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Jamie Tartt is seven-almost-eight years old and Roy Kent is the tallest man he’s ever seen. Taller than his dad and his mum. Taller than Mr. Butterman, his teacher, and Coach Weaver. He is vibrating with excitement, standing outside the visiting team’s tunnel, pen clutched in one chubby hand, the brand-new poster held as carefully as possible in the other. Mum had saved up all season so she could take him to the Chelsea game when they came to town, and that would have been good enough for any birthday, but then she bought him the poster and agreed to wait after the match so they could get it signed. And now, an hour after the horn sounded, Roy Kent is walking out of the tunnel towards the bus, and Jamie can do nothing but stare, mouth gaping, eyes as big as saucers.
“Go on, Jam.” Mummy nudges him from behind, but Jamie can’t make his legs work. Roy is too tall, and his face is dark and stormy, and Jamie is a brave boy, but for a moment he thinks he doesn’t need the poster signed. Just having the poster is enough for him. Then Mummy says, “Excuse me? Mr. Kent?” And Roy’s head swings around, his eyes narrowing as they fall on Jamie.
“Can we get an autograph, please? It’s his birthday.” Mummy gently pushes his back again, and Jamie stumbles forward, offering the marker and the poster. For a moment, Jamie thinks it won’t do any good, that Roy will tell him to fuck off—he says that word on the telly all the time. Any time he’s on camera, in fact, and it makes Jamie giggle. He doesn’t feel like giggling now, though.
Instead of telling Jamie to fuck off, Roy Kent asks, “What’s your name?”
“Jamie Tartt.”
He takes the pen from Jamie and the poster. “You play football, Jamie Tartt?”
“Yeah.”
“What position?”
“Striker.”
“You score a lot of goals?”
“Yeah,” Jamie answers shyly, because it’s the truth. Feeling bold by how well this is going he adds, “You’re my favorite player.”
“Aren’t you a City boy?” Roy partially unrolls the poster and holds it up against the brick wall, leaving his tight signature.
Jamie nods.
“But I’m your favorite, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Good lad. Keep at it. Maybe we’ll play together one day.”
Jamie gasps at the thought of it, and then he’s watching Roy walk away, the poster and pen safely in Mummy’s hands. He pauses at the doors of the big bus, turns and sees Jamie still watching him. He waves. Roy signing his poster and calling him a good lad are cracker, but the best part is that wave. It makes Jamie flush with pleasure. It’s like when his mummy pauses at the door to give him a final kiss goodbye, like he’s somebody important.
“Mummy, mummy didn’t you see that? He waved at me!”
“I saw, Jam. Come on, let’s get this home and hang it up somewhere special.”
The poster ends up on his wall, at the foot of the bed. Once there, he never takes it down. Even when his dad shows up and gives him shit over it. He’ll take a blow to the ear over it, but for Jamie, it’s a small price to pay.
2.
Jamie is sixteen years old and he’s in London for a match with his best mate Simon. They sneak out after curfew because Simon’s sister Cara lives in London now, and she has her own flat, like a proper adult, and she knows a girl who works at a private club that’s hosting a party that night. Cara is four years older than Jamie, and mad fit and she likes him. She lets him kiss her and feel her up under her shirt, and she’s excited when he lets her dress him up for their trip to the club.
“You can’t look sixteen, right? You gotta look older, at least eighteen.” She says he’s like a Ken doll and squeals with delight when she steps back to study her work. He looks pretty fit, he has to admit, though he knows it’s not the look that will get him past the doorman—it’s the confidence. Walk in like you belong, and most people won’t notice that you don’t belong at all. And he’s got to get past the doorman, because this isn’t just any private party. It’s for Chelsea, fresh off their Champions league trophy. There’s no guarantee, of course, but Roy Kent is the fucking captain of the squad which means it’s really a party in his honor, so he should be there, right?
Cara has the face of an angel and the tongue of a devil, but that’s not how she gets Jamie through the door. The doorman puts a hand out against Jamie’s chest and studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Jamie juts his hip out and smiles with all the cocksure confidence he knows how to fake, but he knows the look on the other man’s face. It’s the same expression he has when he gives Cara the once over—it’s not about being old enough, it’s about being pretty enough. Will one of the Very Important People in there like the look of Jamie? Like him enough to ignore the fact that he had no business in there at all? The doorman assesses and nods, lets Jamie pass, stops Simon in his tracks.
“Not you.”
“But that’s my sister!”
“I don’t give a fuck who she is. Get the fuck out of here.”
Jamie and Cara leave Simon behind, and Jamie thinks he might have just lost his best mate, but he doesn’t care. He links arms with Cara, and they slowly drift deeper into the club. It’s mad. The most beautiful people Jamie has ever seen in his life are rubbing up against him, and champagne is flowing freely, and every time he finishes a drink somebody pushes another one into his hand. It takes awhile, but they finally work their way to the balcony, where Cara’s friend is in charge of bottle service for the fucking Chelsea squad.
Roy Kent still seems like the biggest man Jamie has ever seen in his life. He’s sitting in the middle of his teammates, a king holding court, and though Jamie had gone to considerable risk to be right there in that moment, he suddenly feels the urge to flee. He doesn’t belong there. This is not his celebration. He’s just some kid. And he doesn’t want to look like an asshole in front of Roy Kent. Cara nudges him towards the table, but he veers to the side, positioning himself away from the team where he can see Roy Kent without being noticed.
The booze does not stop. He drinks what he’s given and the glass disappears and another one takes its place, and he drinks that too. He’s drunk, and he feels woozy and sick, and he thinks he needs some air. Then Roy separates himself from the group, shrugs on his jacket and moves to the side exit. Jamie is too drunk to think about what he’s doing, he just knows he doesn’t want to let Roy out of his sight, so he follows him out onto the patio.
“Can I get one off you?” Jamie asks as Roy lights his cigarette.
“Bit young, aren’t you?”
“Old enough.” Jamie congratulates himself on sounding so smooth. He’s not really a smoker—smoking is fucking stupid if you want to be professional, but he’s had a few fags with his mates, and he manages to light this one without coughing his lungs out, inhales without puking all over his shoes.
“You’re not old enough to be here, are you?”
Jamie doesn’t want to talk about that. “Congrats on the win, man. You were fucking brilliant.”
“Is that why you snuck in the club? To tell me something I already know?”
“Here with my girlfriend,” Jamie shoots back.
Roy snorts. “Sure, whatever.”
“Just wanted to say, you know. Not trying to be a pest.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your name?”
“Jamie Tartt.”
“You play football, Jamie Tartt?”
Jamie puffs his chest out. “Play for City.”
“What? The U-18?” Roy shakes his head. “Look, I’m here trying to have a good time. Don’t need some little snot-nose kid chasing me down.” He flicks his cigarette. “Go on back to barracks before you get in trouble.”
Roy leaves him, red-faced, head pounding. He smokes down the rest of the fag because he doesn’t know what else to do, and by the time he stumbles back into the club, he can barely see straight. A large hand grabs him by the arm, says something from a great distance, something like a good-looking kid like him shouldn’t be stumbling around alone. The hand pushes him into a nearby booth, and it’s dark, and he can’t see who is with him, but suddenly, there’s a mouth on his, and the hand is between his legs, squeezing him too hard.
Jamie struggles, but the other man is much larger and much stronger, and he’s pins Jamie down between the wall and the table. The room spins out of control, and Jamie can’t even get his bearings, much less fight back against the hot, wet mouth, and the too-large frame, and the painful grip on his knob. He can’t even scream because of the weight pinning his chest.
“Oi! What the fuck are you doing?”
The weight disappears and Jamie gasps air into his aching lungs.
“Just having a bit of fun.”
“Can’t you tell he’s a fucking kid?”
“Old enough to be in the club, isn’t he?”
“Get the fuck gone.”
Then large hands are gripping Jamie by the shirt and hauling him out of the booth, and he’s face to face with Roy Kent. He’s shouting at Jamie, but Jamie can’t hear him over the club’s music and the pounding in his ears and he tries to pull away, tries to turn his head in time. He pukes all over the table, and then Roy is hauling him away, practically carrying him through the crowd, then pushing him out the fire exit.
“I told you to get the fuck out of here. I’m calling you a cab. Don’t fucking move.”
Jamie leans against the wall, chest heaving, head swimming. The only thing that’s real is Roy and he’s furious and he’s staying right there with him, waiting for the car he called.
“Thank you,” Jamie finally spits out.
“Don’t be so fucking stupid. You want to play in the PL one day, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then wise the fuck up. Get your ass back to your bunk where you belong, and don’t give them a fucking reason to take it away from you.”
Then Roy shoves him into a cab. Somehow, Jamie doesn’t get caught sneaking back in. The details of the night are fuzzy and fading by the next morning, his head pounding so fucking hard that he thinks he might die, but somehow, he remembers Roy Kent. Telling him not give them a fucking reason to take football, to take his dreams. He doesn’t break curfew again.
3.
Roy Kent is a shadow of his former self, but he’s still the biggest man in the locker room. Jamie knows he’s staring, but it’s crazy that this is actually happening, that he’s actually there, and they’re actually on the same team. When Pep told Jamie they’d be loaning out his contract to AFC Richmond for the season, it felt almost like a punishment, but then the news came down that Richmond had signed the legend, and suddenly, traveling on down to London didn’t seem like such a punishment anymore.
But Jamie’s dream of playing on the same team with Roy Kent quickly turned into something out of a nightmare. And not just because he wasn’t a big fan of Jamie Tartt—that prick didn’t like anybody. Get too close to him, and he’d roar and lash out like a wounded bear. The only people he didn’t seem to hate were the ones who treated him like he was still King Shit of Turd Mountain, and obviously, he’d once been that great, but now he’s old, and he’s slow, and Jamie doesn’t see why he has to treat Roy with special reverence when he hasn’t done anything special since Jamie was a kid.
And Jamie would fucking know. He doesn’t know a world without Roy Kent. Doesn’t know football without Roy and his influence on the game. He can see better than anybody how much Roy has slowed down. Knows when Roy’s knee is giving him particular trouble. Knows which nights Roy can’t sleep because he looks even more like shit in the morning. Knows Roy is scared. Can see it in his eyes and in the way he plays, and it pisses Jamie off to watch the man he idolized be brought down like this. Pisses Jamie off when Roy sneers at him and acts like Jamie is dogshit on his shoe when Jamie is faster and better and has the fucking stats to prove it.
It's okay, as long as they stay out each other’s way, but when Lasso arrives he sets them on a crash course. A part of Jamie can see everything that’s happening and he’s not stupid. He knows this will not end well for him but he can’t stop. He can’t stop when Roy tells him to stop and he can’t stop when Roy shouts at him to stop and he can’t stop after Keeley dumps him. He can’t even stop when Lasso gets fed up and benches him. If he stops, he might have to admit he’s wrong, and if he’s wrong about this, what else is he wrong about?
He goes to the stupid curse show-and-tell because he has to fucking get this shit under control. He can’t keep fighting everybody around him—he didn’t want to fight anybody at all. He doesn’t want Ted to yell at him in the middle of the locker room and keep him benched. He doesn’t want the team to snicker at him because it’s funny that the arrogant prick is now on second team. He doesn’t want Roy to hate him. This is it, their one fucking chance to be on a team together, and it’s all Jamie ever wanted in his life, and he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life with the memory of Roy Kent detesting his existence. So he brings the boots his mum bought him, and he tries to tell them—tries to tell Roy—that maybe he’s not such a fucking prick after all.
And it works.
Roy nudges his shoulder into Jamie’s as they all file out to the car park, still singing, half-drunk, reeking of terrible smoke from a fire that smelled mostly of petrol and chemicals.
“Took balls to say what you did,” Roy says, his voice deeper than usual, like the mescal and smoke had scraped his throat raw. Jamie saw him chug Dani's bottle more than once, and he's surprised Roy can even walk at all.
Jamie catches his breath, wary. “Thanks, mate.”
“My dad was a piece of shit, too. Still is, if I’m being honest.”
“Guess you turned out okay.”
“Me? I’m a fucking mess. You want to get a beer?”
Jamie looks around. Nobody else is close enough to hear the exchange. Which means Roy is asking him if he wants to get a beer. Like they are actual mates and Roy doesn’t hate him and maybe the curse really is broken?
“Bit late, but I got a few bottles at mine.” It’s a big fucking gamble, because why would Roy Kent want to go back to Jamie’s? It isn’t like he asked Jamie out on a date. He’s not angling for alone time, right? But Roy nods, and he definitely had more to drink than Jamie, so it’s not even that hard to get Roy into the passenger seat of his Aston Martin and maybe Ted Lasso had access to some powerful magics? Because it would take some real witch doctor shit to get Roy Kent into his fucking car at the end of the night.
Jamie thinks about revealing they met before, but decides to tuck it away. Roy is probably too drunk to listen to him anyway, and what the fuck is he going to do with a drunk Roy Kent back at his house? But Keeley’s gone and he’s pretty sure Roy isn’t seeing anybody. (Yet, his unhelpful mind supplies. He’s not seeing Keeley yet).
He thinks they’ll share a beer and then he’ll order Roy a car home. He thinks after the second beer, Roy will definitely want to call it a night. After three beers, Jamie is fucked up, and Roy is crowding him and there’s a part of Jamie that wants to punch him in the face and tell him to back the fuck off, and another part of Jamie that wants to pull him closer.
“I liked you better with long hair,” Jamie blurts. It’s complete nonsense. It makes Roy smile.
“My hair was a fucking disaster.”
All Jamie can do is repeat himself. “I liked it. It was a disaster and you didn’t give a fuck.”
The corner of Roy’s eyes crinkle and he’s still crowding Jamie. Jamie’s instincts are telling him Roy either wants to fight or fuck, but he’s not knucked up, no tension in his shoulders. “What else do you like?”
So fuck. Jamie’s head is muddy and this is probably a terrible idea, but he’s used up his quota of good ideas for the month. This is all he’s got left. So he fists Roy’s shirt and he pulls him closer, and he sees the surprise in Roy’s eyes and he hopes he doesn’t get a fist to the face, then their mouths are fused together. And the thing is, he’s always known he’s wanted to kiss Roy Kent, but maybe Roy has only just realized he wants to kiss Jamie Tartt, so the kiss itself isn’t very great. Their teeth knock together, and their lips don’t fit just right, and they’re both drunk and violence is always shimmering, glimmering under the surface.
But Roy doesn’t push him away.
They kiss until Jamie feels like he’s drowning and there’s a taste of blood mixed in with the spit, and his lips hurt and his cock hurts, and it hurts all the way to his bones. Roy has to put an end to it, because he’s not going to be the one. Roy does break away first, but not because he’s stopping. He spins Jamie around, pressed him against the sharp edge of the kitchen counter and yanks his trousers down, his mouth hot and heavy on the back of Jamie’s neck, his hard-on pushing against Jamie’s thigh, and this is going to hurt in a way Jamie isn’t prepared for, but he doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t tell Roy no. Doesn’t twist away. Doesn’t want to stop him because he knows Roy isn’t going to hurt him physically—it’s going to be in the heart.
“Can’t stop thinking about you, Tartt.” Like a blow to his sternum. “Can’t stop thinking about your fucking little body.” Like a blow to his stomach. “Can’t stop thinking about what’ll be like to fuck this ass.” And Jamie’s down for the count, bent over the cool marble, his ass in the air and he’s gagging for it, he wants Roy to fuck him so bad he can’t even say it. Can’t even say Roy’s name.
Roy spits into his palm and slicks it over his cock, and that’s the extent of his consideration. He pushes into Jamie, using his strength to overcome any resistance he meets and Jamie howls and scrambles across the slick counter, and whimpers when Roy pulls away and then he’s pushing forward again, his cushioned against Jamie’s ass with each hard thrust. Roy holds him by the hips with a bruising grip, and he fucks him like he’s fighting him, and if it’s a fight, Jamie doesn’t know if he’s winning or losing. The pleasure is radical, a razor’s edge from being pain he can’t withstand, his cock is trapped between his stomach and counter and it’s agony and it’s ecstasy and it’s better for him that he can’t touch himself.
Roy is grunting, panting, saying Jamie’s name like it’s a profanity. Jamie feels something hot and slick on his thighs, knows it’s not come, and it makes him wild, makes him snap his hips back, taking over the tempo. Roy isn’t fucking him, he’s fucking himself onto Roy’s dick, and Roy’s grunts are climbing in volume, forming into words, and his skin is slick, too, and Jamie wants to fuck until the friction burns them both, turns them into ash.
Jamie can go all night and he’s not going to be the first one to relent. He’s not. He doesn’t care if he has to crawl into practice the next morning, doesn’t care if Roy’s dick is so raw he can’t walk without doubling over. He has so much he wants to fucking say that he will never say, and he’s so fucking angry about things that can never be fixed, and he loves Roy so fucking much that it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair because he doesn’t even like the bastard. It isn’t fair that the man he likes is a phantom in his memories and the real thing is a grumpy old twat, past his prime, afraid of his own uselessness. It’s not fair because Jamie would love him even if he was a decrepit grandad in a wheelchair, if Roy would only let him, and Roy will never fucking let him.
Roy is the one who breaks first. He pushes deep into Jamie and shouts incoherently, and feeling the hot wave of his come is more than Jamie can withstand his cock jerks against his stomach, and he’s a fucking mess of come and blood and tears and he thinks Roy should just leave him there, an inconsolable pile of limbs on his kitchen floor.
But Roy kisses him, asks where the bath is, helps Jamie into the tub and fills it with warm water, and he’s apologizing because he didn’t mean to do that. Jamie listens numbly, and realizes Roy is serious. He’s sorry.
“It’s okay,” Jamie mutters. “You saved me before.”
Roy doesn’t know what that means. He helps Jamie get cleaned up even though Jamie wants to push his hands away, and he mutters another apology before he leaves.
The next day, Jamie gets the call from his agent. He’s going home.
4.
Jamie sees Roy from the corner of his eye, a giant shadow looming above him, and he automatically puts his shoulder up. But Roy holds him and he doesn’t let go first. Jamie’s fist hurts and his head hurts, and in his mind, his father is lurking outside the door, waiting for him to emerge so he can get what’s coming to him. A part of him—most of him—wants to go and find him, wants to apologize and take his licks so things can be set right again. But Roy holds him, clutches him, and he doesn’t pull away from Jamie’s tears, and he doesn’t let go first. Even when the rest of the team starts to move, trail into the showers, begin to dress. He doesn’t let go first.
It doesn't matter to Roy who ended the hug, but Jamie will never forget it.
+1
Roy pops him in the nose and stars explode in front of his eyes, blood immediately gushing from his face, and Jamie reaches out blindly, snags Roy’s shirt, grips it as he falls to the ground.
“Oh fuck. Jamie! Fucking hell, Jamie. Let me see.”
Jamie flinches back, tries to scramble away from the hands suddenly on his face, but Roy doesn’t let him escape.
“Jamie, please let me see. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Get away from me.”
“No, don’t put your head back like that. Here.” Roy grabs the hoodie Jamie tossed aside before the fight—so nothing would happen to it—and presses it to Jamie’s face.
“That’s my fucking shirt, man.”
“We gotta apply pressure.”
“You’re a fucking asshole.” His voice is slick with blood, all his words are muddled.
“I know, I’m sorry. Fuck, Jamie.”
“Feel better now you made me bleed again?”
“What? No. I feel a lot fucking worse. Let me see.” He pulls the shirt away from Jamie’s face, and there’s still blood flowing freely from his nose. “Fuck, Jamie. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”
Jamie swallows, tastes blood in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away from Roy presses the hoodie back to his face. Roy’s face is close to his, and the light is dim in the alley, but he can see Roy’s face clearly, can read him like a fucking book he already knows by heart. Roy is sorry, that much is obvious. Jamie doesn’t want to, but he’s already forgiven him. Even though he’s a fucking dolt. A dolt not over Keeley yet, clearly. A dolt who is willing to fight over a girl who obviously didn’t want him, if they fucked a month ago and Roy didn’t even know where he stands.
“Yeah, it’s alright. Look, we’re not Neanderthals, right?”
“Right,” Roy agrees.
“So, let’s just ask Keeley who she wants to be with.” Not much of a gamble, since Jamie already knows the answer to that question, but Roy is the one who needs closure here.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Then no more fighting.”
“No more fighting,” Roy confirms.
“Even if she chooses me?”
Roy sits back on his heel, takes the shirt away from Jamie’s face, and he expects to see another argument brewing, like how dare Jamie suggest Keeley might choose him over Roy. But there’s no fight in his eyes. He still looks devastated.
“Will you still be…you know…”
“What?”
“My friend,” Roy grits out. “If she chooses me…or if she chooses you.”
“I’m going to be your friend no matter what. I mean, look at me. I’m covered in blood here and we’re just chatting away.”
“Fuck.” They’re silent as Roy works on cleaning up the blood, which is down to a trickle, but still covering Jamie’s face. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Hmm?”
“When did you get that poster signed?”
“October 1, 2005,” Jamie answers promptly. “After a City match.”
“In Manchester?”
“Yeah.”
“You waited for me after a match with City? Did we win?”
“Yes and no.”
“Was a I dick?”
“No, you were lovely.”
Roy takes a deep breath. “I meant what I said earlier, about being proud of you. And I wanted to get a beer with you because…you’re about to be out of training and I…I thought maybe that could be something, you know, that we do. Together.”
“You want to hang out when we’re not training?” Jamie asks, hopeful.
“Yeah.”
“And you want to still be friends no matter who Keeley chooses?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re going to take me shopping and buy me a new hoodie?”
“I have to take you shopping? Why can’t you just go on your own?”
“Penance.”
Roy groans. “Fine. I’ll take you shopping and buy you a new hoodie to prove how sorry I am. Happy?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Roy pushes himself to his feet. “Come on.”
“Where we going?”
“To talk to Keeley.”
“You want to do that now?”
“Yes.” Roy holds out his hand and helps Jamie to his feet.
“Why?”
“Because I want this settled, one way or the other. I fucking hate this and I don’t want to ever fight with you like this ever again.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Roy is true to his word, and when Keeley kicks them both out, it’s settled between them. When Roy drops him home after kebabs, he walks Jamie to his house, checks his nose under the light, then pauses at the door and looks back. Tells him to sleep well, have a good night, be ready in the morning because Roy will pick him up. And that’s the best part—like Jamie is somebody important.