Chapter Text
It’s - it’s a lot of things, in the beginning. It’s the fact that Jamie has been driving for nearly five hours, and he didn’t sleep so well last night to begin with. Too hyped up about moving. He resisted the urge to have a drink, just walked around his house touching the furniture. There wasn’t much left that actually felt like his. He tried to lie down, but his skin was twitching and he couldn’t settle.
Yeah, so it’s that. The journey from Manchester to London is long to start with, and then there’s an accident on the M40 that holds him up even more, and Jamie’s so tired that his hands are shaking on the wheel.
His dad calls as he’s passing Heathrow, and that doesn’t help. They don’t talk for long - Tartts don’t do shit like goodbyes or good lucks, and Jamie wouldn’t want it even if they did - just long enough for his dad to make sure he knows how serious this, how important, because he’ll be the star, even if it is some shitty little club barely clinging onto the league—
Jamie’s not nervous. He doesn’t get nervous. Not Jamie fucking Tartt. He was never nervous in Manchester.
Then again, Roy Kent doesn’t play for Manchester.
It’s a lot of things.
He pulls up outside the club just after two, and for a minute he just sits there in the car with the music blaring, takes a swig of the energy drink he’s been using as a substitute for sleep all day. It’s showtime, and he’s good. He’s all good.
A beat, another. Then it’s time, and he switches off the car, abruptly cutting the music. He gets out, shading his eyes as he looks up at the club. There’s nothing to say about it, really - it’s just another building, blue and red, big lettering. Jamie stands for a moment or two, hands in his pockets.
Then he hears shouts, and he turns. A fence - a pitch, the most important part, and out there are his teammates. A slow smile spreads across Jamie’s face as he watches them - little figures in blue and red kit, calling to each other as they run across the grass. They need him, and they don’t even know it.
Jamie looks good today, in spite of being tired and somewhat crumpled from being folded into a car for five hours. He’s wearing his favourite skinny jeans and a new pair of Air Jordans, and he bounces a couple of times on his toes, feeling them on his feet like a good-luck charm. The lads won’t know what hit them.
Game face on - and then he’s striding forward, towards the doors, and he’s Jamie fucking Tartt, and all that shit can stay behind in the car.
“Jamie Tartt!” It’s the first thing he hears when he pushes open the door. The voice belongs to an older geezer in glasses and an ugly brown suit, coming up to him just a little too fast so that he’s panting by the time he reaches Jamie. “Leslie Higgins,” he says, smiling.
Jamie recognises that smile. Deferential, respectful, on the edge of obsequious - the right kind of smile, as far as Jamie’s concerned. He’s the star. Old farts like this - it’s their job to give him this sort of smile. He hasn’t offered Jamie a hand to shake, perhaps because he knows Jamie won’t take it.
“Alright, mate,” Jamie says, jerking his chin. His attention drifts a little, down the corridor - but there’s no one else more interesting to talk to. He returns his gaze to Leslie Higgins somewhat reluctantly.
“Welcome to Richmond!” Higgins says with another one of those smiles.
Jamie nods again. “Yeah, thanks,” he says.
“Come in, come in,” Higgins says. “I’ll take you to meet Mr Mannion. He’s very excited to have you on board - we all are!”
He’s leading Jamie down the corridor and towards an unobtrusive set of stairs. The walls are lined with photographs of the team - some grainy and old, others more recent - and Jamie casts a half-interested eye across them as he follows Higgins past. None of them feature trophies. Jamie smirks at his own reflection in the glass.
The stairs lead up to a little hallway outside a closed door, and while Higgins taps on it Jamie wanders over to the window. It overlooks the pitch, and he can see the team setting up a passing drill. There’s nothing particularly impressive about it, in Jamie’s opinion. He watches them for a minute or two, listens through the glass when the gaffer shouts loud enough to be heard, though the words are indistinct.
He’s a fat fuck, the gaffer. Jamie can’t see his face from here, just the back of his white head, but he knows what the prick looks like from the internet. He features in a fair number of memes, because he’s bounced around most major clubs in the country but no one ever seems to want him to stay too long. Jamie shakes his head a little, turning away.
An unexpected growl makes him start. Having received no response to his knock, Higgins has gingerly pushed open the door - and abruptly a voice curls out of it, low and furious.
“I don’t give a fuck about your tied hands,” the voice snarls. Jamie reels away a little from the barely contained rage dripping from every word. “What do I pay you for? This is my club—”
“Mr Mannion?” Higgins says nervously. He looks like he’s sweating.
A pause. “What do you want, Higgins?” Mannion snaps.
“Jamie Tartt is here to see you,” Higgins says, gesturing vaguely towards Jamie in spite of the fact that Mannion can’t see him where he’s standing.
Jamie’s not so sure he wants to meet the owner of the club anymore. It’s not - he can handle a coach shouting at him, obviously. He’s not a baby. Raised voices don’t make him want to hide behind the sofa, or whatever. It’s just - that’s not a coach in there. That’s not someone trying to help him improve his game. That’s just an angry man in a room, and he’s got to go into it.
“I’ll call you back,” Mannion barks. “And when I do, Joseph, you’d better have good news for me - oh, fuck off.” There’s a click, like he’s hanging up the phone, and then he calls out: “Come in!”
Higgins pulls a weird face, like he’s trying to pretend that the whole exchange was normal, or maybe that they didn’t hear it. He smiles again at Jamie, gesturing towards the open door, and Jamie reluctantly slopes away from the window and into the room.
“Mr Mannion,” Higgins says, as they step into the office. It’s a big airy room, with huge windows along one side overlooking the pitch. “This is Jamie Tartt. Mr Tartt, may I introduce Rupert Mannion?”
Mannion is sitting behind a desk at the other end of the room, but he stands up slowly when Higgins introduces him. Jamie instinctively pushes his hands a little deeper into his pockets. Richmond’s owner doesn’t cut a particularly tall or imposing figure - but there’s an innate power about him nonetheless.
“Jamie Tartt,” he says, his voice light and controlled, miles away from the enraged snarl Jamie heard floating out of the office a couple of minutes ago. “Welcome, welcome!”
He’s not like Higgins. There’s no deference in his tone, no starstruck quality to the lazy smile spreading across his lined face. On the contrary: there’s a muted force in those pale blue eyes that makes Jamie want to shrink away.
He doesn’t, obviously. He just nods and shrugs a little and mutters: “Alright, yeah, thanks.”
“All the way from Manchester,” Mannion says, walking out from behind his desk. Jamie frowns. The way he says it sounds like he’s taking the piss, except what is there to take the piss about? It’s Manchester.
“Yeah,” he says, deciding not to think about it. Maybe that’s just what the geezer’s voice sounds like all the time.
Mannion smiles again, slow and predatory. “We’re so glad to have you,” he says. His gaze flickers briefly up and down Jamie, like he’s sizing him up. Jamie resists the urge to squirm. It’s fucking ridiculous - Richmond is a nothing little club, and he comes from Manchester goddamn City. This weird old fucker shouldn’t be looking at him like this - he should be treating Jamie like his fucking saviour.
“Yeah, it’s good to be here,” he says. He squares his shoulders, because there’s only one old man who can make him feel like shit about himself, and his name isn’t Rupert Mannion. “Give Richmond something to celebrate for a change.”
To his surprise, Mannion bursts out laughing. “Oh, that’s good,” he says, wagging a finger at Jamie. He turns to Higgins, who’s pretending to join in with the laughter. “He’s good!” he says. Then, back to Jamie: “Let’s hope you’re as quick on the pitch, hm?”
“I am,” Jamie says confidently, and Mannion gives another delighted laugh.
“Good, good,” he says. He studies Jamie for a moment, his smile fading. “Good,” he repeats, more slowly this time.
Jamie waits, a weird mixture of bored and intimidated. It’s like - Mannion’s not a coach, he’s just the money - he’s not important. He can’t play like Jamie can, and he doesn’t even get respect for being a has-been. He’s never played football. He’s just an old wrinkled twat who thinks he’s special because he’s rich.
But still - there’s something about him, the way he’s looking Jamie critically up and down. It gives Jamie the shivers. Ice-cold.
“It looks like training is wrapping up,” Higgins says, peering past Jamie and out of the window. Sure enough, the lads are filing back inside the club. “I could take you down to meet them, Jamie.”
“Excellent idea,” Mannion says, stepping back. He turns, looking back at Jamie over his shoulder. “Good to meet you, Jamie.”
Jamie nods. “Yeah,” he says, because that goes without saying - of course it’s good to meet him. He’s Jamie Tartt.
“Come on, then, Jamie,” Higgins says, with another of those sycophantic smiles, and they leave Mannion’s office, heading back down the stairs with the door closed behind them. Jamie wonders if Mannion is going to get back on the phone with whatever poor sod he was having a go at.
He adjusts his cap as Higgins leads him back along the corridor downstairs. He’s about to meet his team. He’s not fucking nervous - he doesn’t get nervous. He wasn’t nervous when he met the lads at City.
Well, he was a little nervous, maybe, because he was nineteen. He’s way older now. More seasoned.
But then again, Roy Kent wasn’t on the team at City.
It’s not - it doesn’t count. Every football kid has that one player, right? And every player used to be a football kid, so statistically - statistically it makes sense they’ll probably meet that one player who was their player. So it’s not weird. It’s not - it’s normal. One day, when he’s old and fucked up, in years and years and years, Jamie will probably be that player for hundreds of football kids. It’s normal.
He adjusts his cap again, pushing his shoulders back. Anyway, if anything, Roy Kent should be pleased to meet him. He’s the new talent around here.
The door to the dressing room has a little window in it, but Higgins is standing in the way, so Jamie can’t see inside. He puts his hands in his pockets, and Higgins opens the door and lets them both inside.
A cacophony of sound hits him the moment the door opens, and that makes him feel more relaxed. It sounds just like the changing rooms back at City - guys laughing, joking around, someone whipping a towel, the spritz of deodorant, the clatter of lockers opening and shutting again, someone throwing a water bottle - dressing rooms are the same, no matter where you go.
The people are different, of course, and the colours - red and blue again. But Jamie doesn’t really care about that.
His eyes travel automatically around the room. He can’t help himself. Of course he’s looking for Roy Kent.
It takes less than a second to find him, because his locker is right opposite the door. He’s sitting shirtless on the bench, bending down to unlace his boots, and Jamie’s heart flips a little.
The thing is - Roy Kent wasn’t just his player, was he? Not just in a football way, not just like - like an inspiration, or whatever. Jamie thinks briefly of the poster hanging above his bed. There was more to it than that.
“Richmond!” Higgins exclaims. No one really responds to him, although a couple of the lads flick interested glances towards Jamie. “Ah - our newest player - Jamie Tartt!”
There’s a pause, and then one of the lads comes over to Jamie. “Alright, boyo,” he says, and he holds up a fist for Jamie to bump, which he does.
“Alright, mate,” he says. He squints at his new teammate, trying to place him. He definitely looks vaguely familiar, but Jamie’s not great with names.
“Colin,” the lad says.
Jamie nods. “Right, right,” he says. Colin Hughes - he recognises him now, from the youth nationals. If he’s being honest, he probably could have dug the name out with a little effort, but the only place Jamie likes to make extra effort is on the pitch.
Now a few of the others are coming over to greet him, and Jamie turns towards them with a smile that doesn’t feel remotely sincere. He doesn’t really know any of these guys, or at least - he knows some of them, obviously, like Paul and Arlo and Jeff and Isaac - guys he knew back with the Young Lions. But it’s not like they’re friends. Jamie doesn’t really do friends.
He glances over the top of Colin’s head to where Roy Kent is still sitting on the bench, peeling off his socks. Acting like Jamie isn’t even in the room.
Jamie’s never met him before, though not for lack of trying. He’s only been on a pitch at the same time as Roy Kent once, which was for six glorious minutes at the end of last season’s away game against Richmond. Not enough time for a goal, though Jamie tried. He looked for a chance to tackle Roy Kent, to chase him down - but Roy didn’t take possession while Jamie was playing, and they never got within ten yards of each other.
Maybe this is better. Actually meeting face to face, not on the pitch - it’s not like Roy could have seen Jamie do anything really spectacular. Nothing to impress him. Not that Jamie cares about impressing some dried-up old has-been - except, well, it’s Roy Kent, isn’t it?
Yeah, it’s Roy Kent. Jamie went to sleep under his fierce watchful glare every night from age six to age seventeen, and on and off since then whenever he stays the night at home. Roy Kent has been watching over Jamie since he was a kid.
He’s not watching Jamie now. He’s just sorting himself out, like he’s a regular person and not a fucking legend. There’s something very real about him, right here in the flesh. He looks sweaty. Roy in the poster never looked sweaty.
Fuck it. Jamie’s not going to wait for Roy to come to him. He pushes through the little gaggle of lads crowded around him, saunters over to the bench where Roy is sitting. He’s barefoot by now, wearing nothing but his shorts. Jamie catches a glimpse of his feet on the lino, and his stomach flips again.
“Hey,” he says, and Roy looks up.
He doesn’t look impressed. Well, that’s okay. Roy Kent rarely looks anything other than pissed off, and anyway, he hasn’t seen how good Jamie is yet. His hair is cut shorter than in the poster, and his brow is set in one heavy dark line as he meets Jamie’s eyes.
Christ, he’s fucking hairy.
“Big man Roy Kent,” Jamie says, conscious of the lads at his shoulder. “Alright, mate?”
Roy leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he looks up at Jamie - but not like he’s glaring. Just thoughtful, maybe. Jamie is very carefully not looking at his stomach with its carpet of hair, his arms resting on his knees, his taut belly.
“Alright,” Roy says slowly, and it’s that deep, gravelly South London voice that Jamie’s heard so often on TV.
Jamie grins, because Roy Kent is talking to him. All those years lying in bed and looking up at that poster, imagining what Roy Kent would say to him if they ever really met - and now it’s real. It’s fucking happening, because Jamie has made it. He’s here.
“I’ll show you what I got tomorrow, old man,” he says cheerfully, and he gives Roy a sloppy salute. Behind him, the boys are all groaning and laughing. “You wait, mate.”
Roy tilts his dark head to one side, one eyebrow lifting a little. “That right?” he says, and yeah, there is it, that little edge of challenge. Jamie’s grin spreads even wider. For a moment Roy just looks at him - and then the corner of his mouth twitches. Jamie barely restrains himself from punching the air in triumph.
He turns away then, back to the other lads, but he’s flying as high as if he just scored a hat trick. Roy Kent fucking smiled at him. Roy Kent is going to see what he can do, see how good he is, and maybe—
Well, maybe nothing. Maybe none of the shit he used to think about, in that bed back in Manchester under Roy Kent’s scowling face, because he doesn’t go there anymore. But at least they can have football. They can have football, him and Roy fucking Kent, here on the same team, the star player and the golden oldie, and he can’t fucking wait.
The gaffer comes in then, wearing tiny shorts that don’t leave enough to the imagination, and he grins and scratches his belly and claps Jamie on the shoulder. “Got ourselves a star, don’t we, boys!” he exclaims, and the lads cheer while Jamie smirks.
“Too right, bruv,” Isaac says, slinging an arm around Jamie’s shoulders momentarily. Isaac is the one he knows the best. They used to go drinking together back at the academy, out on the pull together. Isaac’s not a friend - you talk about your shit to friends, don’t you, and Jamie’s not stupid enough or weak enough for that - but he’s safe.
“Yes, boyo!” Colin adds, and he flicks the visor of Jamie’s cap playfully.
Jamie frowns. “Er, watch the hair,” he says irritably. He’s not actually sure what his hair looks like underneath the hat. He’s been wearing it for five hours. He definitely doesn’t want it knocked off in front of the team.
Colin holds up his hands, laughing inanely. He looks like an idiot, Jamie thinks - slack-jawed and dim, like there’s nothing between his ears but air. Not that that would matter, if he could actually kick a football in a straight line. “Oh, right, sorry, mate,” he says.
“Sheep-shagging twat,” Jamie says. He’s rewarded by a chorus of jeers - and Cartrick bellows with laughter.
It feels good, standing in the centre of a crowd like this. It’s not the first time, obviously - when he was playing nationals all the other lads looked up to him like this, and he was always in the middle of things back at the academy. But it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Ever since he made first team - but he doesn’t go there. No point in going there.
A funny little tinkle of laughter makes him look up. There’s somebody standing at the fringes of the group, someone who can’t possibly be on the team, no matter how shit Richmond is. He’s so short that Jamie almost misses him, and he’s chuckling in the same deferential, sycophantic way Higgins was smiling earlier.
Something about it rankles.
“The fuck are you, mate?” Jamie asks him, and around him the boys fall silent, turning to see who he’s looking at.
The man’s round face twitches, like he’s not sure whether to be pleased or frightened by being addressed. That feels good, seeing that. He looks around at the lads like they might tell him what to say, and then when they don’t he says nervously: “I’m… I’m the kit man.”
“Kit man,” Jamie repeats.
Another flickering little glance around the team. “Yes,” the kit man says, swallowing.
“You think he’s a sheep-shagging twat?” Jamie asks, pointing a thumb at Colin. The other lads laugh again, and so does Cartrick, a deep rumbling guffaw.
Under his breath, Colin mutters: “Fuck’s sake…”
“What - no - I - no,” the kit man stammers, dark eyes darting around the group.
“You laughed,” Jamie says. He grins round at the others. “He laughed, didn’t he? You going to let him laugh at you like that, mate?” he asks Colin.
That sets off a fresh round of jeering laughter. Colin steps up at once, the way Jamie knew he would. “You laughing at me, boyo?” he asks the kit man, all mock indignation. He moves forward, ruffles the kit man’s short hair, curls a tight arm around his neck. “Calling me a sheep-shagger!”
“Racist, innit,” Isaac says.
“Xenophobic,” Thierry corrects him.
Colin shakes his head, all boyish pleasure. “Xenophobic,” he repeats. He grips the kit man a little tighter. “Outrageous!”
Jamie watches, grinning. He couldn’t do this back at City. People didn’t look at him like this back there, and he’s missed it. Okay, yeah, he can admit that to himself - he’s missed it. It’s a good feeling, knowing people are looking at him, the way they did when he was a teenager. If he’d grown up somewhere else, somewhere with a shit team like Richmond, been scouted here in London instead of Manchester, he might’ve always had this. But then he wouldn’t belong to the best team in England.
“Alright, Colin, come on, that’s enough—” the kit man is saying, voice stuttering with his head still under Colin’s arm.
“He says he’s had enough!” Colin exclaims.
More shouts of laughter. The gaffer, Jamie notes abstractly, has wandered back towards his office, closing the door behind him, uninterested in all the horseplay. Higgins has fucked off too. It’s just the team, and they’re all gathered around Jamie. The way they should be, since he’s going to save them from relegation this season.
There’s movement behind him, and he turns in time to see Roy Kent standing up in one fluid motion. It makes him catch his breath, or it would, if he was some dumb prick wearing his heart on his sleeve. Roy is tall and dark and scowling, and he looks like the poster in Jamie’s bedroom back home, except better because he’s half-naked. He’s frowning in exactly the way he always frowns in all that promotional shit.
“Move,” he barks out, pushing through the little gaggle of his teammates without waiting for them to comply. It’s - well, it’s something. It’s nothing. It can’t be anything - but fuck, it’s something. “Out my fucking way!”
Jamie deliberately doesn’t move, and sure enough, a moment later Roy pushes past him too. It’s not much - just the lightest shove, Roy’s furry shoulder bumping into Jamie’s chest - but it makes him shiver. Roy Kent just touched him. Roy fucking Kent just fucking touched him.
“That’s enough,” Roy snaps at Colin, who releases the kit man with a grin as Roy pushes between them. “Hit the showers!” he adds over his shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here!”
He pauses by the door, just for a moment, and his eyes meet Jamie’s. Jamie raises his eyebrows, full of challenge. Roy Kent. It’s like a mantra, or some shit. Roy Kent, here and now, looking at him. He made Roy Kent smile, just a little, and now Roy Kent is looking at him.
He’s not smiling now. He glares at Jamie - but that’s what Roy Kent does. Every time Jamie ever pictured him as a teenager, Roy was always glaring.
“Prick,” Roy says, looking straight at Jamie. Then he turns away, heads for the showers like nothing happened, leaves Jamie staring after him, because—
That wasn’t - that felt like it meant something, that last insult. That didn’t feel like it was part of the fun. Like maybe Roy actually meant it, something angry and despising in that dark glare. But that doesn’t - Roy Kent’s a legend, but Jamie Tartt’s a rising star - and Jamie made him smile. Roy can’t - he can’t just decide Jamie’s a prick, can’t write him off. Not just like that. Not Roy Kent, whose face glared down at Jamie every night for more than a decade.
That’s not how this is supposed to go, is it? After all - what’s not to like about Jamie?