Chapter Text
It’s so fucking annoying when Ted Lasso is right. It turns out this whole coaching thing is actually pretty fucking great, and with everyone talking about the ‘Roy Kent Effect’, it’s a nice bolster to Roy’s ego. Part of his hesitance about coming back to Richmond was Jamie Fucking Tartt - after being free of the little prick for the better part of a year now (aside from having to watch him on telly), did he really want to have to go back to seeing the twat nearly daily? Sure, Ted had said that Tartt had been really turning his attitude around, but Roy wasn’t going to believe it until he saw it.
But now he has seen it. Tartt’s changed a hell of a lot since Roy last saw him - he’s been putting in an effort to actually be friendly with the lads (including Nate), works well with the team rather than exhibiting his usual self-centred tendencies on the pitch, and doesn’t pick fights or start shit even when Roy has admittedly been trying to bait him. It was only after a few weeks of refusing to coach the little prick that Tartt threw a fit, and even fucking Ted said that Tartt was being the mature one which was a right kick in the bollocks. Since then, they’ve established The Signal and, after winning the match against the Spurs, things have been running smoothly.
It puts Roy on edge. He doesn’t trust this New and Improved Tartt, doesn’t trust his motivations. After all, the prick is only here out of desperation because no one else would go near him after the LCA stunt. He finally needs Richmond as much as they need him, and he’s probably realised that he has to be tolerable if he wants some fucking friends. So, no, Roy doesn’t trust him, and frankly, he’s just waiting for the ball to drop; for Tartt to go back to his annoying prick ways. It’s something he finds he has to keep reminding himself of when Tartt does something that could maybe, almost, possibly, be considered slightly endearing. Like when he drapes himself over Sam’s shoulder to help him draft a message to a Bantr match. Or tilts his head like a confused puppy whenever Ted makes some obscure American reference.
Then everything goes to shit with Keeley. He finds out he’s been unknowingly smothering her all the while she’s been telling fucking everyone and their mum about it without talking to him. And look, maybe it’s an overreaction, but he breaks things off with her. It fucking hurts, especially when Keeley apologises profusely and pleads with him to not walk away, but he knows in future he won’t be able to trust that she’s not pretending everything’s fine when she’s actually sick of him. It feels like an inevitability that they’d break up eventually, and Roy’s not sure he could survive the rejection. So, he makes sure that he leaves first.
He tries to mask his bad mood at the club (primarily for the sake of no one asking personal fucking questions) and throws himself into work as a distraction. His spirits are lifted substantially when they win their match against Southampton on Saturday thanks to Sam scoring a matchwinner in the last two minutes, but when he finds himself alone for the rest of the weekend, it’s easy to let himself just sulk.
Come Monday morning, Roy’s not feeling much better, but he’s glad for the distraction of work again and a small part of him even hopes that he’ll have an excuse to snap at someone or something - most likely Tartt. He’s almost concerned that he’s manifested it or some shit when Tartt comes rushing into the locker room late, just as everyone else is ready and about to head out to the pitch.
“Howdy, Jamie, we were just startin’ to get worried about you,” Ted says good-naturedly.
As Tartt’s eyes widen a fraction, Roy frowns when he notices the dark bags underneath them. “Uh, listen, Coach, I uh- I ain’t gonna be able to play today, sorry, ‘m hurt.”
A tense silence falls over the room, everyone looking at Tartt with varying degrees of confusion and irritation.
“Big night last night?” Nate mutters, and Tartt’s eyebrows draw together.
“No, I’m- I’m injured.”
Ted takes a deep breath, a gentle smile on his face as he asks, “What happened, Jamie?”
The man stiffens, a carefully blank expression on his face. “Private, innit?”
And fucking hell, the prick could at least try to make something up. Roy scoffs loudly and crosses his arms over his chest. “You seen the medics?”
Tartt glances at him in surprise and bites the inside of his cheek, looking very much as though he knows he’s just walked into a trap. “I- No, but-”
“Mate, are you just sulking because Sam scored the matchwinner?” Colin huffs.
“No! I’m just- fuckin’ hurt, alright?”
“Well, Jamie, if you’re hurt, you really should see the medics,” Ted says calmly.
This only seems to get Tartt worked up. “I don’t need to see the fuckin’ medics!”
“Can’t be that injured then, can you?” Roy challenges.
Before Tartt can counter that, Ted cuts in, “Look, Jamie, if you really are hurt, then you really should go to medical so they can check you over. And if not, then we can just pretend this conversation never even happened and head out onto the pitch, alright? So, what’s it gonna be? Medics? Or pitch?”
Tartt just stares for a few seconds, eyes flicking between the two men, before swallowing hard. “Pitch.”
“Alrighty then, we’ll head out and you come join us once you’re dressed. C’mon fellas, let’s get movin’!”
There’s muttering amongst the lads as they head out, a few odd looks cast Tartt’s way, and when Roy takes one last glance at the man, he sees him just staring blankly at his bag.
Tartt plays like shit. And at first, Roy just rolls his eyes because, clearly, he’s just sulking on the pitch now, right? But then he starts to notice that something just feels off. Tartt doesn’t move with any of the grace he usually has, a strange tension about him as he quietly follows instructions. And now that he’s thinking about it, historically when Tartt has been sulking about something, there’s always a right fanfare about it; nothing like this withdrawn, head-down attitude.
Fuck, okay, maybe there is something actually wrong with the twat. Though Roy isn’t too worried because clearly the lad is physically okay - or at least, okay enough for training, even if it is a bit sloppy. Although maybe he should be more concerned about that, because while Tartt’s playing is certainly not flawless, none of those flaws have ever been sloppiness.
Fuck. As much as he’d love to say ‘not my circus, not my monkeys’, unfortunately this is his circus and, despite his attempts to reject custody, Tartt is one of his monkeys. So, Roy decides to talk to him after training, not that he really expects much to come of the conversation. The prick will probably just insult him and tell him to fuck off, but then at least he can tell himself that he tried.
However, when training comes to an end, Tartt has raced inside and changed before anyone else even gets to the locker room and when Roy walks in, the man is already headed for the door. Sam catches Tartt by the wrist and Roy can’t hear what they’re saying but a few seconds later, Tartt pulls his arm out of Sam’s grip and waves a dismissive hand at him before waltzing out the door. Roy’s assumptions that Tartt was being a dick are stopped in their tracks when Sam turns around - he doesn’t look hurt or frustrated or annoyed like all those times Tartt was being a cunt to him last year. He looks worried. Not that anyone else does; Isaac and Jeff even exchange eye rolls. But Sam - smart, kind, observant Sam looks at Roy and frowns.
Fuck. Now Roy’s fucking worried. But it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.
Roy wakes with a start feeling his heartbeat in his throat. He blinks a few times and sighs heavily, trying to get his bearings as he recalls what was just happening in his dream - or nightmare, rather.
It started with suddenly realising that his arm was fused with Keeley’s, except for some reason she couldn’t see that and seemed to think he was holding it and just wouldn’t let go. She got more and more upset and tried to yank free which pulled painfully at his skin. Just as she started begging him to let go, there was a knock at his door and Ted was there, a grim look on his face as he told Roy that Tartt was dead, at which point he’d woken up.
Roy stares at the ceiling cursing his subconscious. Stupid fucking brain. He spends approximately half an hour trying to go back to sleep before coming to the conclusion that that’s not fucking happening and just hauls himself out of bed. May as well just go into work early rather than sitting in his empty home stewing in his thoughts.
The club is also pretty fucking empty given it’s so early, he realises when he gets there, but it’s an emptiness that hurts a lot less. So, Roy sits in his dimly lit office and pulls out Inferno, flicking open to where his bookmark is tucked. He’s read a few chapters when he hears someone walk into the locker room and the light flicks on. He glances at the clock with a frown - he wasn’t expecting anyone else to arrive for at least another thirty minutes. Curious, he closes the book and walks over to the doorway to see Tartt at his cubby. Roy is about to ask why the lad is here so fucking early when he gingerly lifts his shirt up and tugs it off, revealing an array of dark purple and blue bruises mottling his torso. For a moment, Roy just stares in shock. It’s not until Tartt winces as he starts pulling on his kit that he finds his voice.
“What the fuck.”
“Coach!” Tartt jumps, head snapping over to him as he yanks the shirt down, making an odd, strangled sound as he does. “The fuck you doin’ here so early?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing, but I think I’ve got my answer. What the fuck happened to you?”
The twat has the audacity to roll his eyes, an all-too-familiar sneer appearing on his face. It’s only now that Roy realises he doesn’t think he’s seen it since last year. “Nothin’, granddad, I’m fine. I’m not fragile.”
Fucking hell, this is what he tried to tell them yesterday? This is the condition he was training in?
“We’re going to medical,” Roy decides, walking over to him. “Right now.”
“It’s fine, Coach, they’re just fuckin’ bruises, it ain’t a big deal.”
Which is absolute fucking bullshit, but he knows Tartt won’t back down. So, although cruel, it also feels somewhat necessary when Roy pokes his ribs, eliciting a hiss and a flinch. And okay, he wasn’t quite expecting that severe of a response. “Fucking hell, Tartt. Come on.”
It says a lot about how much pain Tartt must be in when he doesn’t argue any further, merely gives a glum nod and follows after Roy. He seems to go into a stupor, a vacant expression on his face as Roy sits him down in the treatment room and orders him to stay there while he goes to get their medic, Bree, feeling extremely relieved that the medical staff start early.
“I need help with Tartt,” he says after knocking on her office door. “He’s… hurt.”
The woman spares a brief, confused glance at her watch before nodding sharply and following him back into the treatment room where Tartt is still just staring blankly ahead. It’s only now Roy notices the dark bags under the man’s eyes, like he’s barely slept a wink. He supposes he was too distracted by Tartt’s torso being a different fucking colour.
“Hey, Jamie,” Bree greets softly, prompting him to look up at her. “What can I do for you?”
He looks at Roy, something pleading in his expression, but Roy just gestures for him to go ahead. So Tartt sighs and lifts the hem of his shirt to reveal the deep discolouration spread patchily across his ribs and abdomen. She inhales sharply at the sight but quickly recovers and instructs him to keep holding his shirt up while she methodically checks him over, gently touching different parts of his skin, asking him to breathe in specific ways or turn his body this way or that. It’s obvious that Tartt isn’t being honest about how much each touch and movement hurts and Roy really fucking hopes that Bree is taking this into account when she tells them that both sides of his ribcage are definitely bruised and the left side potentially even has a small fracture. “We can do an X-ray and CT to confirm.”
“Don’t matter,” Tartt says dismissively, “treatments the same, innit?”
Bree blinks, looking slightly taken aback. “True… but it can give us an estimate of how long we can expect healing to take.”
“Don’t care. Either way, I’ll be back out there as soon as I can.”
The medic presses her lips together and scrutinises him. “Do you want to tell me how you got these injuries?”
Tartt shifts. “Not especially. Look, I really appreciate ya, Bree, but I just need you to do whatever you need to do to get me back on the pitch as soon as possible, yeah?”
She hesitates a few moments, but after a glance at Roy, she nods. “Okay, Jamie. But I’m going to need you to be very honest with me throughout the healing process, alright?” He gives a small nod. “Good. Now-”
The treatment plan sounds annoyingly like a whole lot of fuck-all. Painkillers, resting but still moving around, icing the area, and regularly doing breathing exercises so that he doesn’t develop fucking pneumonia. She gives him some kind of device called an incentive spirometer to help with the breathing exercises, though when she goes to show him how to use it, he brushes her off saying he’s used one before, and Roy and Bree exchange a look.
After making him promise to see her again tomorrow, Bree leaves the room and Tartt clears his throat, looking absurdly calm. “Well, now we know,” he says casually and moves as if to stand up. Roy quickly presses a hand down on his shoulder, frowning deeply.
“Oi! Hang on a fucking second. You really think I’m just gonna drop this?”
“Uh… yeah?”
Roy grits his teeth. “Well, I’m not. So, what the fuck happened?”
“Said I didn’t wanna fuckin’ talk about it,” he huffs irritably.
“This,” Roy says, gesturing to Tartt’s torso, “was no fucking accident. Who did this to you?”
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”
He wouldn’t be trying to hide the identity of a stranger. “Someone you know, then?” Tartt looks sharply at him, wariness in his eyes and Roy finds himself thinking back to the curse fire and the things Tartt said about his parents. He knows from experience that there are few kinds of people who can make someone as confident and lively as Jamie Tartt look as small as he does right now. “Was it your fucking dad?”
Tartt startles, an odd noise working its way out of this throat and he hastily looks away. “It’s nothin’.”
“Nothing? This is fucking abuse.”
“No it ain’t,” he rolls his eyes. “Abuse is, like… bad.”
“Yes, Tartt, abuse is bad,” Roy scoffs sardonically, making him scowl.
“Fuck off, I mean that this ain’t that.”
“What is it then?”
Tartt gives a helpless shrug only to immediately wince. “It’s what he’s always done. Just being a dick, innit?”
“This is what he’s always done?!”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You realise I was right here when she said your ribs might be fucking fractured, right?”
Tartt sighs as if Roy’s being ridiculous. “It’s just him teachin’ me a lesson, making me better, yeah?”
Roy’s stomach twists uncomfortably, jaw clenching as he fights down a wave of anger at the unpleasant memories that flood his mind. A very small part of him wants to throw his hands up and say, ‘fucking fine, enjoy your lessons then’, but he can’t. However long Tartt’s been dealing with this shit, it stops right fucking now. He’s going to get through to the prick about this, even if it’s like pulling teeth. He’s pretty sure both of them would prefer him to be doing that, actually.
“And what fucking ‘lesson’ was this supposed to teach?” he asks, pointing to Jamie, who just grits his jaw and stares at the ground, refusing to answer. Roy sighs. “My sister…” he begins slowly, “her piece of shit ex used to hit her. Tried to ‘teach her lessons’ about going out with her friends or the house not being clean enough. You don’t think that was abuse?”
Tartt blinks at him in surprise, then frowns. “‘Course it was. That’s so fucked up. But that’s- This is different.”
“What’s different about it?”
“‘Cause she didn’t-“ he cuts himself off abruptly, mouth clicking shut and stares hard at the floor.
“Didn’t what?”
Roy already had a terrible feeling about how that sentence was going to end, then Jamie throws his hands out exasperatedly and finishes with, “Deserve it.”
There’s a few seconds of silence in which Roy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then, voice low, he says, “No one - And I mean no one - deserves that. Especially a fucking kid.” Because that’s what he said, right? It’s what he’s always done.
“I was a shit kid though, yeah? I were dead difficult-“
“No kids are that fucking difficult. I don’t care how fucking difficult you were, I wouldn’t care if you crashed his car into the fucking house. There is never a reason to hit a kid, let alone beat them fucking black and blue. What the fuck kind of shit did he hit you for anyway?” Because maybe (hopefully) there is something truly atrocious that Tartt did, something that Roy would hear and think, ‘ah, okay, that makes sense to hit a kid over, actually’, even though he knows that’s not going to happen.
For a moment, Roy thinks that Tartt is just going to ignore the question. He just sits and stares at the floor, biting his cheek. Then, very quietly, he answers, “Was mostly ‘bout football. Like if I missed sitters or lost games ‘n all that.”
Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Do you think all kids who lose a fucking football match should be hit?” he asks, trying to keep his tone calm.
“‘Course fuckin’ not. But it’s different.”
Roy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why is it different for you?” When Tartt just stares blankly at him, he continues, “My niece, Phoebe, she’s seven, you reckon I should hit her if she loses a match?”
“No,” Tartt protests, aghast. As if abruptly realising where Roy is going with this, he shakes his head and says, “I were older than that when it started, anyway.”
“Right, so I should just wait a few years and then it’ll be fine?”
“Well- no. But it weren’t just the footy, I acted up a lot, talked back-“
“What if Phoebe starts acting up? Then it’s fine to hit her? Give her a black eye?!”
Tartt’s face twists in anguish and he shakes his head emphatically. “No.”
“What if she starts a fire in my kitchen? What if… what if Henry smashes a window, should Ted hit him? Fracture his rib?”
“No!” He’s clearly getting more distressed and Roy feels a bit guilty about it, but it also seems like this is the only way to get through to him.
“So let me ask again. Why is it different?”
He swallows hard. “I- I don’t know.”
“That’s what abusers do, Tartt. They convince you that you deserve it, that they’re doing it for your own good. That they’ll stop. They fucking won’t. Ever. I mean, fucking look at you.”
Any and all vulnerability in Tartt’s expression vanishes and he practically snarls at Roy. “Yeah, fuckin’ laugh it up at how pathetic this is that I’m a grown fuckin’ man gettin’ wailed on by-“
“Fuck, Jamie, that’s not what I meant,” Roy cuts him off quickly. “I just mean… Any man capable of doing this to his own fucking son and has been doing it for fuck knows how long… he’s a monster. And he’s never going to change. You need to… report him, get a restraining order… something.”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me how to deal with me own dad. I’m handlin’ it.”
Naturally, Roy immediately cocks it up again by gesturing to Jamie’s ribs and scoffing, “Really?”
Jamie’s eyes flash with anger and he gets to his feet, expression twitching at the movement. “Ya know what, you’re fuckin’ one to talk, Kent. You act like this is so fucked up, but I reckon ya just mad someone else got in first, yeah?”
Roy goes completely rigid. His voice is barely above a whisper as he asks, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Like you wouldn’t love the opportunity to have a go,” he scoffs. “You’re always fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout how ya wanna deck me or headbutt me or summat. So don’t you act all fuckin’ high and mighty just ‘cause someone else followed through before you could.”
It’s like a bucket of ice has been dumped on Roy’s head. He knows he was a shit captain last year but right now he’s realising just how colossally he fucked it, just how much his inability to communicate properly has caused genuine harm. “Jamie-“ he croaks. He clenches his fists to try and stifle the shaking that starts in his hands but then Jamie’s eyes dart down at the movement and he hastily relaxes them, suddenly feeling like there’s a good chance he’ll throw up. He takes a breath, swallows, and tries again. “Fuck. Jamie, I am so sorry, I never- I never meant any of that, alright? Well- most of it. And on the rare occasion I did mean it, I never would have actually done it. And it was fucked up to even think it, let alone say it, and I never should have taken my anger out on you. You were just… an easy target.”
“‘Cause I were bein’ such a cunt,” Jamie says, voice void of emotion.
“You were,” Roy concedes, “but still. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you think I’d actually hurt you. And I’m sorry that we didn’t believe you were injured. Thought you were just being precious and faking it like last time, you know?” He waits for Jamie to either take the olive branch or just shrug him off, but instead, the striker lets out a bitter laugh and something cold curls in Roy’s gut. Fucking please no. “Jamie, you were faking it that time, right?”
“I got fuckin’ benched, Roy. He weren’t exactly impressed.”
“Fuck!” he bursts out, rubbing a hand over his face. Every time he thinks this conversation can’t get any fucking worse. “You mean I was fucking- celebrating watching Lasso chew you out thinking you were just having a strop when you’d actually been fucking abused by your dad?! Fuck, Jamie, I’m so sorry.”
Jamie deflates. He stares at Roy, looking a little lost. Then he shakes his head. “It’s fine, that was the point. I knew what it looked like, yeah? But, like… that were better than havin’ everyone know I’m a pussy, ya know?”
“You’re not a fucking- pussy, Jamie. If we had known we could have helped, done something to stop it-“
“No, you wouldn’t,” he cuts Roy off, an odd look on his face. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“The fuck you mean ‘no, we wouldn’t’? Yes, we fucking would.”
“Ted didn't,” Jamie huffs, throwing his hands out as if this proves his point. All it does is make Roy’s racing thoughts come to a screeching halt.
“…What? Ted knows?”
“He saw. After our match against each other.”
A heavy dread pools in his stomach. “Saw what?”
“Me dad peltin’ a boot at me head - it’s fine, I dodged it,” he adds when Roy’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Hittin’ me upside the head. Yellin’. All that.”
“Hang on, what the fuck could that cunt have possibly been mad about then? You won.”
“‘Cause I played like shit?” Jamie shrugs, which is categorically fucking false.
“No, you fucking didn’t,” Roy objects, causing the other man to look at him in surprise.
“He don’t like it when I pass the ball.”
“I- Fuck. Are you sure that Ted actually saw? It wasn’t like he just happened to be looking in your general direction while off with the fucking fairies or something?”
“Well, he were walkin’ past ‘n we made eye contact through the window ‘n then he looked all freaked out ‘n rushed off.”
Which sounds pretty fucking damning, but- “That doesn’t make any fucking sense though.”
“I ain’t lyin’!” Jamie scowls, making him wince.
“No, I know. Fuck, sorry. I just mean that it doesn’t make sense to me that he would just- just walk away from that.”
He shrugs again, and simply says, “That’s what most people do.”
It’s taken a huge effort to not exhibit the immense anger that has been steadily growing throughout this conversation, but then Jamie says that and he thinks that a blood vessel in his head might just burst if he doesn’t let some of it out right now, but he doesn’t want to scare Jamie. He can hear numerous voices in the locker room now and makes the quick decision to tap someone else in to supervise Jamie so he can go release some of his rage. He opens the door and pokes his head out, eyes locking onto Sam a few metres away. Sam had known something was wrong.
“Oi, Sam,” he says quietly, ignoring everyone else’s curious looks. “You got a minute?”
“Uh, sure thing, Coach!” Sam replies, smiling pleasantly despite his evident confusion. His expression shifts into alarm when he walks into the treatment room and sees Jamie standing there looking embarrassed.
“I’ve gotta go do something, can you keep an eye on Tartt for me?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Roy, I don’t need a babysitter,” he whines.
“Forgive me if I don’t trust you to look after yourself right now,” he shoots back before walking out the door and swinging it shut behind him.
Jamie doesn’t deserve his anger right now but he can think of someone who does, and as he looks toward the coaches office, he finds Ted already looking at him, eyebrows furrowed together in concern as his eyes dart between Roy and the treatment room door.
“Everyone out on the pitch!” he barks to the players. “Start running laps and keep fucking going until one of the coaches comes out and tells you to stop.”
There’s a chorus of “Yes, Coach!” as the team hastily files out of the locker room. Roy takes a deep breath and strides into the office, swinging the door shut behind him. Ted, Beard, and Nate all look expectantly at him, and he lets the strange anticipation drag out for a few seconds before he announces, “Tartt won’t be training today.”
“This again?” Nate scoffs. “Really? Didn’t work yesterday so he’s trying again?”
Roy grits his teeth. “It didn’t ‘work’ yesterday because we’re all a bunch of clueless fucking arseholes that didn’t believe that he was actually injured and made him feel like he had to train anyway.”
“Injured how? Is he okay?” Ted asks, eyes wide.
“Obviously fucking not,” he replies shortly, trying not to snap. Because, yeah, he’s angry at Ted, but he wants to give the gaffer a chance in case Jamie did somehow just severely misread the situation. “D’you know much about his dad?” he asks calmly, and the guilt that appears on the man’s face tells him everything, brings that anger crashing back like a tsunami. “I cannot fucking believe you.”
“Hold on,” Beard speaks up, frowning, “Roy, what does Jamie’s dad have to do with him being…” he trails off with a sharp inhale, eyes widening as he looks between Roy and Ted.
“You saw and you did nothing.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” Ted whispers, eyes shining. “I panicked and I froze.”
“Ted…” Beard says softly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The man rubs his hands over his face, taking a deep breath. “After the Man City game last season, I saw Jamie in the treatment room. I was about to head in and congratulate him, ya know? But then I heard a shout and there was a man in there with him - his father. And he threw something at him and yelled at him for passing the ball. Hit him,” he adds, voice cracking, tears welling up.
“Oh, god,” Nate breathes.
“You’re a fucking coward,” Roy growls, pointing a finger at Ted. All he can think about is if someone had seen Doug treating Ruth like that and did fucking nothing too. “I’m taking Tartt home and making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“How bad is it?” Ted asks, voice hoarse.
“Not my fucking place to say, is it? If you want to know, you can talk to Tartt. But know that it’s a lot worse than whatever fuck he tries to tell you, because apparently, you’re not the first fucking prick to see it and just walk away so he thinks this shit isn’t a big fucking deal.”
“I think he gets it, Roy,” Beard says gently. “Go look after Jamie, alright?”
And yeah, Ted does look emotionally wrecked. Good. Roy just gives a sharp nod and turns on his heel, walking out and slamming the door shut behind him.
When he walks into the treatment room, Sam and Jamie are sitting side-by-side on the bed. Jamie is laughing at something, but quickly winces and stiffens, making Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh! Jamie I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t say sorry for makin’ me laugh,” Jamie chides, gently nudging Sam’s arm, “That’s silly.”
“But you’re in pain.”
“I’m in pain anyway, mate, may as well be in pain ‘n laughin’, yeah?”
Sam gives an exasperated sigh, watching Jamie with a fond look. “I suppose.”
The sight softens something in Roy’s chest. “I’m going to take Tartt home. You go join the others out on the pitch, Sam. Thanks for watching this one, I appreciate it.”
“I ain’t a dog!”
“Yeah? Then why are you all bark and no bite, hm?” Sam teases.
Jamie snorts and lightly shoves at him, poking a tongue out. “If you want me to bite, you just need to ask, mate.”
Sam chuckles and stands up, exchanging a fist bump with Jamie. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”
“Yeah, can’t get rid of me that easy, mate.”
He’s clearly not expecting Sam to so sincerely reply, “And I am very glad to hear that.”
As Jamie blinks at him in surprise, he gives Roy a playful salute and walks out of the room.
“Hey, Coach, ehm, I really appreciate ya lookin’ out for me but you don’t need to drive me home; I got here fine, didn’t I?”
“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should. And like I said, I don’t exactly trust you to act in your own best interests right now. So, you’re stuck with me as a babysitter for the time being so I can make sure you’re doing all the shit Bree told you to do.”
“Ugh, a’ight, granddad. But I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout me dad.”
Roy works his jaw, reluctant to agree. “Can I just say one last thing about it first?”
“Fine, whatever.”
“I really think you should do something about getting him out of your life. Whether it’s some kind of legal action or at the very least just cutting him off. He’s fucking dangerous and if this is normal enough that it doesn’t seem to bother you, then I’d hate to see the shit he’d pull on a bad day.”
Jamie doesn’t look at him, just stares down at the floor. “Look, I… I know that sounds like the obvious thing, but… s’not that simple. If I tried to cut him off, he’d lose his fuckin’ shit. Besides, he’s me dad. And I’m well aware this is shit, yeah? But, like… it ain’t always like this. Like, when he’s off the drink, he’s actually okay, ya know? And he’s been talkin’ about goin’ back to rehab and I gotta support him. I’m the only reason he’s goin’, if I cut him off then he won’t have any reason to get sober.”
“Jamie, your dad’s choices are entirely his own. His sobriety is not your fucking responsibility and it’s not fucking fair of him to put that on you.” Roy doesn’t dare share his strong suspicions that Jamie’s father has no intention of going back to rehab and is just holding this over Jamie’s head to make him feel responsible for the cunt.
“Yeah, I guess, but… I want him to get better.”
“You can want him to get better and not want any part of that. You can wish him all the happiness in the world and never want to see him again. Those things can coexist.”
Jamie nods slowly, considering this. “I’ll think about it.”
It’s about as much of a win as Roy was expecting so he’ll take it. “Does he know where you live?”
“Yeah.”
Roy nods decisively. “You’re staying with me.”
“Wait, what?”
“Look, if you don’t want to do anything about it yet, that’s fine, but I’m not fucking letting you go back home where that cunt can find you and do more damage.”
“I can just get a hotel!”
“No. Like I said, I’m fucking babysitting you, remember? And I’m not doing that in a fucking hotel room. So you’re coming back to my house and I can keep an eye on you there.”
“Fuckin’ hell, you really are here, there ‘n everywhere,” he mutters.
Given recent events, it stings a little. A reminder that he’s Too Much. But he quickly brushes the feeling off because this isn’t remotely the same situation; his only duty to Jamie right now is to be a good coach by making sure he is safe and healthy - he doesn’t have to like it. The prick can be annoyed and safe, that’s fine.
“Alright, but I’m gonna have to go home first to get me shit. Unless ya want me wanderin’ ‘round ya house naked.”
“I do not,” Roy says flatly, making the small grin on Jamie’s face grow. “We can make a detour.”
The drive is almost silent, which Roy is vaguely concerned by, but frankly also grateful for so he has time to fucking think. It may have been slightly impulsive to invite Jamie to stay with him, and he’s not expecting it to be comfortable given their tumultuous relationship. But Jamie needs help. And sure, maybe he could have stayed with someone else but there’s a part of Roy that feels responsible for Jamie now, and ridiculously, he doesn’t trust anyone else to look after him; as long as Jamie is in his sights, he knows that his evil-sack-of-shit father isn’t with him and can therefore relax a bit.
When they get to Roy’s house, he guides Jamie towards the living room then takes the man’s duffel bag to the guest room. When he comes back out, Jamie is just standing in the middle of the room looking unsure of himself - and isn’t that a fucking sight?
“You can sit down,” he says dryly.
Jamie presses his lips together and nods and gingerly lowers himself down to sit in the corner of the sofa, hands coming together to fidget. Roy goes to the kitchen to get an icepack and wraps it in a tea towel before offering it out to Jamie who stares at him in surprise, then tentatively takes it and holds it against his ribcage. Something about his slumped posture and the defeated look in his eyes reminds Roy of a sad, stray cat that got caught in the rain, a far cry from the defensive, hissing and spitting Jamie had been doing earlier. He realises then that that’s what Jamie’s prickish-ness has probably always been. It feels like his entire world has been tipped on its axis.
“When’s your next dose of meds due?”
Jamie glances at his watch and answers, “Uh, couple hours.”
“Do you… need anything?” He shakes his head and Roy passes him the TV remote. “Feel free to put on anything you want.”
“Anything?” Jamie repeats, raising an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye that Roy almost missed. “What about Lust Conquers All?”
“That finished weeks ago,” Roy frowns, only to immediately realise his mistake when Jamie gapes at him. “Or… so I’ve heard.”
“Holy shit. Roy Kent likes trashy reality shows.”
“You’re the one who was on a trashy reality show.”
“Did ya watch me?”
“Of course, I fucking didn’t. Why would I want to watch you have jacuzzi sex?”
“How’d ya know I had jacuzzi sex if ya didn’t watch?”
Fuck. “Fine. I was made to watch it by some… friends.”
There’s none of the usual heat to Jamie’s words when he retorts, “You have friends?”
“Fuck off.”
Jamie just grins and redirects his attention to the telly, flicking through the apps until he finds the British Bake-Off and hits play.
“Not what I was expecting,” Roy comments as he sits down on the other side of the sofa, feeling like a prick when Jamie shifts self-consciously. “So you do have some taste.”
Jamie’s lips curl into a small smile. “You can thank me stepdad Simon for that. Used to watch this together a lot when we were still figuring out how to talk to each other.”
“You figured it out at some point, then?”
“Mostly,” he says with a small huff. “He’s just so… nice. Always figured it was him trying to get something, but I’ve realised he’s just… like that.”
It’s absolutely depressing thinking about a young Jamie who was so unfamiliar with someone being ‘nice’ that he assumed it was part of some ploy. But Roy refrains from saying anything about it, knowing it’ll just make the prick get defensive. Instead, he hums in agreement and says, “Yeah, I don’t trust it when someone’s not even a little bit of an arsehole.”
“Why’d you hate me so much then?”
“Because, it’s a fucking bell curve, innit?” Roy says, gesturing with his hands. “There’s a- a sweet spot of prickish-ness. If you’re not enough of an arsehole, then I won’t like you, but if you’re too much of an arsehole, then I won’t like you either. You were way too far up that end.”
“Were?” Jamie repeats, a hopeful look on his face.
Roy sighs. “Lasso told me you’d turned over a new leaf and I didn’t fucking believe him, but… I will reluctantly admit that you have changed.”
“For the better?”
“Yes, for the better, Tartt,” he rolls his eyes, mustering up a little bit of irritation. It quickly fades at the pleased expression on Jamie’s face.
A quiet settles over them as they both turn their attention to the telly, though Roy keeps glancing at Jamie every now and again. That strangely hollow expression returns to his face, and Roy gets the strong sense that Jamie isn’t even really paying attention to the show.
“Were you really just going to keep playing and hide it?” he asks quietly.
Jamie looks at him for a moment and nods slowly. “Better than everyone thinkin’ I’m bein’ a whiny prick.”
“You could have done more damage. Gotten fucking pneumonia or something. And I know you know that because you seem pretty fucking familiar with rib injuries.”
He looks away. “What do you want me to say, Roy? He knows not to leave marks that’ll be visible in me kit. But you don’t have to worry about me missin’ too many matches; me ribs are proper good at healing, like. I’ll be back out on the pitch soon, swear down.”
“I don’t give a fuck about that, Tartt. I’m not worried about fucking football, I’m worried about you.”
Jamie blinks at him, taken aback. “…Oh. Well… thanks.”
And how the fuck is Roy supposed to react to that? “I’m going to make a tea, d’you want one?”
“Yeah, man, that’d be mint, thanks.”
By the time the episode has finished, Jamie is snoring softly in shallow breaths, curled around the ice pack while his tea sits half-drank on the coffee table. Every now and then, he clearly breathes too deeply or shifts in a way that has his eyebrows furrowing together in pain, but by the time another episode has finished, he seems to have settled.
Which is why it feels like such a dilemma when the time for Jamie to take his next dose of painkillers rolls around and he’s still fast sleep. Roy has no idea how much sleep the man must have gotten the previous night, but it looks like he really needs the rest, and he doesn’t want to disturb him when he’s finally gotten comfortable. But he also doesn’t want Jamie to wake up later in way more pain because he hasn’t taken his medication on time.
First, he gets the pills and a glass of water ready before gently nudging Jamie’s knee.
“Tartt… it’s time for your next lot of meds.” Jamie groggily opens his eyes and goes to sit up only to wince and lower himself back down, glancing around in confusion. “Just stay still. Here.” He offers the tablets and the water out to Jamie, who squints at him but wordlessly throws the pills down and swallows down some water. “Good lad. You can go back to sleep now if you want.”
Jamie just gives a small nod and lowers his head back against the back of the sofa, eyes drifting shut again. It’s not even two minutes later that Roy hears his soft snores start back up again.
Roy is in the kitchen preparing dinner when Jamie finally stirs. He wakes up slowly, gingerly shifting around and sitting up while still clutching the ice pack to his torso. He glances at his watch and his widen comically before he looks over at Roy in the kitchen, then slowly stands and shuffles over.
“Uh, Roy?” Jamie asks, voice hoarse from sleep, and points to the ice pack. “Question - how the fuck is this still cold?”
“I replaced it,” Roy says simply, even though the process had been anything but. It had felt like replacing the idol in fucking Indiana Jones or some shit, carefully trying to extricate the melted ice pack from his grip and replace it with a new, frozen one without waking him.
“Oh, right... Thanks. Are you cooking dinner?”
Roy nods. “Salmon, roast potatoes, and salad. It should be ready in fifteen minutes. Do you need anything in the meantime? You slept through lunch; you must be hungry.”
“Nah, I’m alright.”
“Tea? Cold drink?”
Jamie looks almost amused as he sits down on one of the stools, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m all good, Coach. Gotta say, if this is how you treat someone you don’t even like, then I can’t imagine the treatment Keels is gettin’.”
Roy freezes in the middle of chopping up a tomato and clenches his jaw. He briefly considers brushing it off with a lie, but the prick will probably find out eventually, and now he’s looking at Roy with a worried expression. He sighs heavily, “We broke up.”
“What?! When? Why?”
“Last week. I was… too much.”
Jamie’s eyebrows scrunched together. “The fuck you mean?”
“Too… clingy. Smothering.”
Then the twat starts fucking laughing and it makes Roy feel itchy all over. “Oi! Having fucked ribs doesn’t excuse you from being a cunt, you know.”
Jamie quickly sobers, shooting him an apologetic expression. “No, no, mate, I weren’t laughing at you. It’s… it’s just mad to me.”
“Yeah, yeah, Roy Kent is clingy, hilarious.”
He tilts his head in consideration. “I mean, I’m a little surprised ‘bout that, but that’s not what I meant. It’s just… it’s mad to me that it would be a problem, ya know what I mean?”
He doesn’t. “Talk to Keeley, I’m sure she’ll tell you all about how it is.”
“It’s only a problem with the wrong person.”
Roy rolls his eyes, tone bitter as he says, “Right, of course, she belongs with you.”
“That ain’t what I meant,” Jamie shakes his head. “I just mean… Look, Keeley’s mad independent, yeah? She loves her space. And that’s great. It don’t mean there’s anything wrong with the way you are. Just means you gotta find someone who’s like you. Be clingy together.”
He supposes it makes sense, but the problem is, he hasn’t found someone who is like him, despite how easy Jamie makes it sound. “I’m guessing you’re more like her?” he asks, because sure, Jamie and Keeley had their problems but none of them seemed to be Jamie annoying Keeley with his constant presence.
Roy is surprised when Jamie thinks this over for a few moments and slowly lets out a breath. “Hard to say, to be honest. Never really been in a… proper serious relationship, like. I mean, I loved Keeley but I didn’t really actually let myself, ya know? Was mostly just physical. And it weren’t ‘til after we broke up that I realised I did actually want more. I think I would be clingy. At least, in me heart, like. But… dunno if I’d actually act on it ‘cause… that sorta thing’s soft to him, ya know?” His eyes widen in alarm and he hastily continues, “Not that- Not that you’re soft! It’s just-“
“I really don’t give a flying fuck what your father would think of me,” Roy interrupts with a snort, and Jamie visibly relaxes.
The player is quiet for a moment and shakes his head, picking at his fingers. “Even when he’s not around, he’s still in me fuckin’ head.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Roy says quietly, watching carefully as Jamie nods, eyes staring blankly ahead. “You’re wrong, by the way. That I don’t like you.”
That snaps him out of it. Jamie perks up with a pleased grin. “You like me?”
“Well, I didn’t say that.”
Jamie snorts, grinning even wider and Roy can’t help but smile back.
“You should do your breathing exercises. Your breathing was all shallow when you were sleeping.”
“Yeah, good shout, Coach,” he nods, slapping a hand on the countertop.
Roy glances up occasionally from making the salad to watch as Jamie sits on the sofa with the spirometer and places the tube in his mouth. The tube is connected to three chambers, each with a coloured ball that start to lift up one at a time as he draws in a breath. The occasional twitches on his face each time the second ball gets to the top give Roy the distinct impression that Jamie is pushing himself harder than necessary, but he has a pretty good idea of how Jamie would respond if he said anything about it. So he stays quiet and is grateful when the timer for the salmon goes off.
When Roy hands him a plate loaded with two pieces of salmon and a generous helping of potatoes alongside some salad, Jamie shoots him an incredulous look. “You tryin’ to fatten me up like that witch did with those German kids?”
“You missed lunch. You’re an athlete, you need the calories.”
“Okay, grandad,” Jamie huffs, and Roy notices that the nickname seems to hold a lot more fondness than it usually does.
Just as he’s finishing his dinner, Roy’s phone pings.
Ruth: Got called in for a late shift Thursday, can you take Phoebe for the night?
Roy: Yeah sure. Jamie’s going to be staying here but I can kick him out if you’re not comfortable with that
Ruth: Jamie… Tartt??
Roy: Yes
Ruth: Is this some kind of punishment from Lasso?
Roy: Long story. Prick is injured and it’s not a good idea for him to be home right now so he’s staying with me.
Ruth: Awww you big softy
Roy: Fuck off
Ruth: Yeah I’m fine with that. Phoebs is gonna be so excited lol
Roy: Fuuuuuck
Roy: Never mind I’m kicking him out
Ruth: Too late, I already told Phoebe. You wouldn’t want to break her little heart now, would you?
Roy: I hate you
A noise from the kitchen pulls Roy’s attention from his phone and he glances over to see Jamie shuffling about, gathering up the mess.
“Oi, what the fuck are you doing?”
Jamie turns to shoot him an incredulous look. “Cleanin’ up?”
“Sit back down, I’ll do it.”
“But you cooked.”
“I don’t give a fuck, you’re injured,” he argues, standing up and walking over.
“I can handle washing some fucking dishes.”
“So can the dishwasher, Tartt. It’ll take me two minutes to pop this all in, you go sit down. Pick out a movie or something.”
Jamie gives a reluctant huff but nods and makes his way back to the sofa. When Roy has finished cleaning up and returns to the living room, Jamie has queued up Ratatouille which makes him smile to himself - it was just recently he overheard the team discussing it.
They watch the film mostly in silence, and despite how much Jamie has slept, Roy can see him getting sleepy again. So when the movie finishes, he’s not surprised when Jamie tells him he’s going to go get ready for bed.
“Are you gonna be alright showering and shit?” Roy asks, trying to imagine how much of a challenge injured ribs might pose.
“You want to shower me?” Jamie asks teasingly, eyebrow raised.
“No, I just don’t want you to fucking drown on my watch.”
“But not on your watch is fine?”
Roy shrugs. “It’s better.”
Jamie lets out a startled laugh, only to wince and hold a hand to his ribs. He looks thoughtfully at Roy, opens his mouth and closes it before saying, “Um, thanks for everything, Coach. I, uh, I really appreciate it.”
“It’s no trouble at all, Jamie. Seriously.”
“Right, well, um… g’night.”
“Goodnight.”