Adult Content Warning
This work could have adult content. If you continue, you have agreed that you are willing to see such content.
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Summary
Maybe it’s pity, the shitshow this kid has no idea he’s walking into at Nelson Road. Mannion’s a creep, Cartrick’s a cunt, molding a dressing room of mediocre-talent mini-cunts and wondering why he’s never so much as broken the top ten in all his years managing damn near every club in the greater London area.
Or maybe it is just that echo of old appreciation. The kid’s in the presence of greatness, and he knows his place, even if he’ll put on a bit of a performative strop about it.
…Or maybe it’s just that touch of pink in pretty cheekbones and a jawline a model would envy, the lip that’s gone a bit raw for the anxious abuse inflicted since Jamie fucking Tartt walked into the club.
“What do you want, Jamie Tartt?”
The bag shifts on Jamie’s shoulder, he’s still holding the fucking bag. He scuffs his feet and looks up through his lashes all bashful, the little actor, and suggests, “Could have a little kickabout?” and stutters Roy’s brain to a fucking halt in its earnest innocence.
Fuck’s sake, he really is just a kid who appreciates good football.