something shifts beside him, and there's a warmness cupping his frigid hand. He whimpers at the contrast, and soon that warm hand is caressing his face, calming him down.
He smiles dopily at the person next to him, his vision too blurry to make out who it is. But his heart knows who, because this man would follow him through the end of time. Three weeks in love does that to someone just as deprived of love and affection as him.
“Feel better, baby?” Roy asks, his gruff voice mellowed out to tenderness and relief.
“Mmmm, soooo good, babesssss,” Jamie says, and he's realising he's been doped up. “Really gooood, Roooy.”
“That's good…” Roy says quietly. When Jamie's eyes clear, he can see Roy, but it's dark where they're at. The white curtains around him are drawn with the thinnest light peeking at the edge of the folds. They must have dragged him to first aid after he fainted.
Looking down, he's in blue scrubs with a bracelet with his name. When did they start doing this in first aid?
Trying to think is difficult thanks to the drugs they pumped into him. His eyes drop to his foot that's wrapped nicely. “Me foot!” Jamie giggles at it. “S'good, coach?”
“Jamie…” Roy's grip on his hand tightens. “I need to tell you something.” The way he says it makes Jamie freeze. It's that voice his mum would use when bad news was around the corner.
What bad news would Roy have to tell Jamie when he was feeling this good?
“S'good, coach?” Jamie repeats, slurring a bit. He's still waking up from the dope-induced daze, and his mind is trying to catch up with everything. It smells odd here—too clean—and he can't fill his lungs completely.
“No, it’s not good.”
“Oh?” Jamie tilts his head, blinking through his watering eyes. “What ish it, coach?”
Roy's beady eyes disappear under his lids, and it takes Jamie a moment to realise Roy's crying. The dread shoots up in him because Roy doesn't cry at anything unless Jamie were dead; he said as much.
But Jamie isn't dead.
But something else is.
Oh.
Oh.
He might've pushed it too hard this time around.
“Your ankle, Jamie." Roy gets close to hold him because Jamie's heaving and he can't fucking breathe—"Deep breaths, love.”
“S'good coach?” Jamie whispers under a greater pain that grips his chest and twists his heart. He tries to rotate his ankle, and it barely moves from the tight wrappings. He can't even feel his toes or anything really. It's the drugs, he thinks.
“Listen. I'm here, okay?”
Doesn't matter how nice Roy is, he can't stop crying, and the nice floaty feeling is now gunk in his lungs and a splitting headache. He knows what Roy's going to tell him, but he's stubborn.
So. Fucking. Stubborn.
“No, no, no, don't fucking—no, Roy! Tell me s'good, coach!”
“It's not.” Roy can't lie to him, and he takes a deep breath, his voice breaking. “The doctor… they, um, said—"
Jamie wants to get away and pretend he's everywhere but here and continue his training for his match with his old club, Manchester City. Just a week from now! Once he beats them, he'll show his man how far he's come.
"S'good, right—"
“You're done. I'm sorry," Roy cuts him off. It's a rip of a band-aid that comes off with the skin and an agonising pain he's never felt before in his life.
The words aren't real, yet the pain they bring is. His chest gets tight; his lungs stop taking in air; his stomach drops to the very pits; his mind stops, and all noises cease around him.
It's a full minute of staring at Roy in shock, the ticks of the clock going tick-tock-tick-tock-yer-fucking-done before a wrecking wail comes out of him and shakes the bed and his fucking soul.
It's not over; it can't be. He was just at work being silly and daft as always, and that was it. He ran on injuries and with little to no sleep.
"Da-da-da—s-s-s'good?” He grabs at his throat, wheezing, every breath squeezing out as if it's his last. He's good! He's okay! Just a hiccup, son!
Strong arms wrap around him and a comforting hand strokes his hair with fingers weaving through. He's drowning above the surface, and maybe this is what dying feels like: unable to take in anything but pure agony. He claws at Roy's chest desperately, needing to hold onto something that'll hold him back just as tight.
“You’re going to be okay, baby.” It's the generic shit people say when they have nothing else to say, but Roy means it, truly does. “Breathe with me.”
Jamie tries to, letting the weight of Roy's loving embrace take him away from all this. He stops thinking, closing his eyes and sobbing mindlessly. That's all he's good at anyway, whining and crying and being a stubborn piece of shit.
“That's right. Steady yourself.”
“M-m-mummmmmmy!” Jamie wails out wounded, his voice trembling uncontrollably when he has the air for it. That's all he can think about now. His poor fucking mum finding out her little sexy baby can't walk properly ever again. She'd probably blame herself in some way instead of it being his own undoing.
Blame herself for letting a cruel man mould her son into a pathetic piece of shit that he is today.
“Sh, sh, Jamie. Your mum's going to be fine. You're going to be fine."
“N-no! Can't p-play footie, can't run, can't do anything! I-I-I fucked up!” He could probably never jog in the mornings with Roy, play with the lads, and run across green fields freely. After all this, he'd probably need a cane.
The sobs get louder and his throat gets tighter. He's hacking up every mistake he's made that led him here, and the only person he can blame is himself.
“I'm fucking sorry, dadd'eh! Fer stealing! Fer being a bad fucking boy—just wanted to make you proud, dadd'eh! Weren’t good enough of a fucking man!" The words come ragged and broken, breaking under the weight of his dying dream.
What feels like hours of him submerged under every mistake he's made, Jamie feels his face being cupped, pulling him out of a lucid daydream he fell into. His eyes dart around the enclosed dark space of white curtains surrounding him until they settle on the man in front of him.
It's Roy looking back at him and not his dad, and how he can mistake such a wonderful man for garbage is another checkmark off his “Jamie is fucking daft and needs fucking glasses" list.
Roy’s face is unreadable, but there's a glint of guilt swimming in those dark honey eyes.
“Jamie, I'm so fucking sorry.” His voice is strained and his tears have stopped, but his cheeks are streaked with glistening trails.
“R-Roy,” Jamie coughs out, snorting up his snot that's clogged up his nose. “I'm useless now, aren't I?”
“Fuck, no, never, I—” Roy breaks at the sight of him, no longer able to keep up the charade, and blurts out, “I lied,” and pulls back his cheeks gently to wipe his tears away.
“W-what?” Jamie blinks at him, and Roy repeats the words slowly until they sink into his clattering mind.
“It's going to be fine. The doctor said you've slightly damaged the soft tissue, and it's nothing serious. Off for a month at most with a boot. You'll be able to run and play again. I lied to you.”
"Oh."
No relief.
No graduate.
It's an ugly boiling rage that rips through him when he takes in that Roy lied to him.
And never had Roy lied to him to this extent. He lied about eating the last slice of pizza, sneaking little treats into his cubby, and about watering the plants when he visited his mum. Never looked him in the eye and lied about something Jamie truly cared, lived and breathed for. He's being a hypocrite now because he had done the same earlier, and look where it got him.
How does it feel, Jamie-boy?
So he just stares at Roy blankly to process the rage festering inside him.
In silence.
Unmoving.
Roy stares back, slightly nervous, yet keeps a cool demeanour, and that sets him off. How dare he look this calm after making him have a fucking breakdown and question everything he's worked for.
How fucking dare he, son!
A real man uses anger!
“You fucker!” The rage comes up like thunder cracking, and he's yanking Roy's hands off his face with his nails breaking into his skin. “What the actual fuck, Roy!” His voice is a vicious roar, and he's no longer sniffling or hiccuping. The tender moment of tears is gone, and now it's two men glaring at each other in a passionate anger.
“I needed you to understand the fucking consequences, Jamie! You never fucking listen!"
“Roy, I thought me fucking life was over!”
“Oh yeah?” Roy gets close, his words slithering out through his cracked, raw throat that struggled to restrain his anger. “What you just felt is exactly what I'm trying to prevent. Liked thinking your life was fucking over? Because those were real fucking tears I shed for you thinking that!"
"Boo-fucking-hoo! It's fucking fine if I can still play—"
"Jamie!" Roy roars right at him, his anger unable to be held back. It's scary to see how red Roy's face glowed under the dark, with the shadows under the folds of his wrinkles bringing it all together. "You almost got a fucking permanent fucking injury, and they had to pump your fucking stomach because you almost fucking overdosed! ALMOST! Understand that fucking word? All that for what?! To train on a fucking Monday?!”
Jamie opens his mouth to yell in his defence but stops.
Roy's right.
This could have ended his career.
This could have been the last day he'd look Roy in the eyes to tell him he loved him before he jumped off a roof or slashed his wrists in the bathtub for a stupid mistake.
All because he has unresolved trauma he refuses to face and acknowledge. Without his past hardships, how would he become the man he was today?
“Yer right…” He says it without mocking and without attitude. He's tired and drained and wants to sleep off this heartache. “Yer fucking right, Roy.”
“No, Jamie. It's not about me being right—” Roy's voice cracks, and it's making Jamie's vision go blurry all over again. He hates to see Roy get upset with him and for his mistakes. He doesn't deserve anyone's tears but his own.
“This is about you getting hurt and not telling me. You hid this from me. Why?”
Jamie shrugs, going numb. When he has to think why, his mind just blanks out.
“I dunno.”
“Jamie, look at me, please.”
Jamie can't.
He might see the disappointment written on Roy's face or worse.
Look at me when I'm fucking speaking to you, son.
“Jamie.” A hand grips his chin and guides his head over. His eyes stay clear of the face staring at him and focus on Roy’s reddening left ear. “Why did you hurt yourself and not tell me?”
“I dunno,” he says again, monotonously. He's trained through the pain, trained through tears and blood, and worse, trained through his own mental well-being in the name of the sport he's dedicated his life to.
To be the top dog, the man, the all-star.
“Jamie, I know you want to make him proud, but he’s not worth it.”
Jamie slowly nods. He knows that; it’s obvious, but he can’t let go because he's a stubborn prick with a bruise that won't fade away.
Roy opens his mouth to say something, but a nurse draws the curtains suddenly and waltzes in fucking scrubs, surprising them both.
Seeing them triggers that part in Jamie’s brain that he's not safe here—
Then it hits him suddenly.
The smell of antiseptic—
The distant sounds of monitors beeping—
The throat coughs outside the hall—
The white drawn curtain when theirs were blue at work—
It crashes down on him that he's not in first aid at work.
“Oi! I said to fucking warn us!” Roy snaps at them because Jamie's got nosocomephobia, and they were told as much to fucking announce themselves.
But it's too late.
Whatever they pumped into Jamie earlier has flushed out his system. The fear strikes him like a hot iron through his chest, and he’s wheezing through a fucking straw of a throat again, with his eyes widening and pupils dilating at the nurse.
”Steady now, lad.“ Roy grabs his arms when he sees the tantrum about to erupt. “Easy, now. They're about to leave.”
Jamie chokes and stutters his screams, kicking and banging both legs wildly against the bed, ignoring the pain exploding at his wrapped ankle. He’s attempting to get away, but Roy holds him tight, keeping him in place. The nurse yells out “code white” as they duck out quickly with an apology following.
He’s at the fucking hospital where people have no control but to rot and die with their dreams and are forever forgotten under the white sheet that rolls them down the long halls on stretchers.
That could be him now if Roy doesn’t take him the fuck out of here right this fucking instant and the window in the room is his only escape.
“Sh, sh, sh, it’s okay, Jamie!”
“I don’t want to fucking dieeeeee!”
”You’re fine! You’re not going to die, Jamie!”
”Nooooo! I want to fucking leave! I want to go hoooome! Take me fucking hoooome!”
”I will! The faster you calm down, the sooner we leave!”
Jamie's screaming at the top of his lungs now, unable to process anything logically. Roy keeps holding him down with cooing words. It’s no use. Phobias were fucking weird and made the brain think the harmless situations were a death sentence. This was his, and his throbbing ankle intensified the terror plaguing him. He didn't want his dream to die, nor did he want to be surrounded by reminders of that possibility.
People without their white robes and in a nice shirt and trousers come in. He’s not that fucking daft; he knows they’re medical professionals when they wear the blue gloves and one holds a big, shiny needle.
He stops to take them in as they approach him slowly, his frenzied eyes following their every move. They're going to put him to sleep and roll him down the long hallways where they burn people alive without them knowing or worse.
Wake up from this dream and relive the worst moments of his life.
“R-Roy,” his voice shakes harder than his body. The people are coming in closer with their hands stretched towards him, blabbering about how he's going to be fine and fucking dandy. But to Jamie, all he sees are shadows and dread of something coming to hurt him, telling him it's time to wake up and train. “D-don’t let him hurt me!” Jamie cries softly through his chattering teeth, having no energy to fight back but to grip Roy's shirt in his balled fists. "S-swear I'll be better—be a good boy, yeah?"
”Sh, sh," Roy coos at him, forcing his head to look away and at him. "I promise. You're safe with me, always.” Roy might have told him a lie, but his promises were always set in stone. “Don’t look. When you wake up, you'll be home with me, okay?”
"O-okay." Jamie buries his face into Roy’s chest when they're right there, and that warm hand that’s held him through it all sits heavily on his head, pressing down to keep him in place. The overwhelming scent of dark sandalwood and musky sweat goes straight up his nose and to his brain, itching along the dark crevices of his battered mind. Taking deep and controlled breaths, he lets the phantom hands crawl all over him, pulling back at his skin and holding down his trembling limbs. Keening into Roy’s hammering chest, something pinches his arm, and he's out like a light.
And like promised, he wakes up whimpering at home, in a dark room, and with a crippling dream buried deep inside him. The sun's sleeping, mum weren't here, and there's something big and heavy beside him, moving closer with ragged breaths, reaching over—"Relax, Jamie," Roy tells him sleepily, shifting beside him and slinging an arm over his waist, cuddling up to him. "Just relax, baby. You're home and safe," he mumbles under his breath.
And Jamie does, under a blanket of warmth and love and safety, all while being held by a man who doesn't hurt him.
Just a hiccup, little girl.
What's that? Yer a boy?
Then fucking act like it or else I'll show you what a real man feels like again.
Just a hiccup, Jamie-boy.