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It's 2005.
Roy Kent is twenty-three years old and top of the world.
He's been made captain at Chelsea, and they're not only miles ahead on the Premiership table, but they've won the League Cup, and they're getting ready for the quarter-finals of the Champion's League. They did shit the bed in the FA Cup and get knocked out early, so there go their hopes of winning everything, but a treble is certainly still worth aiming for.
It's a bit fucking annoying to be pulled away from all that for a week of international duty, but there's World Cup qualifiers to be played— no one actually enjoys the fucking chore that is playing for England, not when the club rivalries run so deep that it's hard to put them aside and see the lads here as your actual teammates, but the glory of winning matches for your country is always a bit nice.
They're playing at Old Trafford tomorrow, so they're on a bus up to Manchester— Roy fucking hates playing there, because the United lads are the most arrogant fucking shitheads to ever walk this planet, and playing at their home ground only makes them fucking worse. He'd gotten in a dust-up with a couple of them during training today, which had nearly come to blows, arguing about nothing in particular other than the smug fucking looks on their faces when Roy got megged in a scrimmage.
(So, yeah, he'd probably been the one to pick the fight, but he'll stand by the fact that they escalated it. They'd all been fucking reamed out by the manager, who'd called them little bitch pre-Madonnas— Roy hadn't had the gall to ask what the fuck Madonna has to do with football. Maybe he meant Maradona, and it was a compliment all along.)
It feels less like a compliment, though, when the three of them are pulled aside on their way off of the bus, and told they've been specially chosen to do a press junket tomorrow morning— they should be up bright and early, ready to go have their pictures taken and shake some hands.
"Fuck," Roy groans, because everyone fucking knows he hates doing press more than fucking anyone, so this punishment was fucking designed for him. "What's the fine if I don't do it?"
And the manager gets right in his fucking face and snaps:
"If you want to see how Mourinho feels about you being sent home from international duty for behaviour issues, be my guest. A car is coming at eight tomorrow to take you to the event, and if you're not in it, you can hop on a train back to London and go home."
Roy blinks. He's pretty sure Mourinho would ruin his fucking life if that happened, actually, so he's got no leg to stand on.
"Fine," he huffs, and he picks up his bag and marches into the hotel.
He'll do it, but he's not going to smile for the stupid fucking cameras.
-
It turns out the event is at a children's hospital— Roy immediately feels a bit bad for complaining, because he's not a fucking monster. He hates the press, but he can at least be nice to sick fucking children.
There's a boring bit when they first get there, where they shake hands with posh, annoying hospital administrators and investors and shit, but then they're brought inside to a playroom of sorts, where dozens of little heads perk up when they walk in.
And it's fun, innit. They split up and each take a group of kids to have a kickabout, sign some autographs, and answer questions— Roy dutifully tells the adorable little fucks that his favourite colour is blue, and that he does like beans on toast, and that his favourite thing to do when he's not busy with football is going golfing with his teammates.
(It's actually getting piss-drunk on a yacht with his teammates and a bunch of models, but he can't say that to children. When one boy asks him who the prettiest girl he's ever kissed was, he makes up some bullshit about being a gentleman and never talking behind a girl's back, and feels proper fucking responsible with all the life lessons he's teaching.)
Eventually, though, the kids in his group start to leave— some are tired out, some have treatments and appointments to get to, and Roy is left standing there alone while his teammates (whom he's still annoyed with and has hardly said a word to today) still have a few kids around each of them.
"Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Kent," a nurse says, walking over to him. "I haven't seen this much energy in the room in a while— the children were so excited to meet you."
"It was nice to get out and... do something," Roy offers, with a nod. He's really fucking bad at talking to people. "I enjoyed it."
She smiles.
"I'm very glad... I do have a small favour to ask, while your mates are still wrapping up over there, if you don't mind."
And she probably wants him to sign something, so he just nods again.
"Yeah, sure," he says, already reaching for the Sharpie pen in his pocket.
"There's a wee patient of mine, just on the unit down the hall from here, who's a massive football fan," she says. "He would've loved to come out and play today, but he's just not got the energy for it lately— I was wondering if you wouldn't mind popping into his room quickly and saying hello. I reckon it would really make his day; he says you're his favourite player."
Roy blinks. Sticks his pen back in his pocket.
"Yeah, of course. I'd love to."
Because he might be a massive fucking prick, most of the time, but there's some kid, sick and stuck in hospital, all the way up in Manchester, whose favourite footballer is... him. Roy can remember being a wee kid and idolizing his favourite players, remembers being lonely up at Sunderland and daydreaming about what it'd be like to meet England greats like Shearer or Lineker, both of whom he did grow up to meet eventually— and now there's this kid that loves football and wants to meet Roy Kent, and Roy's quite sure the realization has broken something in his brain.
He's following the nurse down the hallway, and he's oddly fucking nervous, and keeps wiping his hands on his jeans. He's glad he's wearing one of his actual match shirts, because they're meant to be sweated in, so at least it won't show that he's kind of freaking the fuck out right now.
"He's eight years old," the nurse is telling him, "and he's in the middle of treatment for nephroblastoma, which is a kind of kidney cancer. He's normally a little ball of energy, isn't he, but chemotherapy has taken a lot out of him lately, so he'll likely be a bit quiet today."
Roy nods. He doesn't honestly know much about cancer, but he does know chemotherapy is the shit that makes your hair fall out, and it makes you really fucking ill before it makes you any better. The poor kid, going through that so young. He must be fucking miserable.
"Is he— will he be okay?" Roy's mouth asks, before his brain can stop it. "Like, eventually?"
"Most likely," she says. "The type of tumour he's battling has very good odds for recovery— he'll have surgery in a few weeks to hopefully remove the last of the cancer cells, and his goal is to get back on the pitch by the fall."
"Good goal, that," Roy says. "Sounds like a smart kid."
And they're stopping outside of a room, where she knocks on the cracked-open door and softly says:
"Jamie? Are you awake in there?"
There's a tired little whine from inside the room, like maybe he wasn't awake, but he is now.
"I'm sorry, my dear," the nurse chuckles, sanitizing her hands and stepping into the room, motioning for Roy to do the same. There's a curtain blocking the bed from the doorway, so she goes up to it and pokes her head in. "I know you were napping, love, but I've got a surprise for you."
"Okay," a little voice sniffles. "M'tired, though."
"I know, but I promise this will be worth waking up for. Is it alright if someone comes in?"
The kid must nod, because the nurse pulls back the curtain— Roy steps a little closer, and lays eyes on a pale, sickly-looking kid, with tubes and lines attached all over his tiny body. He's got a Man City beanie on his bald head, a football-patterned blanket pulled up to his chest, and a teddy bear in his lap with a Three Lions kit on.
"Hello," Roy says, giving the kid a little wave, unsure of what else to do with himself.
The kid stares, wide-eyed.
"You're Roy Kent."
Roy nods.
"I am."
The kid stares at him a moment longer... and promptly starts crying.
"Oh, fuck..." Roy breathes, before his common sense can catch up to the fact that he shouldn't be swearing in front of an eight year-old. "Jesus Christ. Are you okay?"
The kid nods, quickly reaching up to wipe at his eyes.
"I'm fine. I just— oh my god." He takes a shaky, heaving breath, like he's trying to get himself under control. "You're my favourite footballer ever, and I always wanted to meet you. I'm so happy."
Again, Roy's brain breaks a little. This sweet little kid with cancer is crying because he's so excited to meet him. It's, like, the most heartwarming thing ever. Forget every Disney film he's ever watched— this is the new winner. He's going to have to rethink his whole ranking of adorable things.
"Oh," Roy says, like a fucking idiot. "Let's bring it in, then. Is that alright?"
He moves closer to the bed, and when the kid nods, Roy reaches down to hug him. The poor thing's still crying, wrapped up in Roy's arms, and clings onto him with a surprisingly strong grip.
"It's okay," Roy continues. "Um, I'm really happy to meet you. I heard you're quite the footballer yourself, when you're feeling a bit better."
The boy, whose name Roy has already forgotten from when the nurse said it, sniffles and nods.
"I was the best on my team, before I got sick," he says, an incredibly innocent sort of confidence in his voice. "I'm gonna try out for the under-10s at City once I'm better. I wanna play for England someday."
Roy chuckles.
"Gonna take my spot, are you?"
The kid shakes his head.
"No. We'll be on the team together, and I'll play really good, just like you, and we'll score loads and loads of goals together."
"You've got it all thought out, then, have you?" Roy squeezes his shoulder carefully, pulling back from the hug to smile at him. "Good lad. Next time I score a goal, it'll be just for you— I'll try my best out there tonight."
And the sweet little lad is still crying, but he giggles a little.
"When you celebrate, you should make a silly face. Like—" He sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes. "That's what face I make at my mummy when I score."
Roy wants to hug him again and never fucking let go, some little part of him having grown incredibly fond and attached already.
"Alright, yeah. My next goal, I promise I'll make that face, and then you'll know it was for you when they show it on the telly."
"Yes," the kid laughs. "That's so awesome, Mr. Roy. You're amazing."
"I think you're amazing," Roy counters him. "You're very fucking brave, fighting cancer and still keeping a smile on your face."
The kid grins up at him.
"You just said a bad word."
Shit.
"I did," he says, deciding just to own it. "I'm a footballer, I say bad words all the fucking time. You can too, when you're a grown-up."
"Only when I grow up?" the cheeky little fuck giggles. "Not now?"
"Well... I wouldn't tell anyone, if you said one bad word now," Roy sighs, making a show of lowering his voice. "We can keep it a secret."
The kid lights up, leans in closer, and whispers:
"Fuck cancer."
And he's got a fucking point, so Roy nods.
"You are so fucking right. Fuck cancer."
And they have a good little laugh, the two of them, and Roy makes a mental note to send up a shirt and a poster from the PR department once he's back at Chelsea, and even once they're out of time, because he has to go get ready for the match, he can't stop thinking about this kid.
He scores a hat trick that night, pulls the silly face every time, and then calls the hospital to make a massive donation to their cancer research department the next day.
He thinks about the kid for years, wonders if he's okay, and wishes he could remember his fucking name so he could look him up.
He's got a good feeling, though.
-
"Tartt!" he bellows from his office, which still feels like it should be Ted's office, only a week into his new role as manager. "Get the fuck in here!"
He's reviewing the team's preseason medical reports— there's not too much to see, but he's skimming them over, since this is the first time he's got access to these records, including their histories. It's not that he's looking for anything, or trying to be nosy, but he supposes it's best practice just to keep an eye out for things he should know.
Like—
"Since when do you only have one fucking kidney?" he says, as soon as Jamie walks in from the dressing room, half-changed after a day of strength testing and fitness baselines. "What the fuck?"
"Oh," Jamie laughs. "Right. Yeah, I used to have two, didn't I, but one of 'em got taken out. The one that's left is, like, dead strong, though, and works just as well as two— just have to protect it, like, but that only changes how much salt is in my meal plan and makes it so I can't take ibuprofen. Nothing you have to worry about."
"Well, where the fuck did the other one go?" Roy asks, incredulous. "It got taken out?"
"Yeah. It was fucking covered in cancer, right," Jamie replies, far too casually for the matter at hand, gesturing vaguely to his abdomen, "so they just took the whole thing, instead of trying to pry the tumour off, or whatever— and then I did all the treatment and that, to clear up the rest of the cancer cells, and bish-bash-bosh. I was fine. This was all ages ago, like, so it's nothing to worry about now."
Roy blinks.
His mouth goes dry.
"When you were eight."
Jamie nods, unfazed.
"Yeah." He leans over to look at Roy's computer. Roy feels dizzy. "Does it say on there, when the surgery was? Well, I had a load of surgeries, but the first one was where they took my kidney. The rest were, like, to put in a line for the chemo, and then take it out, and then another one to get the last of the cancer out, and— fucking hell, Roy. Are you okay?"
He's not, is he, because it's all fucking falling into place. Holy shit.
(Jamie still sticks his fucking tongue out when he scores a goal. Jesus Christ.)
"You're that kid from the hospital," he states. "I came and met you, when you were ill."
"Oh," Jamie grins, looking surprised and delighted. "Yeah! I figured you ain't remembered that. Honestly, I thought it were a dream, maybe, until the poster and the shirt you signed came in the mail. My mum wouldn't believe me that you really were there, since she missed it while she was at work— thought I were hallucinating or summat, from the chemo killing my brain cells."
"You—" Roy cuts himself off. "I wondered about you for fucking years. I couldn't remember your name, just your fucking room number, so I had them send the package to the fucking hospital for you." He pauses. Swallows the lump that's inching its way up his throat. "I was just really fucking hoping you were alive. I prayed for that little kid I met, all the fucking time... and it was you."
It's Jamie's turn to lose his words, just sort of blinking at him. There's something in his face that, for a brief moment, becomes that little kid all over again.
"Oh."
He twists his hands up in the front of his shirt. Roy wonders if there's faint scars under there from his surgeries— too light to notice after all this time, but forever marked on his skin, if you know where to look.
"You told me you were gonna try out for City's under-10s, once you got better," Roy offers. "Obviously, that fucking worked out."
Jamie lets out a breathy sort of laugh, and shakes his head.
"Yeah, I guess it did." He pauses. "God, I was such a shite, weren't I. Probably told you I was gonna kick your ass someday."
Roy rolls his eyes.
"No. You told me we'd play for England together and score loads of goals. You even taught me your celebration."
A flush creeps up Jamie's face.
"Did I?"
Roy pulls the silly face at him— the same one he'd done after all three of his goals that night— and Jamie groans, covering his eyes.
"Fuck. That's so fucking embarrassing, Roy. I was so stupid."
"Oi, I'm the one who did it in an actual match," Roy teases.
Jamie's jaw drops.
"You did?"
"Yeah. I was hoping you'd be watching on TV— I scored a hat trick that same day we met, against Northern Ireland at Old Trafford. You told me to do your celebration, so I fucking did."
Jamie continues to gape like a fish for a moment.
"Fucking hell," he finally says. "I probably slept through the match, honestly— I think around the time you visited was when I was really, really ill, and just napped all the fucking time." He shakes his head. "Jesus. Do you reckon there's match tape floating around the internet somewhere? When was this, 2005? Did they film things back then?"
"Did they—" Roy cuts himself off, belated realizing the sheer stupidity of that question. "You fucking muppet. I could pull the match up on YouTube right now. Did they film things back then— you've got to be fucking joking. You watched fucking football on TV, didn't you? Fucking Sky Sports?"
"Yes," Jamie huffs. "But putting it on TV and putting it on the internet is two different things, ain't it? You didn't even have YouTube, back in those days."
Roy rolls his eyes.
"Well, I'm sure they recorded it, because we watched it in film review the next day, on a fucking tape in a video player. Someone out there has probably posted it somewhere by now. You can watch me humiliate myself for you."
"That's actually fucking mint," Jamie laughs. "I have to find it. There's my evening sorted."
Roy sighs.
"Go finish getting changed, you little fucking shit." He waves Jamie off, deeming the sentimental moment over and done with. He does add, though: "I'm really fucking glad you're alive, Tartt. I'm glad that little kid was you."
And Jamie looks quite chuffed, and gives him a strange sort of smile.
"Yeah, I'm glad it was me, too."
-
A couple of months later, Jamie posts a photo of himself on Instagram, doing the cross-eyed tongue-out goal celebration in an England kit. It's accompanied by a grainy screenshot of a young, beardless Roy doing the very same face, nearly twenty years prior.
@jamietartt9: Some things never change !! When I was 8, @RoyKent stopped by Manchester Royal Children's Hospital with some of the @England squad, while I was there having cancer treatment - I got to meet him and teach him my fav goal celebration 😝 Thanks to the amazing MRCH staff who saved my life, I'm on the pitch today celebrating my own goals !
Sooo chuffed to be helping out now, funding some big renovations to the oncology unit that I stayed in back then, and visiting loads of patients with the lads before our match yesterday xx @NHS @England you are amazing !!!
And Roy never fucking comments on Instagram posts, because he fucking hates social media, but he supposes he can make an exception.
@RoyKent: Proud of you. ❤️😝