Chapter Text
His father loved playing darts. Ted loved playing darts too. For six years, he loved it.
For twenty some years after he hated the game, didn’t want to get within a country mile of a board. Then came Henry, who took some of the sting out of remembering Sunday afternoons and barbeque sauce. Henry just wanted to be a part of what Ted was doing, whatever it was. He played darts again and reveled in Henry’s smile when his dad landed three tips in the red eye. Reveled even more when Henry was the one to land those points.
He thinks sometimes that playing darts is a lot like coaching, because sports metaphors are great, but sports metaphors about other sports are even better. You can do a lot when the dart is in your hand, sure, check it’s straight and balanced, get your grip right, relax your shoulders and wait for that moment right after an exhale to let it fly. Once it’s gone though, it’s gone. No take backs or changing anything after it’s in the air.
Same thing he told Henry about coaching. He can give all kinds of advice to his players, put them through the drills he thinks they need most. Tell them what he thinks they need to hear, to get their heads in the right place. Talk to Beard and Nate and Roy about formations and lineups. Once his guys are on the pitch, though, it’s out of his hands.
It’s too bad, really, that you can’t turn back the clock to the moment before the dart leaves your hand, or the whistle blows. Too bad he can’t go back to the beginning of today, to erase the sting of this depressing loss and do all the things they did wrong during the match right this time. Can’t go back to before the past few minutes, when he and all of AFC Richmond stood around like deer in the headlights while Jamie’s dad gave the whole team a front row seat to a show Jamie’s been starring in for a long time.
Too bad he can’t go back decades. He’d like to go back to that house, yellow siding and white trim, with the overgrown silver maple that turned the front yard into a sea of gold and red and brown in the fall. He’d like to go back to that house, and that basement, before everything broke so damn awful. He wants to walk down the stairs a few moments before he actually did. He wants to peek his head into the basement and see his father picking out a record to set on the old turntable that his mom made them put down there instead of the living room so she could have some peace and quiet in the evenings. He wants to walk into the room, ask his dad to play Zeppelin II. He wants to pretend to be the Page to his dad’s Plant, play air guitar through Whole Lotta Love.
Mostly, he just wants to see his dad’s face again. And he doesn’t want to remember standing there at the bottom of the stairs, fingers still on that brass doorknob, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Because it’s another son he sees standing here right now, even younger than Jamie looks, mouth half open not in horror but confusion. A second away from taking a few steps forward to shake his father’s shoulder, like he’s just taking a nap on the couch on a Saturday afternoon between college games.
It’s not his father on the ground, though. It’s Jamie’s. And it wasn’t a bullet that put him there. It was Jamie’s right hand, still curled in a loose fist by his side. And it’s not the paramedics who come in, zip up Ted’s father in a black bag while he lurks in the doorway, refusing to let them pull him away. It’s Beard, wrangling the elder Tartt out the door while the rest of them gape like idiots.
It’s not him, standing stock still in the middle of the room, watching the proceedings with a flat face and blood on his hands, knowing the life that was is gone. It’s Jamie, with mud caked on his calves, with that racing stripe through his eyebrow that Henry thinks is so cool can I get one too, with that AFC Richmond jersey suddenly looking several sizes too big.
And it’s not Ted’s mom who swoops in, who pulls Ted to the bathroom so she can scrub the blood out from under his fingernails, who gives him a rictus grin when he looks at her ashen face in the mirror above the sink.
It should be him, taking care of this situation. It should be him who hauls Jamie’s dad away, who tells the team to take a few minutes, who leads Jamie somewhere safe and quiet. It isn’t. His feet are stuck, just like they were when he first looked in that room and saw his dad, half his jaw gone, a galaxy of blood painting the far wall.
So it’s Roy who walks – storms – across the locker room, every eye tracing his path. It’s Roy who reaches Jamie and throws his arms around the younger man hard enough to knock him off balance. It’s Roy who holds Jamie while he breaks, it’s Roy’s shoulder Jamie sobs into.
It’s Jamie’s hands that tremble when he brings them up to Roy’s back. Ted’s are trembling too, tips of his fingers quivering when he pushes out the door Beard just went through. He should keep going down the hall, make sure the elder Tartt is long gone. He should go back, actually, cross the locker room like Roy did, rest a hand on Jamie’s shaking shoulder, spin a little web of inspiration and perspective out of the spider that just bit them. He should send his boys back on the bus with a sliver of hope.
Ted leaves his team behind instead and walks out into the city so he can call Sharon and spill his darkest secret, a loose elbow knocking over a half-full pint after he’s already had too many. She asks if he wants to talk about it and he doesn’t. Except he does. He doesn’t, because he knows as soon as he starts walking down that path there’s no coming back. He does, because he’s not sure he can take another step with this thing weighing him down.
He doesn’t, because he needs to get back in there, back with his team. Should have done something earlier, and that dart’s long since left his hand. But maybe it’s not too late to do something about it now. He watches Beard stalk off down the street while he pulls himself together. He worries about that man, sometimes.
He turns back to his phone after, swipes through the photos until he finds one of him and Henry. They’re on the floor of his apartment, playing with Legos. Ted’s got a photo like that with his dad, too, except they’re building a cabin from Lincoln Logs on the shag carpet in the basement. Both of them with stupid grins on their faces, like nothing could ever go wrong in this world as long as they were in it together.
Ted tries to paint that stupid smile back on his face when he gets to the locker room but it feels too loose, worse than the suit Nate tried to wear to the gala last year. Jamie and Roy are right where he left them. He stares at them longer than he should. He’s not used to seeing either of them still or silent for this long, at least not when they’re around each other.
The team is there too. Sam’s gaping like that gob smacked goldfish Ted told him to be, not believing what he’s seeing. Isaac’s staring at his feet like they’re going to start talking back to him. Even Jan is quiet, wringing a white towel between his nimble fingers. The rest of them are looking at each other, or the grass stains on the floor, or the lights in the ceiling, trying to ignore their star player having what Ted guesses is a long-overdue breakdown in the middle of the room.
“Alright fellas,” he says, meeting their eyes. First Isaac, then Colin, then Thierry. The rest follow. “Tough day. What’s say we boogey back to the bus, okay? Come on now.”
The room springs to life, players hauling gear out of their lockers, a silent agreement between them all to forgo showers and changing and just get back on the bus as fast as possible, leave this nightmare of a day behind them. Smell on the bus will be something fierce, but that’s fine. They’ll crack a few windows open for the ride, get some fresh air.
Nate’s out the door like a skittery colt, without even checking in with Ted or any of the players first. Ted’s not in a position to criticize Nate for doing what he himself did just a few minutes ago. He hands out a few backslaps as the players hustle by, praising Sam’s takeaway in the first half, Dani’s near miss, Jan’s solid tackling the whole game through, though Jan tells him it was far below expectations. Thing is, he’s not wrong. Ted makes a quip about Dutch honesty being half as sweet as Dutch chocolate but doesn’t get so much as a grin. Ah well. Wasn’t his best delivery, anyway.
Then it’s the three of them. Ted, standing to the side, hands jammed into his pockets. Jamie, with most of his face still buried in Roy’s shoulder, letting out these soft, hitching breaths that make Ted’s own throat uncomfortably tight. Not the full-blown sobs of earlier, but he wouldn’t fault Jamie if they were. Kid’s got a right to cry for as long as he needs to, after what happened here. Heck, Ted would join him, if he could.
Then there’s Roy. Ted doesn’t know what to call the look on Roy’s face. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen it before. It’s certainly not the expression Roy usually has around Jamie, the one that suggests he’s about half a second from landing a headbutt on the other man’s nose. Come to think of it, that’s the look Roy has around most people, Ted included.
But this, this is something strange, the way Roy’s not-crazy-just-crazy-great eyebrows are all creased together, kinda like when Ted tried to explain the difference between Kansas City and Carolina barbeque. Same animal, innit? It’s confusion. Bafflement. Roy looks like he’s got a whole box of puzzle pieces in front of him and is staring between the mess on the table and the picture on the cover, wondering how the two could ever match. Like he’s got no idea what to do now with the kid in his arms, but like hell is he gonna let him go.
That’s fair. Ted’s not sure what to do now either. He’s gonna figure it out though, just like he did thirty-odd years ago. He shuffles close enough to catch Roy’s eye over Jamie’s shoulder. Roy’s broad fingers cover most of the name on the back of Jamie’s jersey, the corner of the last T rising above one finger, the bottom of the first peeking out from below Roy’s wrist. That’s fine. Ted’s a little less fond of that name now, knowing who Jamie got it from.
“Hey,” he tells Roy. “Team’s all on the bus.”
Roy nods, working his mouth. “I…drove.”
Ted nods back, blinking. “Okay,” he volunteers when he doesn’t get anything else. “So, uh, you want me to get Ja – ”
“I’ll drive him home,” Roy says, voice still several shades lighter than his characteristic growl.
Ted pulls his lips between his teeth. Not a bad idea. Jamie’s still welcome on the bus, of course he is. Maybe he won’t want all those eyes on him right now, though. Ted sure wouldn’t. “Okay,” he replies. “You know where he lives?”
“No,” Roy grunts. “Don’t need to.”
Ted opens his mouth before remembers he should close it if he’s not using it. Right. Maybe taking Jamie back to his empty house and leaving him alone is not the best play tonight. “Okay,” he repeats. His eyes flit around the locker room, all the cubbies stripped bare except for Jamie’s. Ah. “I’ll grab his stuff. How ‘bout you…”
His voice catches when Roy finally lets Jamie go and he gets his first look at the kid’s face since…well. He’s not surprised by the red eyes. That was always gonna be an obvious result. It’s that slackness, haunted, hanging around his face that smacks Ted right in the mouth. Jamie’s eyes are fixed on the logo on Roy’s chest, though Ted doesn’t think he’s really seeing it. His hands hang limp at his sides, fingers loosely curved.
That sour oil slick in Ted’s gut grows. Here the whole time, and he didn’t do a damn thing. He swallows it down. “Alright, Jamie. Roy’s gonna get you outta here. I’ll grab your stuff and bring it to you in a sec.”
If Jamie’s got any thoughts on the matter, he’s sure keeping them to himself. Ted looks to Roy instead. Roy’s not looking at him, though. He’s still studying Jamie’s face like he’s never seen it before. Thing is, he’s probably shocked by what he’s just seen. Ted’s not. But Roy’s still the one who moved, who sprang into action when he needed to, while Ted was standing around with his jaw on the floor. So. Maybe he’ll let Roy keep handling this one.
Roy doesn’t say a peep, he just slides an arm around Jamie’s shoulder and tugs him along. And Ted’s alone in the locker room, in this locker room, the air still and stale, damp earth and sour sweat. Even he knows what Wembley means. Or at least he knows what it’s supposed to mean, the grandeur and the glory. Like Fenway, and Madison Square Garden, and Lambeau Field, all rolled into one. He figures he’d be forgiven if he’d rather be anywhere else right now.
Ted snags the duffel sitting at the bottom of the locker. He grabs the sneakers…trainers, right, and the cleats…boots, right, and then realizes Jamie must be walking around in his socks. Ted still had his shoes on when he found his father, didn’t realize he had tracked blood all up the stairs until he saw his mom scrubbing at the carpet the next day.
He tugs the remaining clothes off the pegs next, folding the jacket on a raised knee. He wonders when Jamie started wearing more normal clothes. Well, normal for Ted, anyways. Hoodies and joggers in plain colors, not those funky patterns Jamie seemed so fond of back before. Not that’s Ted’s got a problem with those funky patterns. He’s more used to seeing that kind of design on women’s yoga pants where he’s from, but hey, why should women get all the fun?
Anyways, doesn’t take him but a minute to get Jamie’s gear together. He spares one more glance around the place before he leaves. Maybe these white walls and white floors, stained green and brown for now, have seen other days like this. He hopes they haven’t.
The lights in the player’s parking lot…car park…are on by the time he gets out there. Roy’s car is easy to spot, its dark, hulking presence the larger version of its driver. Maybe it’s not just pets that take after their owners? The idea almost brings a grin to his face before he remembers why he’s here.
Roy’s lurking beside the car in the single spot of shadow in the whole lot, naturally. “How’s Jamie?” Ted asks. Roy grunts something he can’t make out and snags Jamie’s duffel from his grip. Ted runs his suddenly free hand through his hair while Roy tosses the bag in back. The overhead light in Roy’s car flips on when Roy gets in and Ted wonders why Jamie’s driving for a second before he remembers.
He steps closer and tugs open the passenger door. Roy glares at him from across the cabin. Jamie’s gaze stays on his fists, balled up in his lap. Good thing they don’t use their hands in this sport, cuz he’s got a feeling Jamie’s right one is gonna be swollen something fierce tomorrow.
“Hey,” Ted murmurs. “Just want to say something real quick before you boys skedaddle.” Roy’s glower stays level. Jamie keeps studying his hands. “Just wanted to say that I’m sorry, Jamie.”
“Weren’t your fault, Coach.” Jamie’s voice is hoarse and empty, like everything behind it’s been scooped out. Reminds Ted of how he and his dad used to take the corn husks after they pulled the cobs out, shaped them together and put them on his mom’s plate. How she would frown when she pulled layer after layer back only to find nothing there. How she’d try not to smile while they laughed at her, until her own giggle crinkled the corners of her eyes.
Roy’s head rears back at the sound. That look on his face again, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Ted turns his eyes back to Jamie. The dome light carves planes and hollows into Jamie’s face that weren’t there an hour ago.
He swallows back the taste of cotton and acid. “Well, gonna push back a little on that, Jamie. I shoulda stepped in there. Asked your dad,” one of those hollows in Jamie’s cheek shudders, “to leave, before it got to where it did. Knowing what I do…”
He can be a bit…Jamie never finished that sentence, and maybe Ted finished it with what he wanted to hear, instead of what Jamie wanted to say. “Well, I shoulda done better. And I’m sorry about that Jamie. I truly am.”
“s’fine, Coach.” It isn’t, that’s clear as a bell. And maybe he’d push it, just a bit, some other night. That shattered tone in Jamie’s voice stills his tongue. His eyes float past Jamie’s still figure to Roy, hovering in the driver’s seat. He gives the other man a sad smile, looking for…something. That shared sense of helplessness, of despair.
What he gets is Roy’s shrewd eyes, though, that look Roy has studying new game plans, searching for the patterns he knows from instinct that none of the rest of them can see. Roy’s hooded gaze flits from Ted, to Jamie, and back again. He looks as confused as he did when he was hugging Jamie earlier.
Or maybe Ted’s just projecting again. Michelle used to tell him he did that, assumed everyone would have the same perspective on things as him. He tried to do better, then. Wasn’t quite enough for her. Wasn’t quite enough today, either.
He decides to take his own advice. Be a goldfish. That kinda thing works a whole lot better for mistakes on the pitch than these kinds of mistakes, though. The mistakes where you know you’ve failed other people. Worst kinda mistakes, these ones.
He shakes himself and realizes he’s been leaning into Roy’s car for too long. Well, at least Roy is giving him that hurry-it-the-heck-up look Ted knows so well. Jamie’s eyes still haven’t moved. Figures. Kid must be tired. He should let them go.
“Alright then,” he says at last. “You fellas have a good night. Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything.” That clench in Roy’s jaw again, and okay, sometimes even Ted gets the hint. He backs away from the door with a nod and shuts it. Roy doesn’t exactly peel out of the lot this time, but Ted still checks his feet to make sure his toes are all there once the SUV is gone.
Well, that’s Roy and Jamie. Coach Beard took off on his own. Means Nate’s the only one left with the team. Ted quashes the sense of unease in his gut at that. Nate’s just figuring things out, finding his place. Aren’t they all? He watches the taillights of Roy’s car recede in the darkness before he turns on his heel to head for the bus. Can’t do much for Jamie, or Roy, or Beard, right now. Still a whole team of guys to take care of, though. He’s got work to do.
Roy doesn’t get it at first. Why they’re all just stood around like a bunch of fucking twats, after Beard dragged Jamie’s father away. He doesn’t understand why they all stood around like a bunch of fucking twats while Jamie’s father was here, either. Why they all stared like idiots while the man got up right in Jamie’s face. Why none of them said a goddamn thing.
Maybe it’s because none of them have a fucking clue what they’re supposed to do now. Maybe it’s because they’re all hoping if they keep staring at the walls and the floor and the ceiling this whole situation will evaporate.
Or maybe they’re thinking no one needs to do anything, because this is Jamie fucking Tartt, and he can take on all comers, swallow whatever anyone – the other team, the coaches, the fans, even his own goddamn team – throws at him. Because usually he does just fucking that, and spits it back in everyone’s faces with an infuriating grin. Little shit.
But it’s not Jamie fucking Tartt, pro footballer who has more talent than God and knows it, the prince prick of all pricks, the fucking twat who can convert a penalty kick from forty-five yards, stood in the middle of the locker room, by himself, right now. It’s Jamie Tartt, who is starting to remind Roy of some of the kids he grew up with who had dads who liked to hit the bottle before they hit their boys. Jamie Tartt, who just stood up to his dad in front of his whole team and is now stood alone because this makes no fucking sense, because this can’t be their Jamie fucking Tartt.
And like fuck is Roy gonna just stand here too with his dick in his hand like everyone else. At least Beard had the balls to do fucking something, shove the arsehole out the door. The rest of them are lolling around like idiots. Even Lasso, somewhere behind him. Lasso, who always has something to say about every fucking situation. Lasso, who had answers to questions Roy didn’t even know he was asking.
Lasso’s not doing shit now. Neither is anyone else. And Jamie’s already done enough, laying his dad out flat. Jamie asked him for advice, not too long ago. Roy shoved him back, just like Jamie’s dad did. Hell, he’s done that more than once to Jamie, in the seven million times Jamie has acted like a colossal prick. Jamie didn’t come back and slug him then, though. Maybe Roy’s lucky. That was a hell of a haymaker.
No one else is saying anything, or even fucking looking at Jamie. It’s quiet as the fucking grave in here, and that’s the worst thing for a locker room to be. And it’s about ten seconds away from everyone going back to what they were doing, acting like what just happened doesn’t matter. Acting like they didn’t just learn what Jamie’s been dealing with, all this time, alone. Acting like they don’t give a shit because they’re afraid to do anything else.
Well. Fuck that. He’s Roy fucking Kent, and he's not fucking afraid of fucking anything.
He goes in harder than he needs to. But when he makes a move, he’s all in. Maybe he thinks if he can get close fast enough, he won’t give Jamie time to push him back, dart out of the way like he does from every defender, sock him in the face like he just did his father. Jamie’s little flinch when Roy makes contact hits him harder than that punch ever could though, right in the stomach.
He expects Jamie to shove him off after a second, snap out some quip, trying to cop a feel, grandpa? Expects him to show off that cocky swagger that makes everyone around just want to break his nose, Roy especially. Jamie just stands there, though, arms stiff at his sides. Then his arms aren’t stiff, they’re creeping up Roy’s back, fingers trembling against his jacket.
And then shit shit shit, Jamie is fucking crying. Jamie. Jamie fucking Tartt. Crying. Sobbing, really, into Roy’s shoulder, like Phoebe used to do every time her dad didn’t show up for his weekends with her before her mum bought a fucking clue and stopped giving him the opportunity to fuck with her little girl like that.
He realizes then that he’s still got his hands balled in fists, because that’s how they do things like this around here, because he’s got the urge to throw a few fucking punches himself. And for maybe the first time in an AFC Richmond locker room, Jamie’s not the one he wants to hit. He forces his fingers open, flat against Jamie’s back until he can feel Jamie’s hitching breath against his palms because Jamie’s still crying, he’s still falling apart, and Roy’s still holding him together.
He dimly registers the slam of the door. He thinks, again, of Beard, smacking Jamie’s father’s face into that door. He thinks, again, that he should have been the one to do that. He still has a chance. He could leave Jamie here, stalk down the hallway to where security hopefully put Jamie’s father out on his arse. Roy’s knee may be shit, but he can sure as hell still throw a fucking punch. He wants to do it too, chase down that fucking cunt and wail on him, give him a taste of his own medicine.
He wanted to do that to Phoebe’s father, too. Then he took one look at her face, scrunched up like a fucking rabbit, on the verge of bawling her brains out after that prick disappointed her again, and decided he had other priorities. And all Phoebe’s dad did was leave her waiting. He didn’t do any of the shit Roy suspects Jamie’s dad did. If he had, Roy would have ended up dumping his body in the river.
And fine, maybe he’s thrown his weight around a bit with Jamie, too. Shoved him back, got in his face, called him a prick and an arsehole and a thousand other things, and Jamie deserved all of them. Most of them. Why the fuck was he ever surprised when Jamie did that right back? Fuck.
So, he decides again that he has bigger priorities. That he needs to do better. That he needs to stand here and hug the shit out of Jamie fucking Tartt because no one else will, and even if they would, this team is Roy’s responsibility. Jamie is Roy’s responsibility. And maybe he stays here, until Lasso comes back and herds the rest of the team out, because of the look on Jamie’s face. Roy never, ever, ever wants to see that look on anyone’s face again. Even Jamie’s.
Lasso’s back at his side once the locker room has emptied out, and Roy wants to get up in his face, ask what the fuck he was doing during all of this, but he’s…busy. Then Lasso’s talking to him, asking him what he wants to do now and he…fuck. He is not ready to make any more decisions. He sure as hell wasn’t thinking about whatever might happen after he hugged Jamie. Was way too focused on convincing himself to actually do it.
Easiest thing to do now would be to pawn Jamie off on Lasso, let Ted do that positive thinking, folksy fatherly bullshit he’s too damn good at. Then Roy could drive home, leave this fucking night behind him. Leave Jamie behind. Make this someone else’s problem because he doesn’t know what to do. Because he’s afraid of what he should do.
Fuck.
He stays here, tells Lasso he’s taking Jamie home. Doesn’t even think about the particulars until Ted asks if he knows where Jamie lives, and of course he fucking doesn’t, it’s not like they’re fucking friends, and he figures even if he did know where the little prick lived it’s not like he could leave him there, by himself.
Maybe it would be alright. Not like Jamie’s dad would go and try something, is it? Course, the fucker had no problem pulling that shit in a full locker room, so maybe Roy shouldn’t put anything past him.
Lasso’s making more noise that stops when Roy eases Jamie back at last and gets a good look at his face. Jesus fuck. Four percent of his paycheck is not worth this, is it? Not worth these puffy eyes, this cheek creased from Roy’s jacket. Not worth the damp spot on Roy’s shoulder, not worth the world-weary and wounded expression that he can’t comprehend being on Jamie’s face.
He slides an arm around Jamie’s hunched shoulders and tugs him toward the car park. Doesn’t think about the particulars. Doesn’t even realize Jamie’s still in just his socks, bright yellow against the dark pavement, until they’re outside. Not like the prick said anything about it. Not like he has said a damn thing since he told his dad to stop talking. The silence is fucking unnerving. When’s the last time he spent more than thirty seconds around Jamie without the prick saying something that pissed him the fuck off? He should be grateful. He isn’t.
Jamie slides into the passenger seat when Roy opens the door for him – isn’t he a fucking gentleman – but still doesn’t say a fucking word. And Roy could leave now, but Lasso said he was gonna bring Jamie’s stuff over. Fine. Jamie needs some goddamn shoes.
He sends a text to Keeley while he’s waiting, telling her he won’t see her tonight, telling her yes she should go out and get shit-faced with Rebecca, sounds like a great fucking idea. He’d like to join them. He almost texts her again, tells her everything, asks her if she knew, if she had any idea, if she has any idea about what he should do, before he realizes that doesn’t fucking matter right now. This is his problem.
Lasso shows up not long after and sticks around until Roy gets in the car. He opens Jamie’s door and says some shit about being sorry, or something. Then Jamie speaks for the first time in an eon and Roy’s heart starts pounding like he just sprinted the length of a pitch. It’s not anger, or sorrow, or regret, that’s in Jamie’s voice. It’s just fucking resignation, and that’s a thing Roy never in a million years thought would come out of Jamie’s mouth.
Lasso says something else then. Something about how he should have done better, about how he knew. Knew what? Roy studies Jamie’s face after Lasso says that, looking for a hint. Looking for fucking something. Anything. He gets nothing.
It’s not until a few minutes later, once the blue arch fades from his rearview mirror, that the words sink in, start kicking around in his brain. Knowing what I do. Knowing what? Shit, it’s not like any of them could have predicted any of what happened in that locker room, right? No one could have predicted Roy giving Jamie a fucking hug, least of all Roy himself, before he was doing it. And sure, Ted should have stepped in to deescalate that situation. Roy should have too, but it was over before he could even process it, could understand that it was Jamie, and Jamie’s dad laying into him like that.
Was like going into a match not knowing who you’re playing, and that’s why he’s supposed to read those scouting reports, even if they’re boring as fuck. And it wasn’t like any of them knew anything about what they were facing there, right? Except Lasso said…oh.
“Fuck,” he shouts, smacking the steering wheel hard enough that his palm stings. Jamie flinches in the seat next to him, the first sign of life he’s seen in long minutes and fuck. What the fuck is wrong with Roy, that he did that around the kid, right now?
He bites his tongue too hard, casting a glance sideways. The taillights up ahead paint long angles across Jamie’s flat face. Same flat face he had a little while ago, in the locker room. Jamie’s always got some expression on his mug. Usually it’s cock-sure arrogance. Seeing nothing should have been the first sign something was about to go horribly wrong.
No. Jamie’s father showing up should have been the first sign something was about to go horribly wrong. Roy didn’t know that. But someone did.
“He knew?” Roy says at last, eyes fixed to the road in front of him. If he looks over and sees that vacant, terrifying expression on Jamie’s face again he’s going to lose his shit.
“What?” Jamie asks, voice hoarse and creaky like he’s been shouting his head off at a match.
“Lasso,” Roy answers. “He knew? About your dad?”
“What about him?” Jamie asks, and it’s not that forced casual tone he takes on when he’s trying to get under Roy’s fucking skin like only he can fucking do. It’s just dull, lifeless.
“He knew…he knew…” and fuck Roy can’t even say it, so how could he have expected Ted to do something about it. “And he didn’t…” He stops there. He’s hoping Jamie will say something. He’s hoping he can figure out what it is he’s trying to say.
Nothing but silence again. He steals one more glance at Jamie next to him. Might as well be trying to squeeze blood from a turnip, for how much Jamie’s giving him. Then he thinks about Jamie bleeding and he almost swallows his own tongue.
Right. Might be asking a bit much from Jamie to give him the confirmation he doesn’t want to hear today. Kid just played a full match, even if it was a piss poor performance, then punched his old man, then broke down in the locker room. Maybe he lets this one sit for a bit.
They’re quiet for the rest of the drive. Jamie gets himself out of the car while Roy’s grabbing the bags from the back and trails Roy into the house like a fucking Labrador. Roy steals a glance at Jamie’s feet as he opens the door. At least he won’t have to remind him to take off his boots before he drags shit all in, and he almost says something to that effect before he realizes that Jamie didn’t even have fucking shoes on when his dad came in, or when he slugged him, or when his dad surged up off the floor like he was about to bury his fists in Jamie’s vacant face and…fuck.
And then he’s stood in the foyer of his empty house, Jamie fucking Tartt stood beside him, Jamie fucking Tartt’s bag in his hand, Jamie fucking Tartt’s fucking baggage weighing on the both of them like a goddamn anchor.
“Alright,” he says at last, pressing the duffel into Jamie’s chest. Jamie’s arms come up around it tentatively and Roy gets a look at his right hand. Shit. That’ll sting, tomorrow. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he indicates with a thumb over his shoulder. “If you wanna shower and change.”
Jamie shuffles off with a nod, socked feet silent on the floor. Then Roy’s alone in his living room, listening to his own breathing. Jesus fuck. What the fuck is he doing? He’s not good at this, this being supportive and shit. Talking to people. Least of all Jamie. This trying to set a good example. This, as Ms. Bowen said, using his influence.
Shit. Ice cream is not going to solve this. He orders some curry for delivery instead. He’s got it out on the table by the time Jamie reappears in some AFC Richmond sweats, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. Jamie sinks into the chair across from him with the sort of boneless exhaustion Roy knows too well, from trying to drive an aged and battered body to keep up with every new crop of pimple-faced rookies. Trying to drive his body to keep up with Jamie, the prick.
Roy watches Jamie pick at the chicken before he just starts painting swirls in the sauce with a fork. His eyes catch on Jamie’s knuckles, scraped and raw. He stares longer than he ought to, combing his memory for a time he’s seen Jamie throw a punch. Little prick’s started plenty of fights, sure, but not like that. He’s damn good at riling other people up to the point where they want to throw punches. Roy first and foremost. Fuck’s sake.
He pushes his chair back and doesn’t comment on Jamie’s flinch when the legs scrape across the floor. He fishes an icepack out of the freezer and holds it out to Jamie, who looks at it in confusion.
“For your hand,” he says. Jamie looks down at his fingers, and the meager light that crept back into his face during the past few minutes vanishes in an instant. Roy’s left holding out his favorite icepack – the gel one with that clothy thing on the side and fine he’s got sensitive skin, what of it – for long seconds. He places it on Jamie’s flat hand himself eventually, getting a soft thanks in the process.
“You want any more food?” he asks, to have something to say, even though Jamie’s barely touched the curry in front of him. A subtle shake of Jamie’s head that Roy acknowledges with a grunt before returning to his own chair and his own plate.
He studiously avoids looking at Jamie while he finishes eating. In the unlikely event Jamie is looking at him, and they make eye contact, Roy might feel obliged to say something, and he’s got no fucking idea what to say so it’s best to not try. This has to be the weirdest fucking dinner he’s ever had, and he went on a double date with Keeley and Rebecca and who the fuck cares what his name was, that one time. He hopes Rebecca figures things out, eventually.
Roy looks up from his plate, finally, and he thinks Rebecca’s not the only one who needs to figure things out. He’s not sure what’s going on behind those dark eyes across from him. Most days, he’d say it was probably not much of anything. Today, he only wishes it wasn’t much of anything. And it’s enough for one day, of that he’s certain.
He pushes up again, taking more care with his chair this time, and waves for Jamie to follow him. He leads the younger man to his spare bedroom. The door’s across from another one, and Roy catches Jamie peeking in there with a scrunched up expression when he turns around.
“Phoebe’s room. My niece. She stays with me sometimes, when her mum’s stuck at work,” he says before he can stop himself. Like he owes an explanation to Jamie fucking Tartt for why Roy fucking Kent has a bedroom in his place in lilac and paisley, fairy lights on the bed, Disney shit on the wall. “Spare bedroom is here,” he waves across the hall. “Unless you’d prefer to fall asleep looking at posters of Elsa.”
And shit doesn’t that paint a picture, the idea of Jamie falling asleep in the bed meant for Phoebe, surrounded by light and color, blanketed in warmth and solace, all the things he wants Phoebe to feel when she’s with him, because she doesn’t get enough of that. He tells himself he doesn’t fucking care when the last time was that Jamie had someone who wanted that for him. Doesn’t stop him from guessing.
Jamie’s lips twitch. Finally. So he’s still in there, after all. “Used to have a poster of you in me room, when I were a kid,” he drawls.
Roy’s turn to startle in shock, even though Jamie’s voice is so low he can barely make it out. “You said.”
“I’d look up at it,” Jamie mutters distantly “After me dad…” He gnaws on the inside of his lip. “I’d look up at it. And I’d think, if I were as tough as Roy Kent, or as fast. Or as angry. Then maybe. Maybe I’d…maybe he’d…” He falls silent, and it’s just the hum of the building around them, the traffic on the street outside, in between them.
“Yeah,” Roy says at some length. “I know.” And he does, now, the events of earlier filling in all the blanks of Jamie that Roy didn’t realize he even cared about until today. Fuck. That he was better off not knowing.
He rubs a hand across his eyes. It’s the most words he’s gotten out of Jamie all night, and he knows there’s an opening here he could take. But he’s exhausted. He takes another peek at Jamie, at the dipped head and red eyes, the hands shoved into his pockets, and thinks the other man looks like he’s about thirty seconds from pitching face-first onto Roy’s floor.
“Oi,” he sighs, waiting for Jamie’s eyes to meet his. “Come on. Go get some sleep.”
It’s not exactly that he leaves his body when his fist hits his dad’s face.
But he’s not exactly all there when it happens, either. Maybe he wishes he could have slipped into this blankness before, when his dad was at his throat. Then he could have taken what his dad threw at him, swallowed it back like he’s done a thousand times before. Could have let his dad’s words wash over him, not tried to push back or stand up for himself or tell his dad don’t. Could have waited for his dad to run out of steam like he eventually does, could have ignored his teammates staring at him while he took it like a pussy, could have pretended it never happened afterwards, could have lived in a world where the people he wants to impress most didn’t see the ugliness buried in his bones.
He can’t say why he didn’t do any of those things. Why he thought, for a moment, that what he wanted mattered. Why he thought, if he stood his ground just this once, it would make a difference. Maybe it’s all of Lasso’s constant encouragement to do better, to do more, finally sinking in. Maybe it was that moment when he made that impossible goal, had a chance to make that goal, because Roy fucking Kent of all people believed in him. Maybe it was the moment after, when his teammates mobbed him, shouted with him and shook him and smiled at him. When they were all proud of him.
Or maybe he’s just a scared animal, realizing it’s well and truly cornered, no escape. Lashing out in one desperate attempt to make it through. Maybe he hopes if he does something different, the outcome will be different.
But it’s the hope that kills you, right?
He’s not really scared when his dad gets up, though he probably should be. He’s just empty, and hollow, knows he’s going to lie down and take whatever’s coming because he put everything he had in that punch and there’s nothing left under his skin. He knows a thousand ways this can go now. Not because he’s that imaginative.
Then Beard’s here, then his dad is gone, just the gunshot crack of the door to herald their departure. He’d wince at the sound, but his muscles have turned to lead. And Jamie’s here, the only person in this room, the spotlight on him casting everyone else in shadow. He knows they’re out there somewhere, audience to a Greek fucking tragedy, and maybe when this is over they’ll realize they should be applauding.
Roy’s in his space before Jamie realizes he’s moving. He’s expecting what he always gets from Roy, a scowl, a grunt, a shove hard enough to rock him back. He’s taken plenty of those, come back for more, because he knows if you let someone push you they’ll just keep doing it and if he makes himself big enough and tough enough and mean enough maybe they’ll stop trying.
Roy hits him like a freight car, chest to chest, and Jamie would shrink backward but Roy’s arms are already there, wrapped around him, holding him fast. Roy shakes him a little, like he’s expecting something, and why would Roy expect something of Jamie right now, doesn’t he know Jamie’s up and flown this cuckoo’s nest?
But he hasn’t, has he, because he’s still here, Roy’s still here, holding on to him, not asking him to do anything, say anything, offer anything. Roy’s just giving and giving and giving like if he pours enough into this empty shell Jamie will have something to come back to.
Maybe it’s that, the idea of Roy fucking Kent doing all the work while Jamie does nothing — and knowing how much shit Roy will give him for it — that draws Jamie’s arms up. Maybe it’s the sensation flooding back into his body, settling back in his skin, fingertips prickling and trembling.
Then he presses his face into Roy’s shoulder, like he’s trying to burrow into it, like he’s some fucking wounded animal trying to hide that doesn’t want anyone to see it. Except that’s not it, too late for that anyway, and he realizes that he doesn’t care that anyone is seeing this. Other people have seen worse – his mum, countless neighbors, most of the kids he grew up with. Coach saw something, too, a pale shade of the truth.
He cares that someone thinks it matters. He cares that someone…cares.
And then fuck he’s not empty and hollow anymore he’s everything, all at once, too much trying to burst out of his body. And then he’s waiting, waiting for someone to say something, to laugh, for Roy to push him back with a growl, tell him to toughen up.
But Roy stays there, takes and takes and takes until Jamie’s empty again, shattered and wrung dry and lightheaded, until he thinks he might melt to the floor if Roy weren’t still holding him upright. He sinks into this, fabric of Roy’s arm and flesh of his neck, instead. Hangs in a moment of perfect suspension, free of the past and unburdened by the future.
Eventually that fabric and flesh vanish, and then it’s Roy’s hands around Jamie’s arms that keep him on his feet. He opens his eyes for the first time in a year to empty benches and still air. Roy’s in front of him, eclipsing most of his view. Ted appears too, hovering beyond Roy’s shoulder. He thinks they might be saying something, isn’t sure if they’re waiting for anything from him, hopes they aren’t because he’s got nothing to offer.
Roy slides an arm over his shoulders, and he’s moving on numb legs toward the exit. Same door Beard shoved his dad though and his body seizes a bit when he remembers that. Roy hums and drags Jamie forward anyways.
He’s at Roy’s car before he knows it, then in it, the bustle of the crowds on the streets around them sounding like they’re underwater. Or maybe he is. Coach is back before he can figure out which one it is. Jamie feels the form beside him, a whisper against his skin, even if he can’t look at it right now. Ted says some things about being sorry, and Jamie figures he’s got no need to be, he’s already done more for Jamie than anyone should have ever expected, so he tells him its fine.
Then all he has to do is lean his aching head against the cool window, watch the scenery blurring by, a grey-black odyssey of buildings and cars and people that are a thousand miles away. The sound of a smack and a curse draw him out of his stupor. Roy’s asking him something, asking him for something. He has nothing, though, and Roy lets it go.
The car stops moving at some length, and Roy tugs him onward again. Then he’s in Roy’s house and Roy is telling him to shower and change and eat and ice his hand and go to bed. He stops when he sees the child’s room in Roy’s house, almost smiles at the posters on the wall. Thinks about the poster he used to have of Roy, of the way he would look up at that poster on too many nights thinking if only I was but he never was, never enough.
Roy tells him to get some sleep after that, and that at least he can do, so he collapses on top of the bed, doesn’t even notice Roy standing in the doorway for long minutes before he turns off the lights and shuts the door with a soft sigh.