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There’s nothing about his morning that suggests anything about the turn his day’s going to take, but Jamie will suppose later that’s how days like that usually go.
He has his usual breakfast, the kale-banana smoothie with four scoops of the protein powder they hand out like candy in the locker room. Don’t taste like candy, but whatever. Jamie can’t bring himself to add the couple of raw eggs for extra protein Isaac’s always going on about. Figures it’s fine, Isaac’s job is to be big and tough and throw his weight around, and Jamie’s job is to be fast and fleet and gone before the opposing defenders have a chance to be big and tough and throw their weight around.
And it’s nice to have that, nice to know guys like Isaac will get in someone’s face if they try to get in Jamie’s on the pitch, cause as many times as he’s acted like the tough guy out there it always felt like he was trying to wear someone else’s skin. Now he don’t have to try, can just be himself…sometimes…and he wonders why he spent so long trying to be someone else.
It’s a day off, but he usually goes into Nelson Road on those, cause what else would he do? Gym there’s nicer than the tiny one he has in his flat, and a hell of lot less quiet and he’s not sure when that became a good thing but it is.
The drive in is what it always is, too crowded and too slow and the damn cyclists move faster than he does. He could start doing that that to get to the stadium, and he’d look fucking fit in those shorts, but the helmet would fuck up his hair. He frowns at the sleet on his windshield that’s turning everyone into morons, like they’ve never seen rain or something, and sighs when the light finally changes so he can go.
Then the drive in isn’t what it always is, it’s squealing rubber and screeching metal and shattering glass and a sharp jolt. He sucks in a breath after, wondering why the windshield in front of him is so splintered and blurry. It stays blurry and splintered ‘til he brings a hand up to scrub at his eyes and it comes back red and that don’t look right. Then at least the windshield’s not blurry but it’s still splintered and that don’t look right either. There’s a blast of chilly air at his shoulder and he looks that way and through a hole in his window sees the bonnet of another car buried in the side of his and he thinks that really, really, don’t look right.
He crawls out the passenger’s side of the car, stumbling around the tangle of metal to the other driver’s door. A man’s sat in there, a dad with light hair, hands trembling on his steering wheel, saying ohdearsosorrywasntpayingattention. There’s a kid in the back too, gaping at him, mouth open, asking Jamie Tartt? He gives the girl a smile, would probably be weird if he offered to sign something, then steps away from the door after they both give him shaky nods and say they’re fine when he asks.
That’s when he hears the ringing and smells the burnt rubber and feels the throbbing in his head and lands on his arse on the kerb. Cold pellets patter on his head and face and he blinks away the wetness. Then there are people around him, in front of him, in bright glowing jackets, asking him if he’s alright, what’s his name, and he thinks he answers but they don’t seem happy with him, just look at him with those severe faces people older than him usually look at him with.
Then there’s sirens, and lights, and he’s on a bed in the back of a van, those people in the bright jackets asking him things and poking him with things and telling him things and if they’d just stop for a minute he could put down his head, cause he’s a little worried it’s about to float away from his body.
Then he’s somewhere else, again, bright lights above him and white tiles below him. Smells like lemon in here, ‘stead of lavender, and he prefers the lavender, and didn’t Ms. Welton’s mum say something about mojitos? He blinks, and there’s another face in his, a woman’s, dark hair and dark eyes, saying something too.
“Mr. Tartt?”
That face strikes a chord in him, and he wracks his brain to figure why. He sleep with her or something? Don’t seem quite right, cause she’s probably a little old for him, not that he’s got a problem with older women. Slightly older women. She’s nothing like that old granny at the gala that bid on him. Ms. Welton changed that this time ‘round, said they were bidding on experiences with the footballers and Jamie thinks that might sound worse than date, but everyone else agreed with her so what does he know anyway?
Mr. Mannion didn’t show up at the gala this year, and Jamie thinks that’s a good thing cause Ms. Welton seemed so much happier, with that genuine smile painted on her face ‘stead of the fake one Jamie knows is fake cause he’s done that plenty too. He likes Ms. Welton, he does, not like that though, and he ignores what all the papers say about her cause they say some of the same things about him, and he knows how hard it can be to smile after that but Ms. Welton does it anyway. She even asks him how he’s doing sometimes, and he thinks she actually cares about the answer, and that’s nice too.
Still, this lady in front of him seems too serious, and probably way too smart, to be the type to have a fling with a footballer. Fling with a Footballer. Was that one of those reality shows his old agent said he should be on or something?
“Mr. Tartt?” she asks again, and he thinks he was staring at her for too long. ‘sfine. She’s got a nice face. Makes him feel alright. Not that kinda alright, the kinda alright where he comes in from a long training session in the rain and finds a warm fuzzy towel in his locker that smells like a High Street lotion store.
Good ol’ Will. He’s glad he was never mean to the kid, can’t imagine trying to beat down that sweet face. Not that that’s stopped him before, but he’s being better now, right? ‘Sides, Will was there that day at Wembley, didn’t say anything to Jamie after, but the next time Jamie came into Nelson Road all his stuff was squeaky clean and he had extra soft towels in his locker and a smiley face sticker in the bottom of one of his boots. Good lad.
“Mr. Tartt?” again, insistent, a tone he knows though the name is wrong, and aren’t these medical types supposed to sound a little nicer?
“Yes, what can I do for you?” he thinks he says, but she’s still giving him this look, brown eyes narrowed, so maybe it comes out more like, “Eh?”
She asks him a few more questions, what’s his name, and that he knows, and what year it is, and that he knows, and who the prime minister is, and that he don’t know, but he tells her it’s probably some posh old twat. Her lips twist at that, and he really does swear he knows her from somewhere.
Then something pricks at the back of his hand, and someone else comes in with a tray and starts poking at his head and fuck why does that hurt so much and someone else is poking at his arm and they tell him to relax for a bit, let them take care of this and that sounds like a great idea so he closes his eyes for a minute.
Least he thinks it’s a minute. ‘Cept when he opens them again the woman with the face and the others with the…other faces, are all gone, just him in this room, just the quiet hum of machinery, the din of distant conversations echoing down the hall outside his doorway.
And a figure he knows too well in that doorway, wild hair and rumpled clothes, that striped blue scarf, banner of the team Jamie left that then left him, around his neck like always. A flash of teeth, a wolf’s grin. Another flash of gold at a wrist, the gleam of metal around a few fingers. The gleam of something else in those deep-set eyes.
“Hello father. Please be so kind as to depart before we are engulfed in yet another verbal and possibly physical altercation,” is what he says in his head.
“The fuck?” is what comes out of his mouth though. Same thing, innit?
His father beams and shuts the door behind him with a snick. Bares more of his teeth as he prowls closer to the hospital bed Jamie’s apparently in. At an angle, not flat on his back, and that makes Jamie feel a little better, less exposed, though it does mean he can see his father sooner, track his progress all the way cross the room and maybe that’s a good thing for his brain but he don’t think it’s good for his heart.
“Ain’t this nice then,” his dad comments, dragging a hand along the grey walls, tugging at the TV mounted above a grey cabinet, parting the grey blinds with his fingers to peer out the window at the grey sky. “Nothing but the best for Jamie Tartt, star footballer, eh?”
Jamie Tartt, star footballer, is a little busy trying to remember how his limbs work to answer. Better to be upright, be on his feet, for this, he thinks, he just wishes his legs would listen to him. He gets one palm into the mattress under him. Then the other, but he can’t get purchase, it keeps slipping, feels bulky and wrong. He twists to get a look and pitches sideways back into the bed with a grunt. He blinks at his arm for a bit, growingly certain that blue thing around his wrist and part of his hand was not there this morning.
“Come off it, you ain’t hurt too bad.” A voice echoes at his other side and he jerks away, wrenching his neck to locate the source. His dad, course, now perched next to Jamie’s bed, drumming his fingers on the railing running alongside it. Jamie watches the facets of a ring catch and bend the light, up and down, up and down, before he remembers who’s wearing that ring. “Making such a fuss ‘bout a little bump on the noggin.”
“What?” he croaks, dragging his gaze to his dad’s face, then dropping it to his dad’s chin, his shoulder, anything but those flashing eyes. It’s his hand that he hurt, least that’s what it looks like. His head is fine, just that the right side of it feels like it’s twice as big as it should be, and what were those people from earlier doing poking around at it? He pokes at it himself to make sure it’s still there, finds that White Cliffs of Dover jaw Ted talked about that one time and that made him confused first, then angry, but now when Ted says something nice about him this warm thing in Jamie’s chest starts blooming and that’s alright.
Then he finds his cheek bone. He knows that’s what it’s called cause Keeley told him, said he had very nice ones, told him to put a little blush on them before interviews cause it would really make his bone structure pop. He never did, so she did other things to make him blush, but she’s with Roy now so he’s not thinking about her like that anymore, even if he sometimes wants to. Then he finds his temple, and his hairline, and his fingers make it into his hair that’s all tacky and stiff, maybe he used the wrong pomade today but Roy’s wrong about one thing, he’s got great hair. Then his fingers brush something else, something that wasn’t there this morning, long and thin and hard like a mud-caked boot lace or something. Then sweet fucking Jesus who’s drilling screws into the side of his head?
A sound escapes his lips, like Macy Greyhound, or Tina Feyhound, he can’t remember, makes when someone’s eating a chicken sandwich, begging for a scrap, and he wonders where they found that tiny helmet, he’s glad they did though, makes him smile, makes Dani smile too and that’s more important. And it’s great that Dani’s great at football, makes Jamie a better player too, but it’s the way Dani’s always so damn happy, wants to make other people happy, that makes Jamie want to be around him even more.
“Took a pipe to me head once in a fight,” his dad’s boastful voice washes over Jamie, drives away the echo of futbol is life. Jamie tips his head to regard his dad, and was he that fucking close before? His dad taps his temple with two fingers. “Bounced right back up, I did. Showed that fucking cunt who was boss.” Another shark-toothed smile. “You though, lad? Get a wee scratch on your face, go all soft-like, act like the fucking sky is falling. No surprise there, eh?”
It’s that same old feeling, the catch in his throat, the burning in the back of his eyes he tries to blink away. “I…I weren’t…I didn’t…”
“You…you weren’t…you didn’t?” his dad mocks. “Bah,” he waves a hand. “Just having the piss, Jamie. Don’t be such a mardy get.”
“Wh..why…why’re ya ‘ere?” Jamie finally slurs, wondering why his tongue seems to be tangled like the knots he used to tie with it in cherry stems cause that always got people to stop saying whatever it was they were saying about him.
“Why’m I ‘ere?” His dad tilts his head. “Told me that me boy’s in the hospital. Course I came down.”
“But how did…why…why’d they call you?” His lips feel a little numb too, but he manages that question a bit better.
“Put me name on the forms, didn’t ya, Jamie?”
Forms? What’s he…oh. Right. Jamie remembers doing that, maybe, when all these clubs asked him for things like beneficiaries and payment elections and bank accounts and emergency contacts. Who the hell else was he going to put down, after all, and now he’s starting to get why Higgins is always on about keeping everyone’s paperwork updated. He really oughtta stop ignoring Higgins. Man makes it so easy though, and that’s not Jamie’s fault.
Still, Higgins is alright, and Jamie wishes he hadn’t been such a prick to the man the first time round. Course he was a prick to everyone, not like Higgins got special treatment or anything. But maybe part of it was cause he saw Higgins getting dropped off at the car park by his wife now and then, and they always seemed…so…sweet or some shit. All lovey-dovey and see you tonight and I’ll miss you and they must’ve been putting it on cause who acts like that in real life?
Yeah, Higgins is alright, though speaking of car parks he really shoulda put Jamie’s dad and his mates out there for the match at Wembley. Cause then his dad wouldn’ta gotten past security, wouldn’ta talked his way into the locker room and then Jamie wouldn’ta punched him and punching people is bad so that woulda been a good thing.
“Came all the way down from town for ya, kiddo,” his dad’s still blathering. If Jamie hit ‘em again, would he shut up? “All ya got, lad.”
Not true, is it, cause when Jamie did punch his old man Roy gave him a hug and that was terrifying and mortifying but kinda nice too, a little, cause someone cared about Jamie, didn’t tell him he was soft or weak or a pussy for feeling the things he was feeling.
“What, ya simple now? Can’t even thank your old man for showing up in your hour of need?”
“G’way,” Jamie mumbles.
Must be someone’s opened a window, let the winter wind in, cause suddenly it’s ten degrees colder in here, least the ice that freezes his dad’s face in place makes it seem like that.
“What’d ya say?” his dad asks in that tone Jamie knows is dangerous, a warning, red alert like that show he used to watch.
“Go away,” his mouth says before he can stop it.
His dad don’t say anything. Least not with words, but the way he drops his arms to the railing beside Jamie’s bed, clasps his hands in front of him, rubs a thumb over one knuckle, the way his eyes narrow and his grin vanishes, well that says plenty.
“Fuck,” Jamie’s mouth also says before he can stop it.
“Now I’m thinking, I’m thinking must be that stuff they’ve got you on, Jamie. Cause you telling your dad, who came all the way down here, hours it took, borrowed Bug’s car we did, a fortune in petrol it cost, to go away? Nah. Can’t imagine you doing that, how ungrateful that’d be. How disrespectful. You ain’t disrespectful, are ya, Jamie?”
His mouth don’t betray him this time, but that might be cause his throat’s closed up of its own accord.
“Are ya, Jamie?” his dad asks again, voice like gravel. He shakes his aching head, lips pressed in a thin line, wills the rest of his muscles still.“Good!” His dad smacks a palm against the railing with a laugh. Laughs harder at the way Jamie’s body tries to contort itself against the far railing. He stalks away with a last chuckle and Jamie tells all those muscles to relax, lets out the breath he thinks he’s been holding since his dad walked in. “Least they sprung for a nice room, eh? Gotta keep the prize pony in racing shape, trot you out for the show. Course you’re only the prize there. Be a different story at City, if ya hadn’t been idiotic enough to leave,” his dad calls out, staring at whatever’s beyond the window.
His dad keeps blathering on, something about what a sad excuse Richmond is for a football club, but at least they’ve got Jamie, best player there, though that’s not saying much, wouldn’t even rank at a real club, and what the fuck is Jamie thinking, always passing the ball to those talentless cunts, and Jamie figures it’s alright to close his eyes for a bit cause as long as his dad’s still talking Jamie can tell where he is. And it’s all Jamie wants to do, really, shut his eyes and maybe sleep a bit, cause his head hurts and his arm hurts and maybe something in his chest hurts too, and anyways he’s so dead tired.
Then he hears the door again, that snick and swish, ‘cept still sounds like his dad’s on the other side of the room so how can that be, or maybe he’s just hearing things, really even his ears hurt and –
“Jamie?”
That’s…no. Can’t be.
He peels his eyes open. Shit, they really must be giving him the good stuff, cause he could swear he knows that dark figure lurking in the doorway, where his old man came in a few minutes ago. He blinks a few times, waiting for it to vanish. It doesn’t.
“Roy?” he croaks.
He blinks again, and Roy…or whoever…is standing beside him, ‘cept Jamie still can’t tell, cause he can only see his back, cause whoever it is isn’t looking at Jamie, he’s looking across the room. Towards that window. At Jamie’s dad.
“The fuck do you fucking think you’re fucking doing here?”
Yeah. That’s Roy.
“Now, who’s this?” his dad asks, all but skipping forward a few steps. “Ah,” he sighs, rocking back on his heels. “The great Roy Kent, hmm?”
Jamie can’t see Roy’s face, so he tries to read the line of Roy’s shoulders. Would be easier if the glow from the window wasn’t giving him such a headache, but far as he can tell it’s nothing like what Jamie’s back looks like when his dad’s talking to him. It’s Roy, square shoulders and straight spine and head high. How does Roy always do that?
“Course, now here you are, playing bitch-boy to some fucking yank coach for a pissant team, but what can you do, eh?”
Roy doesn’t move. S’fine, Jamie’s heart climbing into his throat is enough movement for the both of them.
“Roy Kent. The great Roy Kent,” his dad grumbles. “Not so great after all.”
“Yeah he is.” Course this is when Jamie’s mouth remembers how to form words, and he snaps his teeth shut to keep anything else from jumping out.
His dad’s eyes shift from Roy to Jamie and fuck. Wouldn’t be so bad, he’s said stupider things, and done stupider things, but his arm hurts and his head hurts and his everything hurts and he don’t know if he can deal with any more hurting right now. “Wassat, Jamie?” his dad asks. “You’re a big lad, stop mumbling.”
Roy moves, a step forward and to the side, and the back of a dark leather coat replaces the image of his dad in Jamie’s vision. Seems too wet out for leather, ain’t you supposed to wear something waterproof when it’s raining, or snowing, or whatever it is, but this is Roy fucking Kent so Jamie guesses he can wear whatever he wants.
“I think you should leave,” Roy says at last. And he says it, doesn’t yell it, doesn’t shout, doesn’t flip a table over or charge forward or shove Jamie’s dad back a few paces like Jamie knows he could fucking do. Just stands there, talks like he’s ordering a coffee, plants himself like a tree in the middle of this hospital room.
“Me and the lad were in the middle of a conversation,” Jamie’s dad snarls, “so we’ll thank you to bugger off.”
“Conversation’s over,” Roy growls. He tips his head toward the door. “Get.”
Jamie stares at Roy’s back and feels his skin prickle. He knows how this ends. Usually. His dad reappears in his sight, takes another step towards Roy. Far as Jamie can tell, Roy doesn’t even blink.
“Get, eh? And who the fuck are you to tell me to leave? It’s me son,” his gaze skips past Roy to Jamie again, and it’s like Jamie can feel most of his brain turning off, like it’s trying to curl up in the back of his skull, “who’s in here. You can fuck off now, Kent.”
All the breath wheezes out of Jamie’s lungs. Even at his bravest, or his prickiest, he’d be scared as shit if he talked to Roy fucking Kent like that. Might not show it, but he’d still feel it.
“Your son, eh?” Roy asks. “That why you’re here? For him?”
That shuffle from his father, weight on one foot then the other, a cage fighter before the bout. “Yeah.”
“That so. Oi, Jamie,” Roy calls over a shoulder without looking back. “You want him here?”
Course he don’t…’cept there’s a little part of him that do, cause he’s hurt and a little sick and confused and scared, and that’s when he thinks you’re supposed to want your dad around. The thing is Jamie wants someone around, at least, he just ain’t sure who.
“No?” Roy asks. “Great.” He turns to face Jamie’s dad again. “Well. There you have it. Now piss off.”
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” his dad scoffs.
“Like you wasn’t going anywhere at Wembley?” Roy snorts.
“Fuck you,” Jamie’s dad counters.
“Leave the way you came,” Roy points at the door. “Or I put you through the fucking window. Your call,” he continues, and Jamie can guess which he’d prefer.
His dad smiles. Rubs a hand across his jaw, fingers fluttering, and Jamie can’t tear his eyes away from the rings again. His dad’s a step away from Roy, and Jamie knows how those things can sting. And Roy doesn’t deserve that, not for this, not when he came here for…what did he come here for?
But Roy doesn’t seem too worried. Doesn’t stand stock still, like Jamie would, or take a step back, like most people would. He leans in instead, sticks his jaw out a little. Like it’s a fucking dare.
And Jamie’s dad is gonna take it, course he is, man never backs down from fucking anything, never lets the slightest challenge go unanswered, takes every opportunity to put people in their place, show them he’s big and tough and scary and mean and -
He takes half a step back. Jamie gapes. Then half a step toward the door. Shifts his eyes between Jamie and Roy, a sneer twisting his face. He laughs then, an ugly sound, like he’s in on some joke and don’t want to share it with anyone no matter how much they ask.
“Wanna waste your fucking time here?” He throws his arms wide with a chuckle. “With that whiny bitch?” A wave in Jamie’s direction, and Roy shifts. “No skin off me nose, then.” A few paces and he’s at the door, then through it, then he’s gone, vanished, apparated.
Jamie blinks dry eyes, swallows against a dryer throat. Works his jaw while he snaps a few frantic breaths into his lungs. Roy pads to the door too, leans out and glances down the hall. Then he shuts it with a curse and turns back toward Jamie.
“How you feeling, then?” Roy asks, like they just bumped into each other in the hallway, though if he had bumped into Roy he probably would have gotten a grunt and maybe a little shove and Roy wouldn’t ask him how he was feeling cause that’s not what they do, they don’t talk about things like that though sometimes it would be nice, cause he feels a lot, thought for a long time that he shouldn’t, but now he thinks maybe it’s not so bad and –
“Jamie?” Roy again, with the raised eyebrows.
“Roy?” he squeaks cause it’s the only word he thinks he remembers right now.
Roy takes a few steps towards him, mouth twisted in an expression Jamie’s not seen before. “Yeah. Me. You, uh,” he sketches Jamie’s outline with a hand, “look a bit rough.”
“I’m in the hospital?” Jamie answers but it’s really a question cause holy fuck, he is, what the fuck happened, how the fuck did he get here, and Roy must hear that too and he steps a few more paces forward.
“Yeah,” Roy agrees. “You are. Suppose you ain’t feeling…well…how you feeling?” Again, that question.
“Yeah,” Jamie drawls once he pries his tongue off the top of his mouth. “I’m…yeah. Kinda. Kinda fuzzy.”
“That’s the drugs. Nice stuff. And the…” Roy gestures at his own skull. “You know.”
“Yeah,” Jamie repeats. “And kinda, kinda,” his eyes fall to the closed door, “maybe a little scared too. N’fuzzy. Yeah. Scared n’fuzzy.”
“Jamie.”
He drags his gaze back to Roy, and he’s closer now, isn’t he, one hand on that railing, right where Jamie’s dad was lurking before 'cept it’s Roy’s fingers there, peeking out of that black sleeve, no rings, near enough Jamie can see the hair on his knuckles. And there’s none of that cold dread, that tense panic of before, now that it’s Roy. “How’d you do that?” he asks.
Roy’s eyebrows fold in on themselves, two caterpillars in a stand-off. “Do what?”
“He…me dad. Made him leave. I don’t…how?”
Another frown, a tilted head, the overhead lights casting shadows on Roy’s cheeks. “Just told him to, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” Jamie says, running a tongue along his lips. “Yeah, but I…I did that too. And…and…and he didn’t. Leave.”
“You told him and…” Roy lets out a long sigh. “Fuck. You told him to leave. And he…” Roy’s eyes skip to the door, his shoulders turn too.
“You,” Jamie starts, cause it looks like Roy’s gonna go toward that door, out it, after Jamie’s dad, and then Jamie’ll be here by himself again and why does it feel like that would be worse than being here with anyone, even if that anyone is his old man? “Cause…were you. Did what you told ‘em. Cause you’re…you’re tough.” And those words spill out of him before he can pull them back.
But it works, don’t it, when Roy turns away from the door to pin Jamie with a stare, the kind Jamie might shrink away from, if he had anywhere to go. “Jamie,” Roy says, this low soft tone, “Yeah. He did what I told ‘em. Cause I’m not flat on my arse in a hospital bed.”
“Oh,” Jamie says, mouth round. “I…oh.”
“And cause he’s…” Roy starts, then sighs again. “Don’t matter. He’s gone.”
“Yeah,” Jamie murmurs, swallowing and blinking. “Right. Yeah.”
“Jamie?”
“I…uh…I’m tired,” Jamie declares, at last. “And me head hurts.”
Roy’s turn to swallow and blink, though Jamie can’t figure why. “You…course you is. Course it do. Why don’t you relax for a minute, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He does that, now that his dad’s not prowling around in here, ready to pounce, now that the adrenaline’s drained out of his body and all he feels is a shaky hollow where it was, now that Roy’s not looking at him like he’s expecting something, and Jamie don’t know what it could be, cause he’s got nothing to give.
He closes his eyes for a second, or a minute, or a bit, or more, hard to say. Cause when he opens them again the light in the room’s shifted, all lopsided-like, and Roy’s gone. But someone’s there, a new figure, stood at the window, haloed in the light, and it’s too bright, can’t look right at it. Not Roy, though, he knows, don’t know how he does but he does, this is someone else, and if Roy’s gone, must be his dad, waiting in the wings, come back, to do…to do what he does.
So he should pretend to still be asleep, cause that would be easier, his dad won’t do anything then cause he likes performing for an audience. But his dad turns round before Jamie can shut his eyes, and no point in pretending now, he’s caught out, will only be worse if he shrinks from it like he wants.
“Jamie?” his dad asks, and he steps away from the window, towards the bed, towards Jamie, the light fracturing and splintering around his dark shape, sending slivers straight into Jamie’s skull and fuck that fucking hurts.
“Fuck,” he mutters, cause why not, don’t matter anymore.
“Jamie?” again, though not a tone he’s used to hearing, not mocking or scornful, it almost sounds…he don’t know. Worried? “Jamie? Hey, you okay?”
He blinks, squints against the light, until his dad is close enough to block out the sun, though feels like he can do that no matter where he is, 'cept he’s never seen his dad in that jacket, black and puffy, an AFC Richmond crest over his heart. Why would his dad be wearing a thing like that?
“Come on, Jamie, kinda scaring me here,” his dad says, and it can’t be, his dad’s never scared, least he’d never admit it. Jamie follows the line of that greyhound up, stares at the face above the collar.
“Coach?” he croaks.
Ted beams, a grin brighter than even the sun now pouring in the window. “Hey, yeah, it’s me.” He puts a hand on the railing alongside the bed, where Jamie’s dad rested his hand, fingers twitching with menace, where Roy rested his hand, fingers twitching with nerves. Ted’s fingers are still, relaxed, though. “Glad to see you awake. How you feeling?”
It hits him in a wave, whatever it is, confusion warring with exhaustion warring with relief. “Jamie?” Ted asks again and Jamie drags his eyes up 'cept where Ted was is just a blurry outline, a dark blob below a lighter blob and what’s wrong with his eyes? “Hey, it’s alright.”
He blinks, and something wet slips down his face, and oh that’s why he can’t see so he blinks a few times more, and more wet things slide down his cheeks, drip off his jaw and…oh.
“Hey,” Ted croons again, and something warm sets itself atop Jamie’s head. “S’alright, Jamie,” Ted soothes like Jamie’s a fucking baby, a fucking soft pussy and fuck his dad would never let him live this down, would tell him to fucking toughen up, stop being a whiny weepy little bitch.
“You’re okay, Jamie. It’s alright.” That warm thing, a hand, patting his head and smoothing back his hair, carefully skirting the stitches. He don’t even know why, why he’s fucking crying, why Ted’s here, why Ted’s running his hand through Jamie’s hair, making these calming sounds. “Just had a rough day, but you’re gonna be fine.”
Thing of it is, he thinks he believes that voice, least it sounds convincing, least it sounds like it fucking cares and isn’t that a fucking revelation. And it’s…nice.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lasso. I leave you alone with him for five fucking minutes and you fucking broke him.” Oh. Jamie knows that voice, as well as he knows his own, but they say you don’t know what your own voice sounds like, something about reverberations and bones and skin and brains or something, so maybe he knows this voice even better than his own.
“Hey Roy,” Ted says. “He’s not broken. Just a little wrung out, that’s all, and that’s just fine, who wouldn’t be?”
“He’s also on a fuck tonne of drugs,” Roy comments, droll.
“Roy?” a voice asks and shit it’s his, but it don’t sound like his, not cause of that reverberation or bone structure or whatever, cause it sounds so…needy.
“Hey,” Roy’s voice again, closer, right next to him. He blinks up and there’s Roy, on his other side, hands on the railing too, across the bed from Coach, but he’s not looking at Ted, he’s looking at Jamie, his eyes turned down at the corners and that’s weird.
“Roy,” Jamie says again, a statement not a question, and that’s progress.
“Yeah,” Roy answers, not all impatient like Jamie would expect, just soft and quiet, so much so Jamie starts to wonder if it really is Roy after all. “Right here, idiot.” And that’s better.
A little snort from Ted, and Jamie realizes that hand is still on his head, and he should shake it off, push himself up, puff up his chest and stiffen his spine but. He don’t. “You’re alright,” Ted repeats, so insistent, and who is he trying to convince, again?
“How’d you…when did you…was Roy, then you, and…you’re here,” Jamie narrates, or asks, he’s not sure.
“Yeah, well,” Ted drawls, and Jamie turns his head to look at him. “Roy called me, let me know where you were. Got over here quick as I could.”
“I beat you here,” Roy counters, and Jamie turns his head to look at him. “Only called you cause you live like half a mile away. How the fuck did it take you so fucking long to get here? Had to drop Phoebe off at Keeley’s and I was still fucking here first.”
“Got here quick as I could,” Ted repeats, and Jamie turns his head again, like it’s that fucking whassit called, Wimbledon? “Took me a little longer than planned. May have gotten myself a bit lost.”
“It’s a fucking hospital,” Roy growls, and Jamie turns his head again before he realizes this would be easier if he was just moving his eyes but he’s not sure he can steer them separate from his skull right now. “You can see it from a mile in any direction.”
“Well, that’s true,” Ted agrees, and Jamie manages to move just his eyes this time, though that makes the spot between them flare up in a deep ache so he stops trying. “But now it’s not my fault y’all’s streets are so gosh darn confusing. And what the heck is a mews anyway?”
“It’s a street. With houses,” Roy answers.
“Then why don’t y’all just call it a dang street?” Ted asks.
Roy shrugs eloquently. Jamie would too, if the parts of his body south of his neck were inclined to listen to him.
“Both came ‘ere?” Jamie wonders, dumb question that it is, cause the answer’s pretty damn obvious, is standing right in front of him. Beside him. Beside his bedside. Whatever.
Ted mopes at him, that frown that sits in his eyebrows before it tumbles to his lips. It’s Roy that answers, though. “Course we fucking did.” Like that’s an explanation, like that’s all there is to it.
“What Roy means to say,” Ted clarifies, unphased by the glare Roy is giving him, “is that we both got here as soon as we could. And we’re sorry we didn’t get here sooner.” Roy’s glare softens when his eyes fall to meet Jamie’s, something darker flickering there. “And we’re both very, very glad you’re okay.”
Roy drops his eyes farther, fingers drumming on the railing. He nods, once, sharp and decisive. And that hand snakes out to Jamie’s shoulder, sits there for a moment before it squeezes, and then departs.
“Right,” Ted comments, and Jamie looks at him just in time to catch a quick smile before Ted schools his face again.
That’s the thing with Ted, always smiling, at everyone, even the people Jamie knows he doesn’t like. But he thinks he gets it now, the difference between those smiles, least he hopes he does, cause getting one of those smiles only to find out Ted doesn’t actually like you would be…terrible. 'Cept it wouldn’t, cause Ted finds a way to like everyone, even people he shouldn’t, even people who are mean to him like Jamie used to be, but he’s trying to be better now.
And Ted likes him now, least Jamie thinks he does, cause why else would he show up to the hospital. Course his dad showed up too, but he didn’t ask how Jamie was feeling, just told him he didn’t have a right to feel whatever it was. Didn’t say he was worried, or tell Jamie it was alright, or put a hand on Jamie’s head to make him feel better.
He blinks while he’s trying to figure out why it is some people don’t do the things they’re supposed to while other people do the things they don’t have to, or maybe his eyes stay shut for a bit longer cause when he opens them again the window is dark and he comes in at the middle of a conversation that’s apparently been going on for a bit.
“…some kinda nerve though, showing up here after everything.”
“No fucking shit. Fucking…shitfucker. Shoulda punched his fucking face in.”
“Well, I’m sure they appreciate you not committing assault and battery in a hospital room, but I have to say I’m not too impressed with someone who comes in here like that, lays into his kid while he’s prone in a hospital bed.”
“Supine.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s…never mind. Don’t matter.”
“Hnh?” Jamie slurs, cause really this just keeps getting more and more confusing, like all those times he zoned out during plays Keeley dragged him to and had to guess why all the people up on stage were yelling at each other.
“Hey, you back with us?” Ted asks, smiling down at him.
“Hnh,” he answers, cause anything else seems like a lot of work and he’s figuring out all he has to do to get Ted to smile is be there, and that seems too easy to be nice but it is. Roy’s not smiling at him, exactly, though he’s still stood there, next to the bed, hands on the rails, not cursing or yelling or throwing anything so Jamie must be doing something right.
It’s a quiet moment, the silence and the stillness dragging Jamie’s eyelids down again, til that door opens and his heart starts going like a jackhammer. The hand on his head – still there, was it? – drops to his shoulder, grounding.
‘Cept it’s a woman who comes in, in blue scrubs and a ponytail. Jamie stares for a second while his neurons remember how to fire. It’s the woman from earlier, the one who asked him his name, who chuckled at him, and he still don’t know how he knows her but he figures it don’t much matter.
Her lips twist up when her dark eyes meet his. “How are you feeling, Mr. Tartt?”
Roy snorts before Jamie can answer. “Mr. Tartt?” he echoes in disbelief, like the idea of Jamie deserving an honorific is prepensa…preposturiz…propositio…silly.
Her mouth flattens when she looks at Roy, but her eyes brighten. “Well,” and her gaze turns back to Jamie, “I hope tweedledum and tweedledee here haven’t been giving you too much trouble.”
Jamie glances between Roy and Ted, waiting for the inevitable explosion and the inevitable self-effacing smile. There’s a smile from Ted alright, but just a scowl from Roy, and is he feeling alright today?
“So,” the woman continues, stepping closer. “Still waiting on a few results, but the good news is it looks like all you’ve got is a bit of a concussion and a couple cracked bones. Nothing too terrible, and nothing that won’t clear up in a bit.”
Ted deflates at that, gives Jamie’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Roy shoots him a dubious glance before looking back at the woman. “You sure? Cause he’s a little…” he wiggles his fingers next to his head, “you know.”
The woman turns a glare on Roy, and shit Jamie must know her. “Yes,” she snipes, “he’s a little,” a waggle of her own fingers, “because he has a mild traumatic brain injury. Arsehole.”
Jamie stares, that slow connection in his brain finally clicking. “You’re…”
“My fucking sister,” Roy growls, like it’s a personal failing to have siblings. He looks at Jamie with a furrowed brow. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
“Traumatic brain injury,” his sister repeats. “And I have a fucking name,” she says, though she don’t say what it is, so that’s not helping Jamie much. Jamie’s stuck looking between them, blinking.
“She’s the one who let us know you were here,” Ted supplies. “Well, she told Roy, and Roy told me, so…”
“That’s how you knew I was ‘ere?” Jamie asks.
“Yeah. Course. How the fuck do you fucking think I fucking knew?” Roy frowns at Jamie. “Think I just know fucking everything?” he scoffs.
“Sometimes,” Jamie murmurs, cause it seems like that line straight from his brain to his mouth is back, and if it could go through the part of his brain that’s working sometimes that would be nice, but he’s not in a position to be that picky right now.
“I…oh,” Roy says, frown growing deeper, tilting his head at Jamie, looking at him like there’s something there he’s not expecting, and a look like that would make Jamie squirm if his brain was connected to anything but his mouth.
“He definitely does not know everything, let me assure you,” his sister pipes up. “No matter how hard he tries to convince you otherwise. And he will try to convince you otherwise. He’s had a few bumps on the head too. He ever tell you about the time he – ”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Roy sighs, and that could be a note of defeat Jamie’s hearing.
“I would have thought the pink pointed hat might have provided some protection, but you did crash into that table at full speed,” his sister muses.
“Couldn’t see anything because I had fucking glitter in my fucking eyes,” Roy protests feebly.
“Oh, it wasn’t too bad,” she reassures Jamie and Ted. “Phoebe patched him up with a few unicorn Band-Aids and off they went. He still doesn’t mind playing the princess. He’s just that sort of uncle.”
Jamie gazes at her blearily. “You’re amazing.”
She beams. Ted chuckles. Roy curses. “Yes,” she answers. “I am.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roy says dismissively. “He’s fucking fine, then.”
A glower from her that puts Roy’s to shame. “He has a few fractured bones and a mild traumatic brain injury, or did you fucking forget what I just fucking told you?”
“So, no swelling or bleeding. Means a few days at least taking it easy, and then we can see how he’s doing, go from there,” Ted interjects. Roy’s sister smiles and nods at him, and when did Ted have time to learn all these things he apparently knows anyway?
“You’ll want to consult with the team’s doctors, but I imagine he’ll be back on the pitch in a few weeks. So don’t worry,” she smirks at Roy. “You’ll have ‘the best fucking player you’ve ever fucking seen’ off the bench in no time,” she adds with the requisite air quotes.
“He said that?” Jamie marvels.
“No,” Roy says.
“Yes,” his sister says over him. “I mean, buried amongst a number of other choice words, but I’ve learned to drown those out. You’ll learn too, eventually.”
“I will?” he wonders, and Ted huffs out a laugh and pats his shoulder and Roy just glares but it’s not the angry Roy glare it’s the exasperated Roy glare, and Jamie thinks he might be learning there’s a difference.
Roy turns that glower on his sister. “Don’t you have some torches to go dig out of some arseholes or something?”
She shakes her head ruefully. “Oh, no torches. Everyone seems to have developed a courgette preference, lately.”
Ted and Roy wince in unison. Jamie would too, but he’s feeling kinda…tired and dopey and worn down, but not as bad as it could be, cause he feels kinda warm too, and not as edgy as he usually would be when his dad’s in the same city.
“So, what’s the next step, Doc?” Ted asks and it's a good thing he’s here cause Jamie should know to ask these questions, not like this is his first time in a hospital, but he just can’t seem to do the things he should be doing right now and that’s alright, Ted and Roy are doing those things for him.
“As I mentioned, we’ll take a look at those tests. Soon as that’s done, we can discharge him. Might be a few hours, but he should be out of here tonight. I assume he’ll go with one of you?”
Ted and Roy nod. Jamie blinks. Huh. Must’a missed that part.
“Good. I’ll be getting back to my rounds then, but if you have any questions, let me know.”
“Hey Doc, let me walk with you, get a few more minutes of your time, you can let me know if there’s anything else I should look out for,” Ted says with a last squeeze of Jamie’s shoulder. “Back in two shakes, fellas.”
Jamie watches Roy watch the two of them step out of the room. Roy turns back to him with a grunt. Jamie blinks, looking for a place to stare that isn’t Roy’s face. Not that Roy hasn’t seen him in a bad place before, but least he was on his feet at Wembley. He chews on his tongue for a moment, unsure.
“The fuck ain’t you updated your paperwork?” Roy’s voice breaks the silence with a suddenness that makes Jamie flinch. Again. “Sorry,” Roy offers, like he’s done something wrong, not something just…Roy.
Jamie shrugs as best he can. “Dunno. Didn’t seem so important.”
“How many fucking times has fucking Higgins told you to fucking do it?”
He peers up at Roy. “You listen to everything Higgins tells you?”
“Fuck no,” Roy answers. He tilts his head. “Twenty percent, maybe. The stuff that matters to my pay cheque. More than you, at least.” Jamie hums his agreement and Roy narrows his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, Tartt, don’t tell me you’re stuffing all your money into your mattress or some shit like that.”
Jamie blinks up at him, doe-eyed. “But it’s pretty comfortable to sleep on.”
“Comfortable to sleep…Jamie…that’s…oh.” Roy’s lips twist. “Fucking little shit.”
Jamie grins. Least he thinks the side of his face that’s still working is grinning. “Guess it’s true, you geezers are gullible.”
Roy’s teeth flash. Not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. Just Roy. And as much as Jamie’s gonna get. He snorts before his gaze falls to the blue bandage on his arm. The fingers of his other hand start worrying at the bedsheets. “Hey. Roy. I…uh…I…”
“No,” Roy snaps.
His fingers still. “No?”
“No. Don’t. Don’t thank me for this shit.”
“Well what am…what am I s’posed to do, then?”
“Update your fucking paperwork,” Roy sighs, long-suffering.
“Oh,” Jamie breathes, resumes picking at the loose threads.
Another sigh from Roy. “Fuck it. I’ll tell Higgins to change it. You’d just fuck it up again.”
Course, Roy doesn’t ask how Higgins should change it, or at least he doesn’t tell Jamie what he’s gonna tell Higgins. Jamie’s got a feeling he knows, though. “Alright,” he says. “Hey,” he starts after a moment.
“The fuck is it now?”
“You really say those things? That you think I’m the best player you –”
“Must have been fucking drunk when I said it. Or maybe I was the one with a…” Roy waves a hand at Jamie’s head, “fucking traumatic brain injury, or whatever.”
“Okay,” Jamie says, and his head hurts and his arm hurts and his everything hurts but his eyes are working and maybe he’s getting a little smarter cause he can read that expression on Roy’s face like a book. If he read books.
“Fucking Christ Tartt, don’t give me that fucking look.”
“Where am I s’posed to look, then?”
“Just…” Roy rolls his eyes. “Get some more fucking sleep before they boot you out of here.”
It’s not a terrible idea, that, so he lets his eyes drift close. Jerks them back open when he remembers before and he did that, and his fucking dad was here. Then again when he did that, and wasn’t his dad here, but fucking seemed like it for a minute and fuck if that happens again good thing Jamie’s in a hospital cause there’s no way his heart is going to hold out.
“Fuck’s sake,” Roy sighs again when he realizes Jamie’s looking at the door. “We’ll fucking be here. Now go the fuck to fucking sleep.”
Hard to argue with Roy when he’s like that, and fuck Jamie really is dead tired, like he hasn’t spent the last…whatever…sleeping, so he lets his eyes close again. And the door doesn’t swish open like Ted’s come back, but a palm finds its way to his head anyways, lighter than the first one, more hesitant-like, before it sets itself down squarely atop his head.
Probably ruining his hair, but it’s fine. He don’t mind. Really.