Chapter Text
Eleven months ago, Roy Kent squinted through a driving rain and watched one of his players land with all his weight on his right arm. Eleven months ago, he held the kid's hand in an ambulance and threw up at the sight of him in a hospital bed. Eleven months ago, he grabbed that same hand and led him out of a dark house and began teaching him that an injury isn't a death sentence, just a change in direction.
Today, Roy Kent gets to tell Jamie Tartt that he will be playing for the England National Team this summer.
It's enough to make a grown man have a feeling.
* * *
It's April. Richmond are sitting near the top of the table, just behind Liverpool and City. Jamie is scoring goal after goal. He's had the Goal of the Week a few times, and he's been Premier League Player of the Month twice, even if Roy says one of those times was just because he showed up with an operational right arm.
(He knows Roy was proud.)
Still, everyone was acting truly bizarre at training today. Throwing him all these sideways glances and smiling when his back was turned. He thinks Dani almost said something in the changing room when they were done, but managed, somehow, to hold back whatever words he was going to say.
In any event, Jamie is truly weirded out. He ponders this as he locks his car and walks up to his front door, trying to think of any dickhead moves he could've made recently. He can't remember anything, which is a good thing, he thinks. He resolves to confront Dani tomorrow and pry the truth out of him.
There's a box, and a thin white envelope on top. He bends down, squints at them.
Holy fuck.
That's the England crest, on that envelope. That's the what the national team wears on their shirts.
He has never unlocked his house so fast.
* * *
As soon he throws his bag onto the bench in the entryway and tosses his keys in the bowl, he's tearing the envelope open. He knows that crest. Would know it with his eyes shut, would know it blindfolded, would know it in every world. He's worn the red and white a few times, under-16, under-19, but this - this is the senior team. This is England.
The letter trembles in his shaking hands. He squints at the tiny type. He ain't a good reader, never has been, but this is too important. He wills the letters into place on the page, forces the words to stay still.
England. Call-up. Congratulations. St. George's Park. Southgate. Looking forward to ... competing ... hard work. Congratulations again.
He drops the paper on the table. Sits down. Cries. He made it. A year later than he wanted, but he made it. England. He's going to play for England.
Then he thinks: Roy. Where would he be without him? Roy, who walked into Jamie's house last May when he thought the world was ending around him. Roy, who took his hand and brought him home. Who spent hours upon hours with him, coaching his footwork and his shot, making him better than he ever thought he could be.
"Roy," he yells into the phone as soon as Roy accepts the call. "Roy, I got called up. I made it. I did it."
The other line is silent for a moment. Then Roy speaks, voice choked with uncharacteristic emotion. "I know. Congratulations, Jamie."
"I got the letter. England. Wait. You knew?"
"Ted told me yesterday. They call the gaffer first. We were waiting for you to find out. Fucking awful, that was. But yeah. You did it. You made it."
"I'm going to play for England."
"Yes, you - hey, Keels, listen to this - Jamie got called up. What? No, I am not having a laugh, he fucking did it."
Jamie can hear Keeley's delighted shout from the other end of the phone. He smiles.
Roy's still talking. "I know. It's fucking incredible. Jamie, you're going to be fucking brilliant, you know that? You're gonna light them all up. Fuck. I'm so proud of you."
Jamie chokes out a half-sob, half laugh. "You made me better. I wouldn't have - fuck, Roy, I might not even be here without you."
"Shut the fuck up," Roy grunts. "I just pulled your head out of your arse, you did the rest. You worked so fucking hard. We all saw it. You're gonna play for England."
"I know. I know, holy fuck. I can feel my pulse in my eyes."
"Took them long enough. I could've fucking - two years ago, you were good enough. Jesus. You are going to be so fucking good. George is going to have an utter stroke, the old wanker. He's going to be so pissed. Fuck. This has made my year."
Jamie knows he's got a stupid, dopey grin on his face, but he can't find the energy to care. He's gonna play for England.
Roy hangs up with one last, "holy fucking shit," and Jamie drops his face to the table. His shoulders shake. Eleven months. He's waited for this day for eleven months. Ever since he stared at the rain in Tottenham, pain screaming up and down his arm, blood in his eyes, knowing any chance of a summer call-up was over.
Eleven months later, he's holding the letter he's waited for his whole life.
He picks up the box. It's taped shut, Sharpie on the top reading - FOR JAMIE, LOVE THE HOUNDS. He grabs a pair of scissors from a cabinet and slices it open. Inside is a ball, and a note. He looks at the note first.
Jamie -
This is the match ball from Tottenham last May. Beard saved it. He's kept it since then, waiting for a good time to give it to you. Figured your call-up would be a good time. I told Roy and the team last night, and they got it ready real quick. We hope the ball reminds you of this great day, and not that night at Spurs.
Congratulations, kiddo.
- Ted
He lifts the ball out of the tissue paper.
They've signed it. Jamie's put his signature on a million footballs. The quick, almost illegible strokes come like second nature now. This one is different. There's all these little notes. He recognizes the handwriting. One of us - Isaac. way to go boyo - Colin. Richmond till we die, you're the best - Dani. All of them. Even Will Kitman.
He rolls the ball around in his hands. Can feel the weight of it on his foot, where it was the moment his life changed. He reads the messages over and over again, searching for the two that mean most to him.
There.
Good lad - Roy.
Plus a fucking smiley face. Roy's such a dork.
Congratulations, J. You are so loved. - Ted
He cradles the ball to his chest all the way upstairs, where he sets it on his bedside table. So it can be the last thing he sees at night, and the first thing he sees in the morning. A tangible reminder of all the people who think he's worth keeping around. A reminder of his call-up. The best day of his life.
* * *
AFC Richmond
@afcrichmond
Another call-up! @jtartt9 earns his first selection to the @england National Team. Congratulations and good luck, Jamie - we'll be rooting for you back home!
coach (17:03): Boy that was one hell of a secret to keep. Congrats, J. Well earned and well deserved. I hear this is a real big deal. Very proud of you - no doubt in my mind you'll be great.
Roy Kent
@rk6
I see England finally realized what the rest of us have already known. Congratulations J. Be great.
roy kent!! (17:17) Welcome to England. Don't back down if they give you shit. You worked harder than anyone that will be out on that pitch. Be the man we know you are.
roy kent!! (16:17): Always proud.
* * *
His phone is absolutely blowing up with texts, and mentions, and DMs. From his best mates, from random blokes on Twitter. Everyone congratulating him, saying they're proud, telling him they can't wait to watch him play for England.
He knows it's gonna be hard work to earn playing time. Knows the talent on that roster, the boys that are stacked ahead of him. Knows people are saying he may never come all the way back from his injury (what the fuck, he's scored like thirty goals this year) or ever score for England. He ain't worried, though. Eleven months ago, he was on his back in the rain at Spurs with his arm shattered and face bleeding. He's been proving people wrong his whole life. What's one more time?
And besides. What really matters is that Ted, and Roy, the lads - he knows there ain't a doubt in their minds they'll be watching him put balls in the net wearing the Three Lions crest. That's the opinions he cares about, not the ones of some fucking random City supporters on Twitter.
He believes in the people who know him best, the people who surround him on his best days and his worst ones too. The people that saw him at his lowest, at his most prickish, and never stopped working to draw out the man they knew he could be. The people who saved a match ball from the worst day of his life, held onto it until the best day of his life, and delivered it back to him with its meaning forever changed.
He believes in the constant support of his best mates. In Roy's quiet, steady pride. In Ted's great, unceasing love.
jamie (20:02): i get it now coach.
loved by coach at 20:03
coach (20:05): We love you, Jamie.
jamie (20:05): i believe.
* * *
One day, you're ten, signing your first contract, and your dad hits you bloody blue because you wrote your E's backwards, and what kind of footballer can't spell his own name proper, Jesus wept, Jamie, it ain't that fucking hard. And you're ten, and you can't tell him that hand to God, you thought all the letters were the right way round when you put down the pen, 'cause you don't want to be called "useless fucking stupid shit" on the day you sign your first ever contract.
One day you're nineteen, making your senior team debut at the Etihad, and you hope the roaring crowd can't see how much you hate yourself. 'Cause you know no matter how many minutes you play or goals you score, you still ain't gonna be worth anything to the team or to Dad. No matter what you're still going home to an empty flat, empty bed, the permanent sick feeling in your chest, Jamie, no one in this world is ever gonna love you.
One day you're twenty-three, on loan to a bottom of the table side, getting into changing room punchups with your childhood hero, 'cause it's easier than having him see you scared, see you as the lonely little boy your dad still makes you feel like. 'Cause your dad's also taught you that shoved-down feelings on the inside can only reach the outside as red-hot anger and flying fists. And you hate yourself, because it makes it easier when the others hate you, 'cause they ain't telling you anything you don't already know.
One day, you're twenty-six. You're twenty-six, and you've loved and been loved, and your dad was so, so wrong. You're twenty-six, and you have friends who would love you if you scored a hundred goals or none at all. You got a gaffer who makes you feel like the most important person in the world every day. Your hero is your coach now, and he's your friend, and you're mentor, and he's so fucking proud of you, and he tells you all the time, even though you don't think you could ever forget.
You're twenty-six, and you believe.