Archive of Our Own

*

“—and now it’s all fucked,” Jamie finishes in a whine. “The group chat’s blowing up and they’ve definitely broken up, and everyone thinks Roy cheated.”

“It sounds like he has, duck,” Simon says, gently. There’s a streak of flour near his temple, his attempt at making croissants forgotten when Jamie called and immediately launched into a desperate, winding tale of the mess he kickstarted. “If he didn’t tell Keeley or you that the situation had changed...well, that’s not very honest, is it?”

“He’s a fucking twat,” Mummy sets her tea down with a loud thunk that makes Jamie lift his head from his arms to squint at the tiny screen of his phone. “You deserve so much better than this, sweetheart. He’s been using you.”

His forehead crinkles, head shaking. “No, it weren’t like that. He didn’t—it was...it was real. The things we—he introduced me to his niece. No one fucking knows about her because he’s so protective but he introduced us. It’s—that’s not for fucking about, right?”

Mummy and Simon exchange a look that makes him lift his beer—he’s lost count of how many he’s had as the glasses keep getting taken away—and drain the dregs from his glass. Gas rises up in his chest, and he burps it out into his fist with a grimace. He’s well on his way to being drunk, shirt and tie loose around his neck, not wanting to head home just in case Roy or Keeley are there waiting for him.

Knowing his luck, they’ll both be there.

And he really, really doesn’t want to see either of them.

“I just—” he tries to pull his sleeves down over his hands except he’s not able to since he’s still wearing his stupid suit. He presses his nail into the surface of the table and digs a tiny groove into the wood. “I love him, don’t I?”

Mummy’s sigh pierces him, and his face crumples.

“Oh, duck.” Simon’s gentleness is almost as painful as Mummy’s anger towards Roy. His hopes of them getting along if they’d ever meet flaming into ash. “Of course you do. You’ve got a big heart and lots of love to give.”

“And you’ve been obsessed with him since you could walk,” Mummy adds. “Baby, do you want us to come down? We can hop in the car right now and be there in time for dinner.”

“I’ll make your favourite,” Simon offers. “We can stay as long as you need. Maybe watch your next two matches. Bring you back home with us when you’re done?”

Jamie rubs at his nose that tingles with an early warning of the tears that press up against the back of his eyes. He wants nothing more than to say yes to their offer. He knows if he does then they’ll hang up and get into their little Fiat that they’ve refused to let him replace and be at his door before he knows it, wrapping him up in their love and letting him cry his bad decisions out on their shoulders.

He knows that they’ll love him extra hard and make him feel better about how much Roy’s ripped the rug out from under his feet.

And he needs it, unbalanced as he remains from the funeral. Knees wobbly and head spinning, half from the truth shattering between the three of them and half from the fact that Roy got on his knees for him and blew his fucking mind, he can’t get his feet under him. Everything feels tilted and wrong, and he doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down any more.

But he still shakes his head, refusing.

He hasn’t heard from Dad since Wembley, and he’s never going to forget the sight of Simon bleeding from his mouth because for one match they’d all been in the same room and Dad hadn’t liked that, not one bit.

“I’ll come up right after the last match.” He’s not able to properly meet their eyes, digging harder into the table. “Promise.”

“Jamie,” Mummy says, all soft and tender. It makes his eyes burn, his chin dipping lower to his chest as he pulls his nail out of the wood and sucks where the blood’s welling up down the side. Simon makes a small sound and Mummy sighs. “Okay, baby, if you’re sure.”

He nods his head and lies, “I am.”

“Don’t forget to drink some water,” Simon tells him as they make moves to hang up since Jamie should probably head home. It’d be bad form to be papped a week before the final match of the season getting wankered in the late afternoon on a weekday. “Lots of water, actually.”

The muscles around his mouth twitch with a smile. “Course.”

“We love you, baby,” Mummy tells him, and Jamie wants to cry. “So much.”

Shoving his phone into his pocket, he gets to his feet. The ground dips beneath him. He pauses, hand pressed flat on the table to keep himself upright. Blinking, he takes careful steps to the bathroom to empty his bladder and wash his face, scrubbing hard with his palms to wipe the miserable look from his face. It doesn’t work, his reflection holding the weight of all the lies he didn’t know were being told.

“Hey.” Jamie starts, a pretty face in the mirror over his shoulder. “I think you’re in the wrong bathroom.”

He blinks and takes in the lack of urinals, the more pleasant smell he associates with the ladies’ room, and sways until his back hits the sinks. “Shit.”

“Easy mistake,” she grins, eyes sweeping over him before settling back on his face. “Aren’t you that footballer from Lust Conquers All?”

Jamie swallows and nods, wondering if that’s what his legacy’s going to be—a short stint on a crappy reality show. “Yeah, I’m him.”

“You were a right dick to Amy.” She steps in close, her hip brushing against his as she washes her hands. When she looks at him, there’s a smile nestled in the creases around her eyes. “Did you really shag Denise in the hot tub?”

“Kind of,” he says. “A little bit. Yeah.”

“How do you kind of shag someone?” She shakes her hands and uses the bottom of her jumper to dry them the rest of the way.

Jamie thinks of Roy leaning over him, mouth on the side of his neck, hand between them— it’s easier than you think , he wants to say.

“Let me buy you a drink and I’ll tell you all about it,” he hears himself say.

It’s a bad idea. He should go home, sleep off the beer, have a little cry, and try to figure out how the hell he’s going to work with Roy and face Keeley in the morning. But he quit football because he was sick of his dad constantly berating him, sucked Roy’s cock because his head went fuzzy and he’d always wanted to, so what’s one more bad decision after a run of them?

Her smile spreads from her eyes to the rest of her face. “I’ll have a vodka coke with a side of gossip then.”

He huffs a laugh and holds the door open for her, smile fading at her turned back before he straightens his spine and follows her back into the bar.

*

Jamie makes it a street away from his house before he’s slurring a warning at his driver to pull over, now. The taxi slams to a halt, sending him tumbling forwards into the back of the passenger seat, and his hand scrambles for the handle. He tips out and vomits down a conveniently placed storm drain that he hopes doesn’t house any clowns. A long night and half an afternoon of drinking surges up out of him, burning his throat and filling his nose with a sour stench as he heaves and gags.

Throwing up’s the pits, and he hasn’t drunk so much since Man City won the League a year earlier but while a tactical chunder is bearable, emptying his stomach of everything it contains is not.

“Oi, mate, at least bloody pay first if you’re going to die in the streets.”

Jamie raises a hand above his shoulder to stick his middle finger up at his driver, spitting the gunk in his throat onto the ground with a deep hock. Covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat, he pats at his suit pocket and pulls out his wallet. His bank card beeps against the machine in the back of the cab and he just about manages to shut the door properly when the driver does an illegal U-turn and fucks off.

Jokes on him if Jamie does die though. He hopes he spends hours being questioned by the police, face plastered across the front pages of the tabloids as the fuckwit who left Jamie Tartt to die.

He drags in a deep breath and immediately regrets it, his stomach seizing, and he turns back to the storm drain to vomit again. His stomach muscles ache when he’s done, finally this time, he thinks. Exhausted, he rests his temple against the edge of the pavement and wipes his mouth clean with the back of his arm. He’s not sure where his suit jacket and shirt have gone, only that he doesn’t have them any more but he does at least have a new tattoo, which he thinks is a decent trade.

Leaning in close so that the tip of his nose nearly touches the wing that stretches up the inside of his bicep, he misses the sound of footsteps approaching.

“What the fuck’re you doing on the ground?”

Jamie freezes, slowly turning his head to look up. Roy stands above him, the orange glow of the streetlamp wrapping around him, a deep frown set into his forehead.

“I’m drunk, ain’t I?”

“Jesus Christ,” Roy mutters. “Is that what you’ve been doing since you left Rebecca’s? Getting trashed? We’ve got a fucking match on Saturday.”

He kicks out at Roy’s ankles to stop him coming closer and doing something stupid like trying to help him to his feet. “Like you haven’t played wankered before, you fucking hippopotamus.”

“You mean hypocrite.”

“I said what I meant,” he argues, although he does think he meant hypocrite now that he thinks about it.

With a groan, he rolls onto his hands and knees and braces himself before staggering to his feet, pleased that he manages to do it without using Roy’s body as balance. He sways backwards and slaps Roy’s hand away when it moves to steady him.

“You—” he points at him even though his heart gives a funny little flop in his chest at how Roy looks like he’s been dragged up and down a pitch and then stomped on for good measure, “can fuck all the way off, yeah? Just—”

He blows a wet sound between his lips and flutters his hand down the street.

Roy squints at his arm. “Did you get a new tattoo?”

“Yeah, it’s a wing.” He twists to show it off. “Like one of them angel thingies that other players have. You know, for protection and shit because no one else is going to look out for me but me, right?”

Roy’s face twists, like Jamie’s hurt him, which is fucking rich if Jamie does say so himself. Which he doesn’t. But only because he thinks he’s about to throw up again.

“Jamie—” Roy begins only to falter as though he had driven all the way to Jamie’s without a plan in mind, which is fucking typical of him.

He falters and expects Jamie to pick up the threads he’s putting out and weave them into something real and solid, binding them together through Jamie’s effort alone. And only a day earlier Jamie would’ve grasped hold of what he was offering and twist them into shapes that made him happy, comforted by the fact that Roy’s giving him something to hold onto and find meaning in.

Unfortunately for him, Jamie’s done playing his game.

“Met someone tonight,” he says just to make him hurt like he does. “Fit lass. Called Ivy, I think.”

Roy’s mouth thins. “Oh?”

“Uh-huh.” He pushes forward on unsteady feet, brushing past Roy and making his way down the street using the low stone fences as support. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder, he refuses to, but his chest loses some of that painful tension that’s choking him when he hears Roy following him. “Lads said Keeley dumped you.”

“Yeah, she did,” Roy says to the back of his head, close enough that if he trips over his feet, he will be caught. “Definitely the messiest break up I’ve ever had.”

Jamie snorts and walks into a bush that’s been the subject of Mr O’Brian’s neighbourhood campaign against the family in Number 12. He sputters the leaves out of his mouth, thin branches scratching at his face, before he frees himself. Eyeballing the bush, he thinks about signing the petition to get it trimmed back that’s shoved ruthlessly through his letterbox three times a week just out of spite.

“Didn’t someone smear shit over your walls once?”

“That was physically messy,” Roy tells him, following him up the path to his front door. “And it was less public.”

“First time being broken up with at a funeral, there’s something.” He rests his forehead against his door, digging into his pockets for his keys. He slides his head, resting his weight against the door as he looks over his shoulder at Roy. “You’re not coming in. You’re fucking off. Don’t want you here.”

“Jamie,” Roy says, “we need to talk.”

He snorts. “That’s funny, Roy Kent wanting to talk. Should call the news. Get them to check if hell’s frozen over or something.”

The ring he’s wearing catches on the inside of his pocket. He fumbles as he tries to drag his keys out, grunting at the metal digging into his finger and he thumps about until his back’s to the door, scowling at Roy. It’s not fair. Roy's wearing his nicest shirt, the one that Jamie said hugs his body and makes him want to lick his abs. He forgets what he’s trying to do, eyes dragging over Roy as he sways on the spot.

“Is it true?”

Roy’s hands twitch as though he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Is what true?”

“You tried to dump her,” he says, “way back when. That first time. You went home and you...is it true?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s—that’s true.”

Jamie pulls his hand free, sucking the injured skin into his mouth only to immediately speak around it. “Why?”

“Because I fucking did, alright?”

“Oi.” He pushes off the door and jabs an angry finger in his general direction since he’s seeing two of Roy at the moment and he’s not sure which one’s real. “You don’t get to be a dick about this, not after everything. You didn’t just lie to her, you know?”

Roy glances away, eyes flicking over the hydrangea bushes under the window. “You never asked.”

“Oh, fuck right off, you fucking cunt.” He takes off his ring and lobs it at him, watching it bounce off Roy’s stupid chest and land in the palm that opens to catch it. He shoves his hands back into his pockets looking for his keys. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re such a—” he gets tangled up again, which is fucking stupid because he knows how pockets work. “You’ve been playing us both for right fools, haven’t you? Bet you fucking loved that.”

“Would you stop?” Roy’s in his space, fingers curling around his elbow to still his flailing arm. Jamie forgets how to breathe when Roy reaches into his right pocket, palm warm and firm along his side, and removes the keys that jingle lightly between them. “Here.”

Jamie snatches them from him and thunks his forehead against the door again. It takes him five tries to get the key in the lock, snarling when Roy tries to do it for him, and then he’s tipping into his house. Pulling off his shirt and kicking off his trousers without thought, he staggers into the bathroom his guests normally use and ducks his head beneath the tap to shock the alcohol from his system.

Stripping open a cheap pack of toothbrushes from Tesco’s, he squeezes too much toothpaste onto the bristles and nearly chokes as he scrubs the foul taste of vomit from his teeth, tongue, and the back of his throat. It takes a few rounds before his sinuses are alight with mint and there’s only a small hint of bile at the back of his throat.

He lingers, half hoping that Roy’s fucked off while he’s been busy, but when he leaves, he finds Roy in the kitchen with a glass of water waiting for him on the counter with two white paracetamol settled next to it. Roy’s by the sink, hands in the pockets of his jacket, leaning back against it and looking at his feet, though his gaze shifts as soon as Jamie walks in.

“What’re you even doing here, man?”

Roy’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Where else would I go?”

“How about your own fucking home?” He’s suddenly exhausted, shoulders dipping with the weight of it, and he rubs his eyes. “You can’t just turn up after everything and expect me to—I don’t fucking know. What d’you even want from me?”

Roy nods at the water on the counter. “Drink that.”

“Fuck you.” He drinks it anyway, letting the sounds of him swallowing it down fill the room before he sets the glass down heavily. “Seriously, why the fuck are you here? Are you trying to torture me or something?”

“Course I’m fucking not,” Roy grunts, pulling his hands from his pockets, fingers flexing. “You left.”

It tugs at Jamie’s ear, a soft sound of hurt that enrages him.

“What?”

“You left,” he repeats. “The funeral. You just left.”

Jamie stares at him, shaking his head slowly. “Are you fucking with me? Course I left. What was I going to do, wait for you two to finish having it out? I never fucking wanted to be in the middle of the two of you. I said that right from the start, and I weren’t about to hang out downstairs listening to you screaming at each other.”

“You were coming over for dinner,” Roy tells him.

“You can’t be this thick.” He’s furious and drunk and he wants to go up to Manchester and curl up on the sofa with Mummy while Simon potters about instead of standing in his kitchen in his underwear with Roy fucking Kent. “D’you have any idea what it felt like to realise you’ve been sneaking around with me? I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been playing at but you’ve been using me—you and Keeley both have and it’s fucking shit.”

Roy’s jaw works. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He pivots, loses his balance, and Roy’s hands shoot out to catch him. His touch burns a brand on Jamie’s skin that he jerks away from. “Look, I get it. I started this, right? I’m the one who pushed that first time but then you and Keeley both came to me after and made it a thing. You were both using me to, I don’t know, fix your relationship or whatever. You didn’t think about me. Didn’t fucking think about how I’d feel.”

Roy looks away, frowning. Jamie’s stomach twists, painfully.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“That’s not—” Roy looks at him, sharp and strong. “Maybe it was at first. But that’s not how it is now. Fuck, Jamie, you know it’s not.”

“I thought I did,” he says. “I fucking hoped. But you’ve been—you kept giving me just enough to keep me on the hook, didn’t you? Being my friend, hanging out, going on fucking dates that weren’t dates, introducing me to Phoebe and Molly. You knew what you were doing and you didn’t fucking care it was hurting me.”

“I was—” Roy cuts himself off, frustrated. “I just wanted to spend some time with you without having a knock down fight when I saw her, you prick.”

“You could’ve broken up with her,” he argues. “If you wanted me so much that you were sneaking around behind her back without fucking me? You could’ve broken it off.”

“I tried—”

Jamie snatches the paracetamol off the counter and lobs them at Roy, missing him as they sail past either side of his head to skitter into the sink and beneath the toaster. At least it shuts Roy up though, the silence a welcome sound after his blathering.

“You’re Roy fucking Kent,” he reminds him, low and angry with far too much emotion coating his throat for his comfort. “You could’ve ended it if you wanted, but you didn’t. So you lied to her and you played me about. I mean, what even was it? When did you tell her you ended it?”

“No,” he says, like a twat. “Jamie, c’mon—”

He cuts him off with a sharp, “when?”

Roy glares at him, shoulders tight, before he says, “morning after Wembley.”

That knowledge slides through him, a knife tip pressing against the tender muscle of his heart, and he stands there, trying to figure out what it means. When he fails, he asks another question.

“Why?”

“Because she—”

“Not why you lied,” he interrupts. “Why then? Why after that night?”

Roy scrubs a hand over his beard. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it does.” He wants to turn his back on Roy and never see him again. He wants to close the distance between them and press his forehead into the crook of his neck. He grips the counter instead. “Why then?”

“No.” Roy shakes his head. “You’re too drunk for this. I don’t want to be talking about this shit when you won’t remember it in the morning.”

“Fuck you,” Jamie snaps. “Just fuck you, Roy.”

“Look, go to bed, I’ll make breakfast in the morning, and we can—”

“I fucked someone tonight.” It comes out of his mouth because he doesn’t want to listen to a single thing Roy’s got to say, because his skin’s crawling from the touch of Maybe-Ivy’s hands and her mouth against his neck, and because there’s a part of him that wants to burn this thing between them out of existence. If it’s broken beyond repair, he might finally be free. “Ivy. I fucked her.”

Roy freezes, the hurt splashed across his face obvious for Jamie to see.

There’s a vicious stab of satisfaction beneath the pain that courses through his ribcage before the guilt sets in. He hadn’t felt good about it at the time when he was lifting Maybe-Ivy onto the sink in the bathroom and parting her legs to dip his hand between her thighs, and he doesn’t feel great about it now.

“Right,” is what Roy manages to say once the silence has stretched to breaking point. Furious and trying not to be, he rubs a hand over the back of his head and clenches the other by his side “Fine. Okay.”

“Was good,” he continues. “She was well fit. Came up to me and had me buy her a drink.”

“Jamie.”

“Took her into the bathroom at the club,” he says, a sick pleasure at the anger burning through Roy building in his chest. “Kicked the door shut behind us. Haven’t been kissed like that in a long time. Like she was fucking starving for me.”

“Jamie.” His name’s spoken on a low growl, a warning. “Stop.”

“But it’s all fine, innit? It’s not like we’re—”

The world spins when Roy sinks his fingers into the top of the elastic band of his boxers. He’s pulled forward until he’s crashing into Roy’s chest and then pushed back into the sharp edge of the counter.

He turns dizzy with how turned on it makes him. Jutting his chin up, stomach brushing against the backs of Roy’s knuckles, he flashes a dare that never fails to infuriate anyone he’s on the pitch against. Waiting for the kiss or the knuckles he’s going to get to his mouth, he’s left wrong footed when Roy lifts his free hand and rubs his thumb against the corner of Jamie’s mouth, rubbing away a small stain of toothpaste he’d missed.

There’s so much tenderness to the touch that it rocks through him, pushing him to the edge of tears.

“Roy,” he murmurs, exhausted and wanting to rewind the day until it’s just him and Roy lying in bed together, talking about shit and laughing at nothing. “Why’re you doing this?”

“I think about you,” Roy tells him.

He stares. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

“What—?” He tries to clear the haze from his mind. “What sort of things d’you think about?”

And the thing is, Roy’s fucking shit with words. He’s so tightly wound and repressed from a lifetime of not being loved properly by his parents, from losing his granddad and not being able to grieve that words don’t come easily to him. Except, sometimes, they do.

Like right now.

“The way you smell.” Roy leans in so slowly that Jamie holds his breath until Roy’s nose settles beneath his ear, chest expanding with the deep breath he takes. “The sounds you make when I’ve got my hands on you.”

The fingers holding onto his underwear loosens, settling on his hip instead as the other rises to cup the back of his neck.

“How you look when you’re talking about shit,” Roy carries on in a quiet murmur that washes over his skin and makes him shudder. “What new rabbit hole you’ve fallen down on Wikipedia this week. The fact you know how to do shit like sorting out pipes and knowing how to change oil in a car.”

“It’s not that hard,” he rasps, breathless.

“Just fucking think about you, don’t I?”

He moans, soft and unbidden, and Roy makes a small sound in his throat before their noses are dragging against the other and then—

Jamie surges into the kiss, hands rising to cup Roy’s face between his palms as his body melts against his. This is what he wants. This is what he was missing in the club. He just wants this—Roy’s mouth, Roy’s body, Roy’s fucking heart. Just this for the rest of his life. And he trembles like a sapling in a storm when Roy’s tongue spills into his mouth, tugging him closer. Stubble scratching at his cheek, he shifts to make space for Roy between his legs.

God he wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything. Long before he wanted football, he wanted Roy, and now he’s got him and it’s—

—it’s all wrong.

Roy makes a wanting sound that rocks straight through Jamie and settles in his cock. He slips his hands from Roy’s face, plants them on his chest, and pushes.

“No.”

Roy stares, mouth holding the shape of their kiss, confused. “What?”

“No,” he repeats, the word feeling good and weighty in his mouth. It hurts but he hasn’t felt so settled in ages, and it’s like the alcohol slides from his system as he grounds himself in doing what’s right for him. “I deserve better than this.”

“Jamie.” Roy’s mouth moves, eyebrows furrowing in confusion and hurt. “I thought—”

“I know,” he says because he does, he knows exactly how Roy thought this night was going to go but he can’t do this anymore. “But I deserve better than being your second choice because Keeley’s done with you. You need to leave.” Roy opens his mouth to protest. “Now.”

He’s not sure what he’ll do if Roy refuses. All he can do is hope that he doesn’t, holding his ground with a dry mouth dry and a thundering heart as he stares at Roy who holds onto that look of confusion of hurt that will follow Jamie around for weeks.

But Roy nods.

“Yeah, okay.” Roy takes a step back and passes a hand over his mouth. He looks like he wants to say more only to shake his head. “Drink some more water before you go to bed. I—” he pauses and digs his hands into his pockets. “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow. At the club.”

Jamie nods, not trusting himself to speak, and Roy lingers as though waiting for him to be told to stay instead, to take him up on the offer of breakfast and a talk. When nothing leaves Jamie’s mouth, he clears his throat and takes a step back, moving stiffly until he’s at the front door and then out into the night.

He doesn’t move, waiting until the sound of Roy’s car fills the silence a minute later, and then, with the flash of Roy’s headlights passing over him as he pulls out of the drive and away, he’s alone.

*

Jamie manages to avoid a group ambush by timing his arrival to exactly one minute before everyone has to leave the dressing room and get out onto the pitch. He shoulders his bag and steps into the room that falls so silent it’s as though all the sound’s been sucked from the world. Even Lasso and Beard pause to stare at him, Nate rolling his eyes and turning back to the whiteboard as though Jamie’s drama is the least interesting thing that’s happened at Richmond, which is a fucking lie because it’s not like they’re City where there’s shit going down every other day but at least it’s one extra set of eyes off him. Ignoring Roy who’s framed in the door to the coach’s office, Jamie crosses to his locker and tugs his shirt off.

He can practically feel the rapid eye communication going on behind him as the team tries to figure out what to do when Zorro says loudly, tripping over the words in his rush to get them out, “Greece! That’s where I’m going after the season’s over. Greece. Colin?”

“Oh—I—Wales, boyo.”

“That’s dead boring,” Arlo complains, the tension leaking from the room as the lads try their best to make it not awkward. They fail but that’s not on them. “You go to Wales all the time. You should come with me to Ibiza.”

“You go to Ibiza all the time,” Jeff points out. “I’m off to Thailand myself.”

A laugh rolls through the team, and Jamie’s shoulders climb down from his ears as he turns his head to say, “that’s exotic for you, mate. Chantelle’s choice?”

There’s a beat at the sound of his voice, a wavering of all the knowledge that they gleaned from Roy and Keeley’s breakup. Jeff’s a good lad though, one who kept in touch when Jamie was sent back to City and even reached out after Lust Conquers All, and he pushes forward through the awkwardness.

“Course it is. I wanted to go to Australia to see the kangaroos and stuff but she said we’ve got to give the kids culture while they’re young and shit.” A helpless shrug rolls through Jeff’s shoulders. “I tried telling her there’s culture in Australia but she wasn’t listening.”

Dani dips his body into a deep lunge, stretching his thigh muscles with a smile on his face. “I am going home to Mexico where there is much culture and no boredom. And there is my abuela’s chiles en nogada also. I have missed that very much.”

Jamie pulls on the rest of his training kit and glances at his reflection in the small mirror he hung up when he came back, checking his hair and passing his thumb under his left eye in the hope of rubbing the dark shadow of a bad night's sleep away. At Lasso’s cheerful instructions, the team starts to troop out. Not wanting to be caught at the back and face having to make conversation with Roy or worse Ted, he shoulders his way into the middle of the lads and leans into Sam just a little, taking comfort in the warm hand that rests between his shoulders briefly.

Busy as he is making sure he avoids eye contact with Roy, he glances at Isaac and freezes at the serious look on his face that sends a shiver racing across his skin. He wishes Isaac wouldn’t take being captain as seriously as he does since he realises that there’s no avoiding the conversation Isaac’s got planned for them, not unless he does something drastic like break a leg.

And, right now, that doesn’t seem like the worst idea in the world.

A sharp scream from Beard’s whistle cuts through the babble of conversation that dies off, Ted rocking on the balls of his feet, moustache bristling with energy. “Thank you, coach.”

Beard nods, silent as ever even though his eyes linger for a beat too long on Jamie.

“Since we missed a day yesterday for the funeral, which you all looked mighty handsome for if I do say so, we’re going to be working our cabooses extra hard today to make sure that we’re the Douglas to Brentford’s Tyson,” Ted says, cheerfully, confusing all of them. Dani’s head cocks to one side, confused, and Colin raises a hand. “Yes, my Welsh friend?”

Colin verbalises their confusion neatly with a simple, “who to the who?”

Ted blinks as though surprised another one of his references fell flat. “I guess boxing’s not all that popular on this side of the pond now, is it?”

Jamie lifts his face to the sky, examining the clouds that slowly drift overhead. It’s at times like these that he really misses Pep.

A heavy clap on the shoulder, Isaac’s broad palm coming down, makes him jump. He’s in motion before Isaac says anything to him, hurrying out onto the pitch to run suicides until his lungs are burning and his legs feel like jelly when he takes a bottle of sports drink from Will who gives him such a sympathetic smile that Jamie wants to leave and never come back. A morning of intense training where he puts his head down and focuses gives him a few hours of peace and quiet, losing himself in the routine of work that never fails to clear his mind, helps to keep all his miserable feelings at bay.

But when they break for lunch and various appointments with the club’s staff, Isaac’s waiting for him so he can piss all over his hard won zen.

“Bruv,” is all it takes for Jamie to tense up and freeze in front of his locker. “Let’s go.”

He turns his head, smoothing out his face. “What for?”

“Oh dear,” Sam mutters behind him while someone, and Jamie will put fucking money on it being Sasha, the absolute wanker, snorts.

“Bruv.” Isaac’s tone allows for no room to wriggle free. “Move it.”

“But I’m hungry,” he complains.

“Move.”

Jamie’s shoulders slump and he troops out of the room, hoping that someone will rescue him from this conversation. Not a single one of his teammates does anything to help him, throwing him apologetic looks since no one wants to have a one-on-one with Isaac when he’s got his captain’s hat on. At least Roy just snarled and barked as captain, tossing in the occasional headbutt for variety; Isaac has to have a proper sit-down chat like he’s read an article on how to be the best captain he can be and it’s awkward and horrible and actually helpful, which is probably the worst thing of all.

Isaac moves, stiff and uncomfortable, into the boot room where Will pauses, holding the laundry to his chest.

“Er—should I—?” A sock flaps in the direction of the door.

“Cheers, yeah,” Isaac says, waiting until Will’s skirted around Jamie with wide eyes before he steels himself. Jamie should’ve stayed out of football—moved back to Manchester and gone to uni like Mummy suggested—because this is fucking rubbish. “Right. Jamie.”

“Do we have to do this?” The whine that lilts his voice sends heat rushing across his cheeks. “It’s all good, mate.”

Isaac’s eyes narrow until Jamie falls silent, pushing at the floor with the loose toe of his sock that slips down his calf.

“Got to ask you this, not doing my job if I don’t,” he says, and it’s a small comfort that he sounds like he’d rather be anywhere else but there too. “You and Roy—” Jamie doesn’t catch the groan that slips from him. Isaac ignores him. “We’ve all had those coaches, yeah? The ones who’re too handsy when showing you have it’s done. Roy—the two of you fucking hate each other. Hated, whatever. So I’ve got to check...he didn’t—?”

It takes a long moment for Jamie to realise what he’s being asked. When it hits him, every inch of skin burns bright red with mortification and a press of anger.

“What the fuck?”

“Did he tell you he’d only train you if you…” Isaac trails off, not wanting to talk about Roy and his cock like this, which Jamie fucking gets because Jesus fucking Christ, it’s not sexy at all . “You can tell me, yeah? I’ll sort it out for you.”

Jamie manages to look everywhere but at Isaac. “That’s not—it weren’t like that.”

“He’s your coach.”

“Yeah, but he’s Roy Kent, isn’t he?” A quick glance shows confusion gripping Isaac’s face, and he swallows down a heavy sigh. “C’mon, man. Like you wouldn’t suck his cock if you were given the chance.”

Isaac stares. “I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be a twat, course you would,” he argues.

“I’m not gay.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Maybe Isaac’s taken one too many balls to the head, that’s the only explanation for this. “It’s Roy.”

Isaac blinks in quick succession. “That’s worse.”

“How?” Baffled, he stands up straighter. “He’s Roy fucking Kent. He won the League a thousand times, best midfielder this century, and a fucking legend to boot, even though he’s a grumpy old twat. Why wouldn’t you want to fuck him?”

“Because I’m not gay,” Isaac repeats, slowly this time, like Jamie’s thick.

“That doesn’t mean shit because it’s Roy,” he snaps. “Jesus, mate.”

“Alright, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Isaac looks to the ceiling, searching for divine intervention, before he focuses on Jamie again. “I only wanted to fucking check and make sure he hadn’t been fucking about with coaching to get you to do shit. Forgot you were a fanboy.”

“We’re all fanboys,” he reminds him.

“Not like—.” Isaac cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Don’t know what went down with you, him, and Keeley. Know it’s messy though. If it gets messy in training, tell me, yeah? I’ll sort it out, no muss no fuss.”

Jamie nods, a flicker of appreciation seeping through him even though he doubts he’ll need it. Roy’s been a cunt for years and it’ll never be as shit as his loan season, but it’s nice to know Isaac’s got his back. It makes him feel like he’s properly part of the team again.

“Alright, yeah, got it,” he says, fists pulling at the bottom of his shirt. “’preciate it, skip.”

Isaac clears his throat, muscles in his arms unclenching. “Right, good. Don’t worry about the lads, they’re not going to say shit.”

“Too afraid of Roy?”

“They’re def not afraid of you, bruv.”

Jamie flashes a grin and opens his mouth only for Isaac to make a sound. It shuts him up before he says anything, and Isaac knocks their shoulders together as he pulls on the door. He appreciates that Isaac’s a man of few words, feeling better despite the discomfort, and he has about seven seconds of peace before he steps out of the boot room and is nearly bowled over by Keeley.

Teetering on her tall heels, she nearly topples over when she bounces off Jamie’s bulk. He reaches out, instinct guiding his hands to her arms, catching her and making sure she’s got her feet under her before their brains catch up with their reality at the same time.

“Oh.” Keeley’s mouth thins, the eyes wide with surprise and hurt set above dark smudges her make up’s failing to hide. “Jamie.”

Isaac at his back putting out heat like a furnace, making no move to inch around Jamie, committing himself to literally having his back, and it gives Jamie the strength to not storm off. He’s furious at Roy but he’s also pissed at Keeley for dangling him like a toy in front of Roy to play.

The guilt he holds over being the one to start this is tempered by how much both Roy and Keeley have fucked him over in the dying throes of their relationship.

“Hey,” he says, useless. “You—how are you?”

He definitely didn’t mean to ask that, and her expression flattens.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, wet anger slicking her voice. “I can’t believe you’re asking me how I am like you haven’t been sneaking around with my boyfriend. So fuck you, Jamie.”

“Oi!” Anger licks at him, Isaac’s knuckles pressing into the small of his back with a warning he chooses to ignore. “There weren’t no sneaking around. You knew what was going on. Not my fault Roy lied to you at the end.”

She flushes, angry. “How dare you?”

“You don’t get to be pissed at me when you’re the one who made this into a fucking thing,” he bites out, fingers curling into his palm and digging his nails into the flesh there. “You came to mine as some sort of weird fucking test for Roy instead of speaking to him like a normal person.”

“You don’t get to take the high ground!” Keeley’s voice rises into a pitch. The door to the dressing room opens, and Beard appears, framed in it. His eyes take in the scene, a nod bouncing his chin towards his chest, before he disappears while the door swings shut. “You sucked his cock when you knew he was with me.”

Isaac’s knuckles dig agony into his lower back. “He could’ve said no.”

The truth of his words fall sharp and heavy between them, scraping through their nerves as it settles at their feet. No matter how much they’ve hurt each other, this is what it comes down to when the dust’s settled and they’re left examining the wounds they’ve inflicted.

Roy could’ve said no.

That he didn’t is something Jamie doesn’t understand and neither does Keeley if the way her teeth clack together when she snaps her mouth shut is anything to go by.

“Oi.” It’s soft, less aggressive than usual, and he and Keeley both look back to the dressing room where Roy’s standing. Beard’s visible over his shoulder taking a bite of his sandwich, entranced by what’s happening in front of him. “What’s going on?”

Neither of them speak and Isaac turns, pretending to examine the paint on the doorframe like it’s his favourite hobby. Roy’s eyes flicker between them, stepping closer, only for Keeley to straighten, her head shooting up and back so fast Jamie jerks back against Isaac to stop from catching it on his chin.

“Fuck off, Roy.” Her anger is hotter and crueller than anything she’s directed at Jamie. It stills Roy in his tracks, a lost look passing across his face before its locked down into the strong lines that rarely waver. “The two of you deserve each other.”

She leaves them with the echo of her heels against the ground, the doors at the end of the corridor swinging open under the force of her push, and Jamie feels like he’s played a full ninety in a storm with rain lashing hard and unforgiving against his face. He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, and Roy’s still there, looking at him.

“What? What the fuck do you want?” Jamie demands, irritation swelling in his chest. Without waiting for a response, he turns to Isaac who’s watching them with a heavy silence. “Lunch, mate?”

Isaac nods at him and then at Roy before he pushes Jamie forward, forcing his legs into motion. With Roy’s eyes burning against the back of him, he releases the breath that lodged itself deep in his chest with the first hint of Keeley and comforts himself with the fact that, at least, he’s the one who gets to leave this time.

*

Two weeks later, they secure promotion and it's like they've won the Championship.

A spray of champagne hits Jamie square in the face the second he stumbles into the dressing room. He staggers back, laughing and dripping, opening his mouth to try and at least get some inside but he’s jostled from behind by his teammates and drapes himself over Sasha’s back instead.

“We are going up, we are going up! We are going up, we are going up!”

Sweaty and exhausted, he’s riding high on their victory. One season in the Championship and they’re already back up top. It feels fucking brilliant, and even as deep as they are inside the facilities, the joy and excitement of the Richmond faithful’s celebration remains audible. He sways when Sasha moves, laughing right into Dani’s mouth when his friend appears from nowhere to wrestle him back off Sasha and kiss him hard on the mouth, the shadows of Earl’s death finally lifted from his eyes.

“Buy me a drink first, mate!”

“Fútbol is life, my friend. ¡La vida!” Dani smacks another kiss, to his forehead this time, and then he’s off dancing, punching the air as he sings in Spanish. “¡Su-bi-mos! ¡Su-bi-mos!”

Grabbing a bottle from one of the many buckets dotted about the room, he pops the cork and seals his mouth over the neck, tipping it back. All around him there’s ecstatic celebration: Will’s perched on top of Declan and Bhargava’s shoulders while Sam’s held strong and firm under Isaac’s arm as they pass a bottle between them, cheeks looking like they hurt from grinning so much. And then there’s Ted, who looks like he’s crying into his moustache he’s so proud, standing beneath where the BELIEVE sign’s obviously fallen off in the excitement.

Ms Welton inches in through the door, smiling from ear to ear, and a cheer goes up at the sight of her. Jamie falls back, blending into the mess of his teammates as best he can when Keeley slips in after her, linking their arms together with a bright, beaming smile. It falters when she sees Jamie and threatens to disappear altogether when she catches sight of Roy caught up between Colin and Gareth, mouth and beard wet from the champagne he’s had poured down his throat.

There’s no time to feel like shit though as Isaac breaks away from Sam and uses Jamie as a vault to jump onto the bench.

“Oi!” Isaac catches everyone’s attention, captain that he is. “We fucking did it!”

It’s so loud Ms Welton claps her hands over her ears, laughing with dazed delight. Jamie seizes the opportunity to drink his champagne down, letting the bubbles run a path down his throat and turn the world a little fuzzy around the edges in the best possible way. As he lowers it and wipes at his mouth, he makes eye contact with Roy. He freezes, the strength of his want threatening to knock him over. He wants to throw the bottle down, cross the room, and bury himself against Roy’s heat that he’s missed the last two weeks. He wants to press him against the wall and lick into his mouth with his fingers spread across the furry plane of his stomach.

He wants Roy back, and he hates himself just a little for that. Swallowing hard, he tears his eyes from Roy to look up at Isaac who’s shining with the sweat cooling on his skin, champagne dripping off his left ear.

“We’re heading out and fucking celebrating this! Captain’s orders!”

“On me,” Ms Welton quickly adds to the excitement of the team.

A loud cheer shakes the room, loud, bright, and happy, drunk on their success. Isaac braces himself against Jamie’s back and jumps down, knocking their foreheads together before disappearing back into the team. Swallowing another mouthful, Jamie grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it off over his head, the air cool on his sweaty skin.

Since they’re going out, he needs to head home and get himself properly decked out. He doesn’t have any decent club clothes with him, at least nothing he’d be willing to be papped in tonight—his emergency club outfit won’t work.

Quickly fumbling out of his boots and socks, he shucks his shorts. If he’s fast, he can be in and out of the shower before the rest of the team get in there. Last year he got O’Gara’s elbow to his eye in their celebrations because he wasn’t able to shower fast enough to avoid the party spilling into the shower. And he might not like to shower alone, but he still enjoys a bit of space to scrub at his delicate bits.

He yanks his towel out of his cubby as Jack and Tom take hold of Will and turn him upside down, chug, chug, chug rising up from the lads when Jeff puts some champagne close to Will’s mouth. He flips the towel over his shoulder and startles when a white envelope flies out and skitters under the laundry basket. Glancing over to Will whose feet are wriggling in the air as he does a stunning job of kegging the champagne, he drops to a crouch and shoves his hand under the basket to grab the envelope, opening it and—

“What the fuck?”

A plane ticket.

A one-way ticket to Marbella leaving in six days with his name printed in small black letters so he can’t think it’s someone else’s.

And there on a small yellow post-it note stuck in the corner is Roy’s shit handwriting that's squeezed so closely together Jamie thinks he needs to get Moe’s magnifying glass to read it. Except it’s clear enough that his heart flips over and his stomach bottoms out with a pathetic bloom of hope.

Please come.