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There are a lot of things that Jamie wants. He wants to score goals. He wants to win trophies. He wants to be the best goddamn player in the Premier League.
He wants Roy Kent’s complete and undivided attention.
Since the first day he walked into AFC Richmond, that’s all he’s been after, and since the first day at Richmond, all Roy Kent had done was try to ignore the fact that Jamie existed. Which only made Jamie more desperate.
He tried everything — introducing himself on the first day only for Roy to tell him to fuck off. He tried showing off in training how good he was, hoping that Roy might be impressed, but all he got were disapproving glares and Roy turning away from him. In fact the only time that Roy seemed to actually pay any amount of attention to him was when he was being a complete and utter obnoxious asshole of a prick.
The first time he feels Roy watching him — really watching him is during a fucking painful training session that leaves him wondering why the fuck he came to Richmond in the first place and how Richmond hasn’t already gotten itself relegated. They’re running a play for the third fucking time, and Sam fumbles it again. Jamie finally loses it and snaps at him, dragging him for his unbelievably shitty performance. Sam is a weak link and he needs to know it. He needs to step it up or get out of the way. In a proper top table club, Sam would be left behind in the dust, and everyone would accept it and move on. Jamie isn’t saying anything that wouldn’t be said to him up at City if he were up there playing as shit as he is down here. But as Sam’s shoulders hunch and he stutters an apology, Jamie feels a look burning into his back. He turns to stalk off only to find Roy staring at him with an intensity that burrows right into the centre of Jamie’s chest and makes his stomach twist.
It’s the longest Roy has ever paid attention to him in one go.
Jamie’s shitty mood continues. Richmond plays their first match against City this weekend, up in Manchester. They’re going to get obliterated, and Jamie is going to no doubt hear all about it. All the gloating and belittling and criticising.
Nate’s in his way at the end of training as Jamie storms into the dressing room, and he doesn’t think twice about shoving the kit man out of the way. Nate stumbles, but doesn’t say anything — of course he wouldn’t, he’s a weak grovelling little coward. From behind him, Jamie hears a low growl that draws his attention. Roy’s staring at him again — glaring more like it — but whatever you want to call it, his eyes are fixed on Jamie.
Jamie never wants him to look away. All that intensity, all that passion and focus is directed solely at him. Roy’s paying attention to him now, finally. Roy’s dark eyes are fixed on him, watching him, his every move. It’s intoxicating. It’s a high on par with scoring a goal. It’s enough to make Jamie want to peel himself open and offer up everything he has just to keep Roy from looking away. And when Roy does look away a moment later, it’s as if Jamie’s world shatters into a thousand pieces, like his lungs have been ripped out and he can’t breathe.
Jamie needs it again. He’s had a taste of what he wants and now he's utterly addicted.
The next day, Jamie tests a theory. All day, from the moment he arrives in the locker room until Cartrick dismisses them, Roy is back to ignoring the fact that he exists. As the lads disperse, Jamie stops to grab some water and give Nate a hard time, needling him as he fumbles the cones he’s trying to gather. Immediately, Jamie feels Roy’s eyes on him with laser focus, a fact he confirms as he turns to head back down the tunnel and spots Roy standing there, glaring, arms folded over his chest. Jamie winks at him and saunters past.
Truth be told, he probably would have abandoned harassing Nate and Sam before long, quickly growing bored of it. Except that it’s the one surefire way Jamie can guarantee Roy’s focus is on him. As the weeks pass, Roy gets more and more worked up, bristling not just at Jamie being an asshole to his teammates, but at just about every prickish thing Jamie does. Which, from what Jamie can tell, Roy thinks is everything Jamie does. Jamie’s basking in Roy’s attention, not even caring that it looks like Roy wants to actually murder him.
The first time Roy touches him is right around the time the new gaffer arrives. Cartrick had been a terrible manager, the whole squad could agree on that. The only reason he kept the job as long as he did was by licking Rupert Manion’s boots. But at least Cartrick understood how the game worked and understood what the players could do. The Yankee is a fucking joke, but Jamie honestly doesn’t give a shit. He’s just here to get his minutes and match experience, and then he can go home to Manchester and play as a starter for a squad that actually knows how to win matches and trophies.
They’re practising a little five-a-side while the gaffer settles in, watching them. It’s a good opportunity to show off. Lasso doesn’t know shit about football, let alone good football, so Jamie aims to make him see right out of the gate who his best player is.
Sam’s defence is shit like always — he’d do marginally better further up in midfield. Still shit, but better. Jamie runs circles around him, evading Sam’s clumsy tackle without breaking a sweat. He doesn’t look back, but he grins to himself as he hears Sam cursing, and easily flicks the ball into the back of the net.
Roy is already looking at him as he swings back around, strolling over to where Sam is still sitting on the ground, adjusting his sock. “Someone get some flowers, ‘cause this spot here is where Sam died,” Jamie grins as some of his teammates chuckle. In his periphery, he can see Roy approaching, that familiar warmth he so desperately craves spreading through his chest. He shakes his head, leaning over Sam, “It’s very sad.”
Roy’s right up beside him, which Jamie had come to expect by now, anticipate even. What he hadn’t expected is Roy’s hand on his chest, pushing him back firmly as he growls.
On reflex, Jamie throws out a quip and sticks out his tongue to cover the way that his heart is racing as he walks away. Even though the layers of clothes, the weight and heat of Roy’s hand pushing against him lingered, burning inside him.
Later, at home in his own shower, Jamie wraps a hand around himself and thinks about Roy pushing him, his back against the wall; Roy leaning into his space, body pinning him in place; Roy’s arm across his chest or hand around his throat. It doesn't matter where or how.
The important thing is, Jamie is finally getting to him.
After that, Roy starts watching him a lot more often. Jamie feels Roy’s gaze boring into him even when he isn’t being a prick. So Jamie decides to say fuck it and give him something to really look at. A few days later as he’s changing into his training gear, he folds the waistband of his shorts over a few times until the bottoms are sitting up high on his thigh, showing off more of his legs than is strictly necessary. Honestly, he’s not sure it’s actually going to do anything else to get Roy’s attention, but Jamie knows he looks sexy so that’s all that matters really.
It may or may not be the shorts, but Roy is watching him more when they train. It used to be that Roy did everything in his power to ignore the fact that Jamie existed when they were running drills, but increasingly, Jamie looks over to find Roy staring at him. Most of the time, it’s the usual Roy Kent anger, but once or twice, Jamie thinks he catches a hint of something else.
He figures it’s all just in his head — wishful thinking, nothing more — until the day that Roy corners him in the weight room to talk to him about his influence on the team or some shit that’s got to do with hassling Nate… Jamie’s only half paying attention to whatever the fucking point Roy is working towards, because what his mind is really hanging onto is everything Roy said before getting to the point. Roy calling him pretty boy. Roy admitting that Jamie is good at what he does. Really good. Which, obviously, duh, of course he’s good. He’s better than good. He’s fucking incredible. But nothing about their interactions to this point led him to believe that Roy Kent would ever acknowledge that to his face.
Roy does pay attention to him on the pitch.
Roy thinks he’s good.
Roy thinks he’s pretty.
He’s got his hooks into Roy totally and completely.
Jamie’s riding that high, and obviously whatever he’s been doing so far to get and keep Roy’s attention is working, so why the fuck would he stop? Or tell Isaac and Colin to stop?
The high lasts until later that night, when Roy appears in the club and puts an end to their shit-housery with Nate once and for all by slamming his forehead into Colin’s face.
Jamie should care about that most of all, Colin’s lucky he didn’t end up with a broken nose or worse. But it’s the derisive way Roy calls him a child that really sticks with him, a punch to the gut that knocks the wind right out of him and makes him hate both Roy and himself just a little bit more.
The smart thing to do would be to leave it at that. It should be enough to know that Roy’s watching him, to have the validation Roy’s already given him however spitefully done.
But it’s not enough. If anything, that’s made it worse. He’s gotten a taste of Roy Kent’s Recognition and he craves more. He understands why dealers give out the first hit free, knowing someone will come crawling back for more. Only Jamie’s drug is Roy’s attention and acknowledgement, and Roy has no idea that that’s the currency Jamie is dealing in.
Since picking on Nate isn’t an option anymore, Jamie refocuses his energy to poking at Roy directly, doing everything in his power to provoke him. And it works. Out on the pitch, Roy gets increasingly aggressive towards him, shoulder checking him, pushing him when he’s being a prick, pressing him when they’re playing eleven-a-side.
Jamie’s not entirely sure how it happens. They’re in the middle of a practise match and Roy’s marking him, sticking to him like a fucking shadow. They’re fighting over the ball, Roy’s grabbing his shirt to pull him out of the way and Jamie’s got an arm out to block him. Their limbs are tangled, and one second they’re both standing, the next, they’re crashing to grass together.
Jamie lands on his back with Roy on top of him, pressing him into the grass. For a moment, they’re both stunned, until Jamie registers Roy’s weight holding him in place, and Roy registers that he’s got Jamie pinned underneath him. Their eyes meet and neither looks away. They hold each other’s gaze a fraction of a second longer than is probably decent. Or at least that’s how it feels.
The moment stretches eternal in front of Jamie as he watches Roy watching him. He can’t look away. Roy’s eyes darken, and Jamie sees something other than anger there — something that pulls out the echo of pretty boy from his memory. Rather than feeling trapped, Jamie feels himself relax under Roy even though his heart is pounding in his chest. Roy’s eyes flick down to his lips and back up again so fast that Jamie would have thought he imagined it, except for the fact that he can’t look away from Roy’s eyes.
Then, just as quickly, the heat and the weight of Roy is gone. “Fuck’s sake, watch what you’re fucking doing, you fucking prick,” Roy cusses, turning his back to Jamie without bothering to help him up.
“Oi fuck off then,” Jamie swears back, pushing himself to his feet. “Don’t get pissy at me cause I’m doing my job and doing it better than you.”
Roy doesn’t rise to the bait, and that leaves Jamie even more flustered.
It would be so much easier if he could forget the feeling of Roy’s hands pulling at him, or the feeling of Roy’s body tangled against his, holding him down, however accidental it might be.
Except the last thing Jamie wants is to forget. He wants it again. He wants Roy’s hands on him. He wants Roy pushing him. He wants to feel his back slam against anything and to feel Roy pressed close enough to him they’re breathing the same air.
He almost gets it during their next match, after a shitty first half that had been mistake after mistake. Jamie hadn’t planned on tearing into anyone, except then Sam had apologised and Jamie had gone off on him, and his stupid annoying supportive father. But apparently making a crack about how his mum should have fucked Maradona is too far — even if it is true — because suddenly Roy’s fingers are pressing against his chest, pushing him back.
Roy’s given Jamie an opening, an excuse to step into his space and crowd up close to him, so of course Jamie takes it, refusing to back down, throwing down his own challenge. He needs to know just how far he can push Roy, and what happens when Roy finally snaps. “Fuck it, let’s go.”
Foreheads pressed together, there’s a lightning intensity between them. The sound of their teammates yelling barely register as they push at one another. An accidental tilt of a head is all it would take before their lips were brushing. The intrusive thought hits Jamie straight in the gut, and he doesn’t miss the way that Roy’s eyes flick to his tongue when he sticks it out as their teammates pull them apart.
Even with the whole team and both their coaches trying to keep them separate, there is a magnetic force between them that’s trying to pull them together, and Jamie doesn’t want to fight it.
So he doesn’t.
As he retreats past Roy to his cubby, he leans into Roy’s space, close enough that the words gaffer saved you old man are nearly spoken into Roy’s skin. Whether it’s the words themselves, or the proximity to him that sets Roy off again, Jamie isn’t sure. But at this point, he’s willing to bet it’s a combination of both.
He’s getting under Roy’s skin, burrowing into him. Slowly driving him insane the way that he’s been driving Jamie insane since day one.
Fucking pavlovian or some shit.
When he catches Roy glaring at him back in the locker room after the match, Jamie just grins and winks at him before sauntering away, an extra little sway in his hips.
Something shifts between them after that, something Jamie can’t name. Or doesn’t dare name. Roy still watches him, still pays attention to almost everything Jamie does, but instead of getting pissed it feels more like Roy is studying him. Jamie’s never felt more like a bug under a microscope. Which is a completely unsexy thought. But. Whatever.
Sometimes, it feels like Roy’s pushing at him, but not in the same way Jamie’s been pushing at him up until this point. It’s like Roy is testing him. For what, Jamie doesn’t know. All he does know is that now, more than ever his brain is completely consumed by Roy. Every little hint of contact, every brush on the pitch lights up all the nerves under Jamie’s skin until he feels like he’s on fire.
Roy watches him. Jamie watches Roy. It’s like the two of them are circling each other, tension building, and Jamie’s not sure which of them is going to strike first or what is going to happen when it shatters.
It’s just the two of them left in the dressing room, Roy having lingered for a long shower after working with the physio on the knee that’s a ticking time bomb, Jamie spending far too long fixing his hair in front of the mirror. Roy very pointedly ignores him as he returns to the dressing room, tosses his towel in the laundry bin, and gets dressed. His back is to Jamie, so if Jamie pauses what he’s doing to watch Roy in the mirror, watching the way his muscles move, broad shoulders, strong back, thick thighs, all heavily defined from years of intense training, well no one is there to call him out.
He turns his attention back to putting the finishing touches on his hair before Roy turns around and catches him staring. Once he’s satisfied, Jamie turns to leave, dropping his own towel on the floor directly next to the bin. “Oi!” Roy’s voice is sharp and angry, and Jamie instinctively comes to a stop.
“What do you want now?” He says, putting on airs of being completely unbothered.
“Pick up your fucking towel and put it in the bin,” Roy orders him.
Jamie scoffs. “Yeah, okay,” and rolls his eyes as he turns away and continues towards the door. A second later, a strong hand is on his shoulder, pulling him to a stop, spinning him around, and shoving him up against the wall.
Roy’s weight is heavy, leaning against him and holding him in place with an arm across his chest. Jamie squirms under the pressure as though he’s trying to get away, but Roy just holds him in place, staring at him with that Roy Kent intensity that burns right down to Jamie’s core. It’s like Roy is looking into him and Jamie is completely exposed under him.
“I said, pick it up,” Roy repeats in a tone that brokers no argument. Jamie swallows thickly and pushes back against the compulsion to do exactly what Roy’s telling him to do. It feels like a test, this does, only Jamie isn’t entirely sure what Roy is testing.
“Make me,” Jamie scoffs, as though he’s completely unaffected. Judging by the way that Roy leans even more into his space so there’s virtually none between them, and the only thing keeping their chests from being completely pressed against one another is Roy’s arm, still pinning him in place. The second drags out eternally, and Jamie can’t move, even if he wanted to. He really, really doesn’t want to, because if he moves, it’s only going to be to do something he really shouldn’t do.
But then Roy steps back, and the moment the pressure of his arm is removed, Jamie feels adrift and untethered, like suddenly there’s something huge missing. Roy says nothing, just looks at him, down to the towel on the floor, and then back at Jamie.
Jamie tries to walk away. He really does. Only Roy keeps staring at him, unblinking and it’s all Jamie ever wanted — Roy Kent’s complete and undivided attention. So Jamie steps forward, bends down, picks up his discarded towel and drops it in the bin.
“Good boy,” Roy says with a smirk, and then turns and walks away, leaving Jamie staring at him, gaping.
“Every single one of you fucks is going to be there. Or else,” Roy orders when Lasso introduces the fucking stupid idea of a ritual fire. The treatment room ain’t haunted. Probably. And even if it were, Jamie isn’t planning on showing up for whatever bullshit team building thing Lasso’s gunning for.
He’s stopped on his way out by Roy’s hand pressing against his shoulder. In a second he’s thrown back to Roy holding him against the wall.
“That includes you, Tartt,” Roy tells him.
Jamie scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah okay, whatever.”
Roy’s hold on him tightens. “Look at me.” Jamie refuses at first, but Roy repeats himself in a low, growling tone that brokers no argument. “Look. At. Me.”
Jamie is completely powerless to stop himself from looking up and meeting Roy’s gaze.
“You are going to be here, and you’re going to participate in whatever Yankee Doodle Bullshit Lasso’s got planned. You understand?”
Jamie doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His compliance is written all over his body language and Roy just nods. “Good.”
Jamie hadn’t actually intended to bare his heart at first. He hadn’t actually been sure he intended to participate at all, but he’d shown up because Roy told him to. He’d shown up with a pair of old boots — not actually the last pair his mum had bought him, fuck that — and loitered outside, listening around the corner as his teamates told their stories. He’d fully planned on just bullshitting some story, only when he’d stepped into the room and spoken up, the truth came pouring out, harsh and honest and vulnerable.
He tosses the boots in the bin, and before he looks up he knows that Roy is watching him. Their eyes meet across the room and there’s…something that passes between them. Respect, understanding, something else with a heavy undercurrent that’s been growing.
Jamie offers to help carry the barrel out to the practise pitch. If anyone notices the slight bulge under his jacket, they don’t say anything.
Somewhere around the third or fourth rendition of ‘Richmond ‘til we die’ Jamie meets Roy’s eyes across the fire and he thinks he sees something in them that could almost, maybe, be mistaken for fondness, if he squints. Or at least, something other than utter contempt.
Somewhere near the bottom of the bottle of mescal, Roy appears at his side. They don’t say anything to each other, but there is no mistaking Roy’s arm sliding around him in the crowd, or the way his hand falls to Jamie’s hip once he notes that Jamie isn’t pulling away.
Somewhere near the end of the night when everyone is piling into Ubers, Jamie thinks of an alternate world where he doesn’t go home alone.
He wonders if Roy thinks about that too.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that good things never fucking last. Or at least it should be universally acknowledged. Because fuck this. This can’t be fucking happening. Not now.
Jamie’s hands are shaking as he hangs up with his agent, and he can barely breathe when he calls Roy.
“You better have a good fucking reason for calling this early or I’m hanging up,” Roy says by way of greeting.
When Jamie doesn’t immediately say anything, Roy’s tone shifts, concern bleeding in. “Tartt? Are you alright? Jamie?”
“I fucked up,” Jamie manages to get out, his voice pinched and catching in his throat. “I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I didn’t think that— I thought—”
Breathing is suddenly impossible, and for a moment that stretches into eternity Jamie is convinced he’s going to pass out, or his chest is going to explode or something. But Roy’s voice pulls him out of his head and into the present.
“Jamie, I need you to breathe alright? Slow breath. There you go, just like that.” Roy talks him through it, and slowly, second by aching second, Jamie remembers how to breathe again.
“Alright, let’s try this again, what happened?” Roy asks firmly.
“Richmond is sending me back,” Jamie manages to get out, squeezing his eyes shut.
“What the fuck do you mean Richmond is sending you back?” Roy snaps.
Jamie laughs bitterly. “I mean that Lasso’s done with me. My agent just called. Richmond asked City to terminate my loan. Immediately. They’re sending me back.”
“Like fuck they are,” Roy growls. “Stay put. Don’t do anything. I’m coming over.”
Before Jamie can protest, Roy hangs up.
He can’t actually not do anything. He’s gotta pack and shit, at least enough to get him by for a few days. He’s staring mindlessly at his closet, suitcase open and empty on his bed when the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings again.
Jamie snaps out of his fugue state enough to stumble downstairs and open the door to find Roy standing there looking ready to kill.
“How the fuck did you know where I live?” Jamie asks, blinking in surprise.
“I’m the captain, I know where all you fucks live and how to get a hold of you,” Roy says as he storms inside and stops short. “What the fuck is that?”
“What the fuck is— oh,” Jamie says, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks as he realises that Roy is staring at the blanket Jamie had pulled out of the barrel and stuffed under his jacket. “Um… I took it. Was gonna give it back to you later. Seemed too important to burn for some dumb ritual.”
Roy looks at him in a way that’s completely new, like something akin to wonder. Jamie never expected to see that kind of expression on Roy’s face at all, and certainly not directed at him.
“You know that’s not actually the blanket my grandfather gave me, right?” Roy says, raising an eyebrow.
Jamie looks at him stunned.
“I mean, the story was real,” Roy continues. “But like fuck I’d actually sacrifice the real ones. All that mattered was that you pricks thought I was.”
“The boots I threw in weren’t actually from me mum. They were just an old pair I had kicking around,” Jamie blurts out.
Roy stares at him for a moment and bursts out laughing. Not cold, or hard, or mocking. A genuine, warm laugh that actually reaches up to Roy’s eyes, makes them crinkle at the corner in a way that has Jamie’s stomach doing backflips. It is, quite possibly, the most beautiful sound Jamie has ever heard in his life. Better than the first time he heard his name announced as starting for the first team. Better than the crowd cheering his name when he scores a hattrick. Jamie is immediately and wholly consumed by the desire to hear that sound over and over again, and to be the one making it happen.
Except, it won’t happen. Because he’s being sent back.
That reality sobers him up quickly.
“You fucking muppet,” Roy says, picking up the blanket, still smiling. “This is the last fucking thing I ever expected from you.”
Jamie shrugs. “I’m not a prick all the time.”
“Just most of the time.”
“Just most of the time,” Jamie agrees. “A prick you’re not going to have to deal with anymore.”
The smile drops off Roy’s face and he looks… upset? Disappointed? Angry? But that doesn’t make sense. Roy hates him. Roy should be ecstatic that Jamie is leaving, except for the fact that Richmond isn’t going to score near so many goals. Which, yeah okay that explains why Roy’s upset at him leaving.
“What the fuck is that about?” Roy asks him seriously.
Jamie shrugs again, not quite sure what else to say. “My agent called this morning. Said I was being recalled immediately. Richmond and City agreed, but Richmond initiated it. I know Ted’s pissed at me for blowing off training—”
“Rightfully,” Roy cuts in.
“Yeah, I know. Point is… I didn’t think he was so pissed he’d send me back. I just thought. I mean after last night…” Jamie trails off. After last night, after hearing all his teammates open up and be vulnerable, after daring to try the same. After being validated and welcomed and feeling for the first time that maybe he could actually find something here, maybe Richmond was the place he could be the footballer his mum was proud of rather than the one his dad wanted him to be… it was all yanked out from under him.
“You don’t want to go back?” Roy asks, seriously.
Jamie doesn’t answer. What he wants really doesn’t matter. But Roy presses him. “Jamie, look at me.”
Jamie looks up at him. Roy is staring at him so intently it feels like he’s peering right into Jamie’s soul. He feels exposed in a way that should feel terrible and invasive, but actually just makes him feel seen as Roy asks again, “Jamie. Do you want to go back to Manchester?”
Words stick in Jamie’s throat and his eyes are burning. Fuck this, he can’t cry. He won’t.
He shakes his head.
“Alright. I’ll fix this,” Roy says with a quiet conviction that makes Jamie actually believe Roy can do the impossible.
Before he knows what’s happening, Jamie finds himself bundled into Roy’s vehicle, driving across Richmond, and standing in front of the second doorbell Roy has aggressively assaulted that morning. Jamie hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it shouldn’t surprise him to see Ted standing there, clearly having just woken up himself.
“Well, not that I’m not absolutely thrilled to see the two of you together without all the animosity, but to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this fine morning?” Ted asks.
“Why the fuck are you getting rid of Tartt?” Roy demands. Ted looks baffled but Roy barrels on. “He’s a fucking prick, but he’s our fucking prick and we need him to score goals if we want to have a chance of not getting relegated-”
Roy might keep talking after that, Jamie isn’t sure. He stopped paying attention once his brain registered our prick. It’s the same feeling that flooded him when Roy acknowledged how good Jamie was, called him pretty, called him a good boy. Our prick.
“Roy I need you to slow down and back it up,” Ted cuts in. “I don’t know where you got this crazy idea, but I have no intention of getting rid of Jamie.”
“Then why the fuck is he being recalled?” Roy demands.
That’s how Jamie finds himself sitting up in the kitchen of Ted’s rented flat with a cup of coffee in front of him. There might have been some debate about coffee versus tea but Jamie hadn’t been paying attention. He’ll drink whatever is in front of him. He’s too busy trying to not be completely overwhelmed by the fact that Ted hadn’t sent him away, and more than that Ted and Roy were both apparently ready to fight to keep him.
They needed his goals, obviously. But it was more than that wasn’t it?
Our prick.
Ted says he’ll talk to Rebecca and see if he can figure out what’s going on. Roy tries to insist on going with him but Ted shakes his head. “Why don’t you take Jamie back home. Leave it to me alright? If I need backup, I’ll call you. We’ll get this all sorted out.”
So Jamie finds himself back in Roy’s vehicle making the return trip to his house. “You know you could have probably called Ted, instead of flinging me around Richmond like a ping pong ball,” Jamie points out, head leaning against the window as he plays with his cuffs.
Roy just grunts and doesn’t say anything else.
Back home, Roy pushes him into the kitchen and tells him to sit. “Have you eaten?” he demands. Jamie shakes his head. “Right then.”
So that’s how Roy Kent starts digging around his fridge muttering about the lack of real ingredients. He manages to whip up eggs and toast, so that’s something at least. Jamie really isn’t hungry, and can’t stomach the idea of eating, but when Roy sets a plate down in front of him and tells him to eat, Jamie does so without protest. It turns out to be easier than he thought.
Roy sits beside him, and they eat in silence. It’s not until Jamie’s wandering the kitchen absently cleaning up that Roy asks, “Why don’t you want to go back to Manchester?”
That’s a hell of a question. One that doesn’t have a straightforward answer. He doesn’t know where to begin trying to explain, he wouldn’t be able to even if he tried.
Instead, he turns around and leans back against the counter, and asks, “Why do you look at me the way you do?”
For half a second he thinks Roy is going to deny it, it’s written all over his face, his lips move to shape the protest but the words don’t come.
“Why are you such a prick all the time?” Roy asks, stepping closer to Jamie. Another question that’s far too complicated for Jamie to answer.
So Jamie throws back, “Why do you act like you don’t give a shit about anything when you really do?”
Roy’s face reflects what Jamie is feeling, a question with an answer that’s too much to explain, that maybe Roy doesn’t even know the answer to himself.
Roy closes the distance between them, resting his hands on the counter on either side of Jamie’s hips, effectively pinning him in place. “Why are you always trying to get my attention?” Roy asks.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Jamie looks up at him, watching as Roy’s eyes dip down to Jamie’s lips.
Jamie shifts, and their foreheads press together. It’s like the locker room all over again, except this time instead of prickly anger and needling, the tension is quiet and intense, the moment stretching and stretching and stretching, impossibly long as they both struggle to keep their breath steady. Jamie wants to scream, to let the tension snap, to let himself shatter into a thousand pieces knowing, now, against all the odds, that Roy would put him back together again.
Jamie isn’t sure which of them breaks first, or if they find each other at the same moment. It doesn’t matter, because Roy’s lips are pressing against his. Not demanding, but warm and possessive. In an instant, Jamie’s body remembers every touch, every shove, every time Roy has ever touched him and it lights him up. Lips part, and Roy’s hand is in his hair, gently but firmly tugging Jamie’s head where he wants it to be, holding him in place. His other hand settles on Jamie’s hip, a firm grip that anchors him and keeps him from floating away entirely.
Jamie tries to push forward, demanding, but Roy’s having none of it. A sharp tug on Jamie’s hair and a nip to Jamie’s bottom lip has him submitting easily, relinquishing control to Roy. Roy’s got him. Impossibly and in a way Jamie never let himself dare to imagine, Roy’s got him.
Roy’s tongue brushes teasingly against his lip and then slips inside his mouth. Jamie shudders and sighs — almost a whine — as he grips Roy’s shoulders. Their mouths move against each other, Jamie following wherever Roy leads. He’d follow Roy anywhere, that’s always been true right from the start. Nothing, nothing that he’s pried out of Roy these past few months compares to this, to Roy invading every single one of his senses. He wants to brand every second of this moment in his brain in vivid details so he never ever forgets the literal breathtaking feeling of Roy kissing him more thoroughly than he’s ever been kissed in his life. A kiss that has ruined him for all other kisses.
Roy slowly pulls away, his lips breaking contact and Jamie feels like he’s suddenly dying, like Roy’s mouth is precious air and he’s suffocating without it. He opens his mouth ready to beg, plead, anything, whatever it takes to get Roy to kiss him again when Roy’s phone rings, the jarring noise ripping through the otherwise quiet kitchen, snapping them out of their stupor.
Jamie expects Roy to step away from him, already mentally preparing himself to close off and pretend like this never happened; no matter how much it’s going to kill him to do so. But Roy keeps an arm possessively around his waist as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
“It’s Ted,” Roy explains and puts it on speaker.
Jamie’s heart is hammering in his chest and he’s not sure what he’s going to do if it’s not what he wants to hear.
“You better be calling with good news or you can fuck off,” Roy says, looking deadly serious.
“Now hold on there, that ain’t necessary,” Ted says, trying to placate the man who can not be placated. “I spoke with Rebecca, and well, I won’t go into all the boring gritty details. But everything has been cleared up, and Jamie’s not being recalled.”
Jamie momentarily stops breathing. “What?” he demands, not believing what he’s hearing.
“We got everything sorted, and you’re not being recalled. No one’s terminating your loan.”
“Oh thank fuck.” Jamie could weep with relief, shoulders sagged as all the tension that had been coiled tightly in his body seeped out.
“Yeah well, we’d like to think you’re a part of the team. A real part,” Ted says. Jamie understands the undercurrent of Ted’s words, the expectation behind them, and what he risks losing if he doesn’t respect that.
“Yes coach,” Jamie agrees.
“Well alright then. Now that took longer than expected to, so you two better hurry up and boogie on down here before training starts. You know I’m going to have to make you run extra laps if you’re late.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Roy huffs, and hangs up. He tosses his phone on the counter and turns to look back at Jamie. Whatever is swirling between them is different now, not the sharp electrical current, but a warm, growing anticipation.
Jamie still has no idea what to say. He’ll need to figure it out eventually, but for now—
“Come on then,” Roy says, reluctantly stepping away. “Grab your shit and let’s go. The team needs their prick back.”
Jamie grins, grabs his bag and follows.