Archive of Our Own

Jamie was getting worse.

It made no fucking sense. Jamie had never worked so hard before, never taken his career so seriously. He was being coached directly by Roy Fucking Kent, up at four every morning, pushing himself to be the best he could be - better than Zava, no matter how impossible that felt - and yet, it was undeniable. Jamie was slipping.

No one had said anything to him yet, but it was just a matter of time. He could feel the team’s eyes on him, every time he entered the locker room, flickering away any time he looked up. Or maybe he was imagining it. He wasn’t sure anymore.

It was killing him, the waiting. Even Roy hadn’t mentioned it, not directly at least; there were a few probing questions about whether he was okay. Roy looked uncomfortable every time, prying the words out like rotten teeth. Maybe he thought Jamie was slacking, or that he was cheating on his carefully regimented diet, or that Jamie wasn’t trying.

(He was trying. Jamie had fucking meant it. He wasn’t trying to waste Roy’s time, but the nasty little voice at the back of his skull wondered whether he was wasting it anyway. It was a habit of Jamie’s, wasting his chances.)

“Jamie? Jamie-”

“What,” snapped Jamie. Then, a beat later, his stomach twisting with regret, “Sorry. I mean. What?”

Sam looked at him with more patience than he deserved. How long had he been standing right there? “Training is over,” he said.

“Oh. Right.” He scratched at his eyebrow. With a covert glance around, he realised that most of the team were already off the pitch, only a few stragglers lingering behind - Jamie last of them all.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, mate,” Jamie said. The changing room seemed impossibly far away. “Be a minute. Just enjoying the weather.”

Sam looked up at the sky - cloudy, but only lightly, which was pretty good for England weather - with a dubious look. “I think it’s supposed to rain soon.”

Jamie shrugged. “Gotta make the most of it then, don’t I?” He dropped to the grass, legs barely slowing his descent.

“If you are sure,” Sam said, though he hesitated for a moment longer before he finally started off towards the locker room.

Finally alone, Jamie allowed his shoulders to drop, slouching with a heavy fatigue. His eyelids fluttered. Would he get in trouble if he took a nap on the pitch?

“Want to do some trick shots?”

He startled, tensing, stomach churning at the sudden movement. So much for being alone. “Dunno, Dani,” Jamie hesitated, leaning back on his hands to look up at the man. “Kind of knackered.”

Dani just grinned, not easily deterred. “Afraid I will win?”

Jamie barely managed to cover a wince. The question was a bit too close to the truth; he was certain that Dani would win. They were fairly evenly matched when it came to precision, and even a minor weakness on Jamie’s part would quickly become obvious. Equally, declining his offer would be suspicious. He had worked on being a team player, but in his bones Jamie was still a competitive little shit, and he never turned down an opportunity to win at anything. Besides, could he really turn down a chance for extra training? He needed it now more than ever. “Alright,” Jamie accepted reluctantly.

Dani’s eyes crinkled with joy, and it almost felt worth it. Jamie allowed himself to be dragged back to standing, and tugged over toward the goal.

They started with bouncing the ball off the crossbar, as is their tradition. His first shot hit it - not dead on, more of a glancing blow than he’d like, but it connected - and his second did not.

And his third did not.

And he could feel his chest tightening with panic because he could do this, he could, it’s not that hard, he’s been doing this since he was a kid, why couldn’t he do this?

And Dani, that sweet bastard, missed his third shot by a narrow, carefully calculated margin. Jamie was grateful, but that relief was quickly replaced by a prickly anger. “You don’t have to go easy on me,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and neutral, because he was not his father, and he could keep his anger to himself.

“I am not,” Dani said with exaggerated innocence.

Jamie eyed him. “You missed on purpose.”

“It was an accident.” He shrugged. “There must be a strong wind today, as we are both not our best.”

It was a lie, but it was a kind one. Jamie tried to believe him. “Go again?”

“I’m feeling a bit tired,” Dani said, which was about as believable as a strong wind on this unusually still afternoon. “Another time?”

Guilt twisted at Jamie’s stomach. Sometimes he wondered if he could ever deserve a friend like Dani Rojas. “Sure, mate. Another time.”

Jamie had first noticed after Zava went and fucked off.

It might have started before then, but that was when he knew for sure that something was wrong, because Zava wasn’t there. No one was stealing his goals, no one was refusing to make that extra pass. It was just Jamie, and his team, like it used to be. Except he used to be good.

How long had Jamie been failing without knowing? Too busy blaming Zava for all his problems. He should have known. Should have known.

He woke up at four, and he trained. He went to Nelson road, and he trained. Training ended, and he trained.

He would hang out with the team, because he was a team player now, even if he would rather drag himself to his empty house and fall asleep still in his clothes, just to feel well rested, just once.

He was tired.

He was tired.

He was tired.

Jamie’s head was throbbing as he trailed the team out of the changing rooms, onto the pitch for training. The nattering around him only made it hurt more. Everyone was cheery and ready to go, energetic and bright eyed, whilst Jamie had been up since four, as usual. He felt a little bad for being so sour about it - being personally coached by Roy Fucking Kent was an honour and a privilege - but his attempts to push down the feeling were failing by the minute.

Roy shouted “Whistle,” with the same determined energy he always did. The bloke was fucking ancient, but waking up before four each morning didn’t seem to bother him, did it?

They broke into drills, and it was familiar enough that he only needed half his brain to get on with it. Every movement was like a knife through his skull. He felt quite strange, as if he was half floating above himself, buoyed along by muscle memory. Jamie couldn’t be in his body at that moment.

The sky, heavy and grey, finally broke into a drizzle. He shivered, but no one else seemed to even notice. He pretended it didn’t bother him; everyone would only assume he was worried about his hair if he complained. So he tried to keep his reactions to himself (although a wince sometimes broke through his mask, despite himself) and hoped that nobody looked too closely.

Which was a mistake.

“Jamie! Come on over here,” Ted called out, waving an enthusiastic hand. His face was smiling and his tone was jovial, and Jamie’s stomach dropped all the same. Luckily, Roy was off with some of the lads, tormenting them with burpees, so it was just Ted and Beard, neither of whom were particularly likely to yell at him for his lacklustre efforts.

He jogged over, trying to put a bit more energy into it. “What’s up, Coach?”

“Just wanted to check in.” Ted tucked his hands into his pockets. “You look like you’re not having a fun practice, so I figured I’d better check if everything's okay.”

“Sorry,” Jamie said quickly. “I’m okay.”

“You sure about that? You look like you got a touch of the holler tail.”

Jamie blinked, suddenly wondering if there was something wrong with him. Maybe he was having a stroke.

“He means you don’t look well,” Coach Beard input, expressionless as ever. Jamie couldn’t read him for shit.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve got a headache, but I’m not sick or nothing.”

“Well, we don’t want you training if you’re hurting,” said Ted, and Jamie had a second of guilt-tinged relief at the thought of getting to go inside and warm up, maybe having a rest day, but then Ted followed up with, “Have you taken Tylenol, or whatever it is you’ve got here?” He looked to Coach Beard.

“Paracetamol,” he supplied, like he was Google Translate or whatever.

Shifting his weight between aching feet, Jamie admitted, “Nah.”

“Well, we’re about to split into a bit of 11v11,” said Ted, “How about you go down to medical, take some painkillers, and if you’re feeling better you can come join us for second half, huh?”

Even as Jamie nodded, he was choking down a sudden wave of shame. He felt stupid. Ted obviously thought so, considering how quickly he had guessed that Jamie hadn’t taken any basic steps to fix himself. Maybe he just figured that Jamie was lazy, that he was looking for an excuse to skive off. He knew he should say something - thanks, probably, for being so nice to him, for not telling him to man up and get on with it - but he suspected that if he tried to speak, his voice would be embarrassingly wobbly. Instead, he silently turned away. Better they think he’s rude, rather than know how choked up he was over nothing.

He took the painkillers, and jogged straight back out to the pitch. They might have known that he was a bit thick, might have noticed that he was not as good as he used to be, but he could at least show them that he was trying. Show them that he meant it.

On his way home, he swung by Boots and picked up as many packs of paracetamol as he could carry. The lady at the checkout looked like she might protest, but then she noticed who she was serving, and was too busy asking for an autograph.

He wasn’t going to be stupid again. He could handle it. He could fix himself.

So he went home, choked down a couple more chalky tablets, and started training.

Jamie had started having these thoughts, sometimes, these nasty, twisting little imaginings. Maybe it had started out as an anxious spiral, but it was something new, now, something worse, something more akin to a fantasy. He hated himself every time it crept back into his brain.

See, he had been wondering sometimes whether he was getting sick - like, really, seriously sick. The thought of it had plagued him. He had started imaging it, imagining himself getting sicker and sicker, imagining being told it was cancer or something like that. That was all it was at first; a vague worry, a worse case scenario.

Then he started thinking about it more, considering how it would play out, how people would react, until it stopped being an intrusive thought, and became more of a daydream. He imagined what people were saying behind his back, about how he was playing like shit, about how he clearly wasn’t trying hard enough, and then he imagined the comments they might make to him, little barbed words of concern, jokes that weren’t really jokes. He imagined how bad they would feel, once he told them the news, how no one would blame him anymore for the missed goals, the sloppy passes. How all of that would just stop.

It was mean, is the thing. He knew his team, knew that they’re good lads, knew that they were kinder than the version of them that Jamie had in his head. He knew that, no matter how shit he was playing, they wouldn’t be cruel about it.

Sometimes, Jamie wished they were cruel about it. Wished someone would just say it. It was driving him crazy, all this waiting, not knowing how long it would take for people to notice.

He wished he had a reason for it. Wished it wasn’t his fault, but it had to be, didn’t it? He was doing something wrong. He was always doing something wrong, and if he couldn’t be absolved, then he had to be blamed.

The match against Southampton was supposed to be easy.

Well, not easy - no game was truly easy - but there had been an optimistic feeling in the air, in the locker room before the game. They were on home turf, and Southampton had been playing like shit the entire season. Sure, Richmond hadn’t been doing too well neither, particularly since Zava’s sudden disappearance, as much as Jamie hated to admit it, but things had been looking up. The whole Total Football thing had started off fairly disastrous, but by the second half of the Arsenal match, he had begun to think it might work, and it seemed the rest of the team had been feeling it, too.

Whatever hope they had been feeling has sunk like a bloody rock.

Now they sat in that same changing room, a sense of despair hanging over them. Fucking 2-1. They had lost 2-1 to Southampton.

Losing a game was always hard. The only consolation, since he had started listening to Ted more than his dad, was that it wasn’t just his loss; he was part of a team. He had hated sharing the glory, but it turns out, there’s a plus side, because he got to share the disappointment too. He had just started to learn, to understand that it wasn’t all his fault, that it wasn’t solely his responsibility to win the game.

Except now it’s different, innit? Fucking Total Football. Fucking Jamie the fucking Conductor. He was supposed to be the one in the middle, the one making the decisions, the one deciding the plays. He was meant to be the communicator. The person who knew what to do, and when to do it.

He didn’t know what to do anymore, and now everyone knew it.

Jamie held his head in his hands. He was only half listening to Ted’s post-game speech, couldn’t quite make out the words. Probably better that way. He respected Ted, more than he would ever admit, but his particular brand of unflinching positivity could only chafe against Jame when he was in this mood.

Had his dad been watching?

He had blocked his dad’s number about a month ago, which had seemed like the right move at the time, except now the distinct lack of unkind texts had Jamie bristling and on edge. Maybe it had been better, reading them. Not knowing was worse. Not knowing was always worse.

Not that it really mattered if he had seen; no doubt Jamie’s shit playing would be all over the internet by now, certain to be in the paper come morning. No escaping it. Everyone would see it eventually.

His dad had always said that he was going to go soft, with Ted Lasso as his manager, that it was going to ruin him. That they wouldn’t want him anymore, once they had ruined him. No one would. Jamie was terrified of proving him right.

People were filtering out of the room, now; he hadn’t registered that Ted was finished talking. He shook his head, trying to focus through the haze, blinking until things looked more real. Dani squeezed his shoulder as he went past, smiling weakly. Did he feel sorry for Jamie? Hard to tell.

He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. It seemed about a thousand pounds heavier than it should have been. His legs felt shaky and insubstantial as he headed home.

The text came later that day, as he choked down one of those awful protein shakes, the brand that he had done some promotion for back when Keeley was still working for the club. Not the text he had been waiting for, the one he had composed a dozen times in head on his father’s behalf. This was, somehow, worse.

No training tomorrow.

Jamie stares at the words for a long time, as if he read them enough, they might rearrange themselves into something different, something better. He felt cold. His palms were sweating.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t-

It was only one game, one stupid game. It was a mistake, a bad day, it wasn’t like Jamie did it on purpose or anything. He had been working hard, and he was trying, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that enough? That he meant it?

He poked at his phone with numb fingers, half typed out replies, quickly deleted and started over.

Don’t

That ain’t fair

Why are you

I’m sorry about today but I can still

Please can we just

Fuck you man I didn’t

He stopped, eyes squeezed shut, pushing the edge of his phone against his forehead, as if he could split his skull open and empty out all his stupid thoughts. Fucking Roy Kent. Fuck it.

Jamie called him.

It only rang twice before Roy picked up, answering with a grunt.

“What’s this about not training?” Jamie bit out.

Roy made a noise of exasperation, as if Jamie was acting like a child, as if he were being unreasonable. A flush of anger spread through him. “It’s pretty fucking simple. No training tomorrow. Take a rest day.”

Jamie opened his mouth, a hundred replies caught in his throat, and then the phone beeped primly, telling him that the call had ended.

The fucker had hung up on him.

Jamie redialled, hands balled into shaking fists. He paced the space between the fridge and the sink.

Voicemail.

Fucking voicemail.

He hung up, scrolling through his contacts in a rush of furious determination. Hit dial.

It rang once, twice. Kept ringing. Just as Jamie was about to give up, he was greeted with a cheery, “Hullo.”

At the sound of Keeley’s voice, Jamie half deflated, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. He licked his lips, trying to decide what to say - whether he should pretend he had called by accident - when she said, voice pinched with worry, “Jamie? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, sorry, uh,” Jamie said, voice strange to his own ears. “Everything’s fine. I was just, um- This is a bit weird, but can I get Roy’s address?”

“Roy’s home address? Why?” She only sounded a touch suspicious, mostly just a benign sort of curious. Too trusting, Keeley was.

“I wanted to send him a gift, like, for all the extra training he’s been helping me with. I’d give it to him in person, but I think he’d get all awkward about it,” he said. He hadn’t lied to Keeley in a while. He didn’t feel good about it, but he was in too deep now.

Keeley practically cood, “That’s so sweet of you.”

Jamie's stomach twisted.

This was bad. He was being bad. He was acting like Old Jamie, the version of himself that lied without feeling a thing, the version of himself that only cared about himself.

It didn’t stop him from scrawling down the address, though. And it didn't stop him from getting in his car and driving over, either.

Roy’s face when he opened the door was almost enough to make him regret this whole thing.

Almost.

“Tartt? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jamie rocked on his heels. “You weren’t picking up the phone.”

“Yeah,” Roy said, thick eyebrows climbing upward, “that’s what you call a fucking hint. Go home, Jamie.”

He darted out a hand, holding the door open - although, he realised a beat too late, Roy hadn’t actually attempted to close it - and watched Roy’s expression turn darker. “Wait, just- I need to talk to you, alright?”

“And it couldn’t fucking wait until tomorrow?”

“No, cause- I want to train tomorrow, Coach.”

“Too fucking bad. I told you, you’re taking a rest day-”

“But that’s not fair,” Jamie burst out.

Roy squinted at him. “Not fair?” he repeated, incredulous. “What are you, fucking twelve?”

“I know I was shit today, alright? I know. But I can’t get better if you won’t help me, can I?”

“I am helping you.”

Jamie snorted. “You think this is helping me? Punishing me? Cause let me tell you, my old man tried that a lot, and I never fucking learnt a thing. So just- Can we just pretend today didn’t happen and go back to normal?”

Roy opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed, thickly, staring at Jamie in a way that was quickly becoming uncomfortable.

Suddenly unsure, Jamie took a step back. He couldn’t read the expression on Roy’s face, and he wasn’t sure what had put it there. “Look, I just-”

At the same time, Roy quietly said, “What did you just say?”

“What?” Jamie said, wrongfooted.

“Did you say-” Roy shook his head. “I’m not fucking punishing you.”

Jamie jutted his jaw out, face screwing up. “Oh, right, you just coincidentally decided you don’t want to train me anymore on the same day that I fucked the match.”

“It’s not a coincidence, you dickhead. You look fucking dead on your feet, and I figured the best thing I could do, as your coach, was to let you get a good nights rest, alright? I’m trying to do you a fucking favour here.”

“A favour? Did I ask for a fucking favour?” Jamie snapped back.

“Jesus Christ,” Roy hissed. “Sorry for trying to be fucking nice to you.”

“I don’t want you to be nice to me! I want you to make me fucking better. What’s the point in all this if I’m still-”

“Uncle Roy?” came a new, childish voice. Out from behind Roy’s hip came a small girl - Phoebe, Jamie remembered - with a frown on her face. Her eyes caught on Jamie with recognition. “Oh, it is you, Jamie. Why are you shouting?”

Jamie may as well have been made from concrete, from ice. He was stuck solid, unable to say a single word. He felt quite suddenly monstrous, like he existed in the world just to make it a bit scarier.

“It’s alright, Phoebe,” Roy said, voice a low grumble. “We’re just a bit upset about losing the match today, that’s all.”

Phoebe nodded, all precocious wisdom. “Once, after my team lost a game, Mia started yelling at Sophie because she didn’t stop any goals, but then I told her to stop being a shithead.” She pronounced the swear word carefully but firmly. Then, “I’m not allowed to swear at school anymore, but she was being a shithead. It’s okay if you don’t win, but you shouldn’t shout at people about it.”

“That’s very true,” Roy said, a bit wry, “although I don’t remember telling you that you could swear at home, either.”

She turned to him with wide, innocent eyes. “I was only explaining what happened, so it doesn’t count, does it?”

Roy sighed, long suffering. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“It’s hard to sleep when people are shouting,” she replied smartly.

“Alright, you, we’re not shouting anymore, are we? Off to bed, go on.”

“Okay,” Phoebe agreed. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

“Night, Phoebe,” he choked out, the words croaky but just about audible.

They waited, listening to her light footsteps fade. Then, when he could hear them no more, Jamie said, "You're right. This isn't working out."

"That is not what I said."

"It's what you meant, though. It's alright. I know I'm- I know I'm not getting better." Getting worse, is what he was thinking, but he couldn't bear to voice it.

Roy sighed. "You're making this into a bigger thing than it is."

Taking a step back, Jamie insisted, "It's alright. Thanks for trying, Coach. Tell Phoebe I'm sorry for scaring her, yeah?"

Another one of those unreadable looks. "Phoebe wasn't scared of you," he stated. "She isn't easily scared."

It didn't comfort Jamie. After all, he had grown up terrified. He had desperately tried to pretend otherwise, had never admitted it, but he had grown around fear like a tree growing around an axe. He had been pretty convincing, too. "Still. Sorry."

"Yeah, alright," Roy grumbled. "Get some fucking sleep, yeah?"

If Jamie was out the door at four the next morning, running a familiar route in an unfamiliar silence - well, that was nobody's business but his own.

A couple of weeks passed quietly.

Jamie’s routine hadn’t changed, he was just spending more time alone, without Roy training him. He had started declining invitations more, too. He didn’t have the time for it, the energy for it, so he only went out with the team when he felt like he really had to. Some events weren’t so easily skipped, like the first FIFA game night at Colin’s since he had come out to the team. Could hardly tell him no, when he was looking around like he half expected to be rejected, like Jamie might not want to spend time with him now he knew Colin was gay.

It made him sad, that Colin might think that. Still, couldn’t exactly blame him either. Jamie was sure he had probably made shitty homophobic jokes, before, when he didn’t care about hurting people as long as it made someone laugh. It bothered him, that he couldn’t even remember for sure; that any of those jokes were so unmemorable to him, between all the other shitty things he had ever said.

Still, he had tried to act normal with him, so he knew that nothing had changed, and when Jamie accidentally fell asleep on his sofa, Colin hadn’t made fun of him for it, just covered him in a blanket and let him be. It was sweet of him, even if it meant Jamie had to stay up late to get his third training session of the day in.

He woke up the next morning, only four hours after he had gone to bed, and almost couldn’t get up, aching and exhausted. His limbs felt like they were full of lead. It was only the memory of their last match, of how abysmally he had played, that pushed him out from under his duvet and onto the still dark streets.

Jamie drifted through the day in a daze, barely able to remember where he had run to, when he got home. He made it to Nelson Road on time out of muscle memory and luck.

In the changing room, he tuned out the noise of the team, robotically tying his shoelaces with shaking fingers and trying to keep his eyes from drifting closed. His stomach churned, despite being empty; he had felt too queasy that morning to attempt his usual protein shake.

He didn’t notice his name being called. It was only when the team went quiet, watching him, that he realised that he was being spoken to. Ted was standing in the doorway of the office, looking at him with an expectant gaze.

“Sorry,” Jamie said, “what?”

Something passed over Ted’s face, too quick to read. “Was just asking for a word with you in the office.”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah,” he said, even as his chest was crushed, pressure squeezing at his lungs. Being called into the office was rarely a good thing, but after the shit performance that Jamie’s been giving them? Well. He’s had his loan terminated for less, hasn’t he?

Sure, he’s been nicer this time around, but how much did that really mean? The night before he was sent away, he had been trying so hard, taking part in that stupid ceremony, burning the boots his mum gave him, telling the lads more than he had ever wanted to. That hadn’t mattered then, and that was when Jamie was their biggest scorer. Now he was the team’s biggest liability.

Ted nodded at the rest of the lads. “You guys head out when you’re ready, start warming up. We won’t take long.” A chorus of yes, Coach, and then Jamie was following Ted into the office, heart thumping unevenly. With a quick glance around, he noted that Coach Beard and Roy were already in the office. He wasn’t sure what that meant for his chances. Maybe, after Jamie was such an asshole, Roy just wanted to watch Jamie get fired. Trent was conspicuously absent, which seemed like a bad sign, like they didn’t want this being leaked to the press. Maybe they thought Jamie would react badly, that it would be bad for the club’s image.

Ted sat on the edge of the desk, clearing his throat, and Jamie felt like he was fourteen again, sitting in the head teachers office with his mum’s concealer caked on around his eye, as if that would be enough to hide the swelling bruise, lying through his teeth as his stomach burned with shame. His fingers felt numb and tingling. He hid them in the hem of his hoodie, taking a shaking breath.

“So,” Ted said slowly, “we just wanted to have a chat, Jamie, if that’s alright.”

“About what?”

“Honestly, kid, you don’t look well,” he said, tone all careful and soft in a way that made Jamie bristle. “We’re- I’m worried. Did something happen? Something- is your dad-?”

“No,” Jamie denied. “No, I ain’t heard from him.”

Ted let out a breath. “Alright, well, that’s good. I’m not trying to get up in your business, but… are you sick? ‘Cause honestly, I don’t feel all too comfortable putting you through training when you look like you’re about to collapse.”

“I’m fine. I’m alright,” said Jamie. His voice seemed too loud, too fast. “I can train.”

There was a pause. Ted looked at Beard, having one of their weird silent conversations. Jamie didn’t look Roy’s way, unsure what he would find there.

Eventually, Ted cleared his throat. “I want to be able to trust you on this, Jamie, but we’ve been worried for a while now, and I was hoping that if I waited you’d come to me about this, but since you haven’t-”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he snapped. The expression on Ted’s face stung Jamie, all disbelieving concern. He hated him, for a moment, anger bubbling up his throat, acidic words caught on his tongue.

Apologetic, Ted says, “You’re not playing at your usual standard. I’m not- I’m not trying to upset you, but I think we need to talk about this, son. We can’t keep ignoring it and hoping it’ll go away, right?”

Why not, Jamie wanted to ask, why not? It had been working so far, hadn’t it? He just needed more time, time to fix this, to train harder, to get better, he needed-

“Jamie.” He was closer, now, stepping forward, ducking his head a little, trying for eye contact. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to help, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s wrong - but something is wrong, isn’t it? You don’t look well. You’re losing weight, and- and you’ve been taking pills, haven’t you, at the start of training?”

Rearing back, Jamie said, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, eyebrows raised. “I’m not-”

“Are you accusing me of- of what, taking drugs? You think I’m a fucking addict or summat?” Ted was shaking his head, trying to say something, but Jamie wasn’t done. “I’m not- I barely even drink, for Christ’s sake. What, you think just ‘cause I grew up on a council estate, just ‘cause my dad’s an alky, you think I’m gonna turn out like him?”

“No,” Ted said, something hurt in his voice, and it was almost enough to make Jamie pause, but he wasn’t done yet.

He rounded on Roy, standing silently in the corner, watching the disaster unfold. “Was this you?”

Roy blinked. “What?”

“Did you tell Coach that I’m fucking- that I’m taking pills? Is this about when I came to your house? I said sorry, didn’t I? You can’t just-”

“Tartt, shut up,” Roy said, but he didn’t even sound angry, which only pissed Jamie off more. “This has nothing to do with that. I’m not fucking- plotting against you. I didn’t even bring it up.”

“That’s true,” Beard said, still sitting in his stupid swivel chair like Jamie’s life wasn’t fucking unravelling onto the office floor. “I was the one who suggested this meeting.”

Jamie had never been exactly friendly with Coach Beard - could never really get a read on him - so the stab of betrayal he was feeling didn’t make much sense. He didn’t think they were friends, but they were meant to be on the same team, weren’t they? “What- why?”

“Because I’m observant,” said Beard. It wasn’t a brag, just a statement, his voice endlessly unaffected. “I’ve noticed that you’re struggling, and we can’t effectively coach you if you’re struggling. It’s not personal.”

“Not personal,” Jamie scoffed. “Whatever. I know you never liked me, but come on, it was one bad match!”

Beard shook his head. “Not just the match. You’re slow in training, you’re distant from the rest of the team. It doesn’t just affect you, y’know. The others are noticing. They look up to you, and if you act like you don’t care, they’re going to do the same.”

Struck silent, Jamie stared at Beard, mouth agape. Is that what they were thinking, that Jamie didn’t care? That he wasn’t trying?

Couldn’t they see how hard he was trying?

Ted half reached out, before tucking his hands into his pockets. “Jamie-”

He turned, storming out of the office, and picked up his bag, rummaging through the contents. He could hear the others at his back, following him out, and Ted was talking again, but Jamie didn’t listen, couldn’t listen anymore. He grabbed a box of paracetamol, and threw it at Ted's feet. “There. That’s all I’m taking, alright? I’ve been getting headaches, so I take painkillers for them, so I don’t have to miss training. I’m not fucking addicted to anything.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Ted said.

Jamie snorted. “Yeah. Alright, whatever. Can I go to training now?”

Ted rocked on his heels. “I’m not sure if-”

“Can I go,” Jamie repeated, voice quiet and sharp, ‘to training now?”

A sigh, like he was dealing with an unruly child. “Alright, yeah, go.”

Jamie pressed his lips together, not wanting to say anything else, to ruin this final chance. He nodded, and marched out of the locker room, out onto the pitch.

The rest of the team clearly had been talking about him whilst they were doing their warm up stretches, because they fell abruptly silent when he stepped on to the grass. His steps faltered, feeling awkward and unwelcome, before Dani waved him over with his usual warm smile. Jamie took a breath and joined him. Trent was lurking at the edge of the grass, notebook in hand, scribbling something down. A trickle of paranoia slipped down Jamie’s spine. Was he writing about him?

The coaches joined a minute later. There was a strange tension in the air - or maybe that was just in Jamie’s head - as they stepped out, none of them looking directly at Jamie, but constantly glancing around him. It was an unusually warm day, sun beating down on him. He could feel sweat springing up, despite how his hands still felt cold.

Roy started them on passing drills. He didn’t go easy on them, and Jamie was half relieved, half bitter.

He was determined to show them that he was trying; to prove that he did care. Jamie pushed through the fog of fatigue, the pounding headache that had become a near constant source of pain. He ignored the aching of his limbs, the tremor in his knees, the ringing in his ears. He was a hard worker, always had been. He was going to prove it. So everything Roy threw at them, Jamie took without complaint. He had to be faster, stronger - had to show them that he was still Jamie Tartt, he could still do this.

Then they swapped to suicide sprints. The team groaned, mostly teasing, but lined up for the drill. Jamie didn’t make a noise. He didn’t quite have enough air for it, for anything other than quick, sucking breaths. He shook his head, tried to focus on the cone, his target - tried to focus on anything past the lightheadedness - as Roy shouted, “Whistle.”

He ran.

Air whipped past him, tugging his hair out of his headband. His legs burned. His lungs burned. His head floated somewhere behind him.

He touched the cone. Turned, ran back. Touched the cone. Turned, ran.

He ran.

He-

He was falling.

Jamie’s arms flew out, catching himself, knee skidding painfully on the grass. He jolted to a stop, sucking in a shocked breath, heart skipping a beat.

He was supposed to be running.

Jamie jumped up as fast as he could, hoping against all odds that no one had seen him go down, tripping over himself like an idiot. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to find his balance, despite the way the world was spinning around him. He wanted to look around, to check whether anyone was watching, but he couldn’t see, not properly.

The edges of his vision were dark and shifting. He couldn’t focus his eyes; everything was swirling and strange, like the paintings he saw in Amsterdam with his mum, skies twisting and tumbling, like Amsterdam, like with his dad, when he was fourteen and drunk, and his dad, he let him drink, and then he took him, they went-

Someone touched his shoulder. Someone was touching him, and he didn’t want to, he didn’t want-

He was shoving someone, he was saying no, he didn’t want-

Someone was saying something, over and over, and it took him too long to recognise his own name. “Jamie? Jamie? Can you hear me?”

“What?” Jamie said, because he didn’t understand what was happening, because Ted wasn’t there in Amsterdam, except he was, just not with Jamie, because Jamie was with his dad or he was with Roy and they were shouting at him and Ted was supposed to be somewhere else-

“Jamie, I need you to sit down, okay? I’m not gonna touch you, but I need you to sit down, kid, alright? I don’t want you passing out on me, yeah?”

He didn’t really know why he would be passing out - he had never been a fainter, wasn’t bothered by needles or the sight of blood or nothing, and his dad would have thought he was a pussy if he ever had for sure, and anyway he wasn’t bleeding and-

“Jamie, did you hear me? Can you sit down for me, son?”

“Yeah,” said Jamie, because following instructions was always safer, and he was trying, he wanted Ted to know that he was trying. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could stand up much longer anyway, legs shaking like they were. He dropped down onto the grass, feeling the short blades fold under his palms.

Ted was still in front of him - he must have sat down, too, because he wasn’t hovering over him like he thought he might - and he was still talking to him, though Jamie had forgotten to listen for a moment. “That’s good,” he was saying, “That’s real good. You just take it easy now, alright?”

Jamie blinked at him, and suddenly he realised it wasn’t just him and Ted; the rest of the team were standing around him too, and the coaches, flanking Ted like bodyguards, like Jamie might-

He thought back through the last few minutes, murky and dreamlike as they were. “Did I hit you?” he croaked out suddenly, fear striking against his ribs.

“No, no,” Ted said, “everything’s fine.”

“I was- did I-” Jamie stammered. His head was full of jagged little puzzle pieces. He was trying to force them together, to get a glimpse at the picture, but they cut his fingers as he tried.

“It’s alright,” said Ted, but it sounded like a lie. “You just pushed Dani a little, but he’s perfectly fine.”

Jamie felt sick. He looked past the coaches, attempting to search Dani out, but he didn’t need to - Dani was already crouched nearby, shuffling a little closer at the mention of his name. “Jamie, it is okay,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling, which was just wrong, wasn’t it? Dani had a face meant for smiling. “You didn’t hurt me. I shouldn’t have touched you unexpectedly.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I weren’t trying to-” He took a hitching breath, and sharply twisted to the side, just as his stomach convulsed and he gagged. His eyes stung and he retched, unable to bring anything up, his stomach empty and tight. No one touched him. No one rubbed his back, or tried to keep his hair out of his face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to or not. Mostly, he just wished they hadn’t all seen this. God, even Trent was there, on the edge of the crowd, and he wondered whether this would all end up in that book of his.

“You’re okay, Jamie,” Ted was saying, “just breathe, you’re alright.” Jamie wondered if he was used to his, being a dad and all, whether he said the same thing to his son when he got sick. Jamie had never really had that. Mum couldn’t afford to take a day off when he was ill, and his dad was more likely to kick him whilst he was down.

Jamie spat in the grass, trying to get the acidic taste out of his mouth. Then there was a water bottle in his periphery. He glanced up with stinging eyes to find Will there, tentatively holding out the bottle. Jamie took it with shaky hands, giving Will a nod and something approaching a smile. He rinsed his mouth out, spat again, feeling a little bit more human for it.

Ted asked, “How’re you feeling now?”

“Better,” said Jamie, voice still rough but a bit stronger. “I can probably-” He went to stand, but Ted was quick to stop him.

“Woah, slow down there, soldier. Take a minute, we’re in no rush.”

“We’re interrupting training,” Jamie pointed out.

Ted tilted his head in thought. “Alright then. Coach Beard, Coach Roy, I’m sure you guys can keep training going without me?”

Jamie went to protest - he didn’t need Ted to miss training just ‘cause Jamie was a bit dizzy - but the other coaches were already moving, instructing the rest of the team to the other side of the field. A few of them called out goodbyes, telling Jamie to feel better soon. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve them.

It took a beat for him to realise that one player had yet to move; Dani was still crouched by his side, not even looking in the teams direction.

Roy had noticed, too. “Rojas! Come on, you’re with me.”

Dani hesitated a moment, looking at Jamie. “No, thank you, Coach,” he said. “I believe I should stay here.”

Jamie sucked in a sharp breath. Ted’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. Coach Kent wasn’t often - more like ever - told no.

Roy stood still, eyes assessing. He said, after a pregnant pause, “Good lad.” He turned away, following the team across the field, as if something unprecedented hadn’t just occurred.

Breaking the quiet, Ted gave a low whistle. “He really is just a big ol’ teddy bear deep down, isn’t he?”

Shrugging, Dani stated, “He cares about Jamie very much.”

“Are you joking?” Jamie blurted. “The bloke hates me, always has.”

Ted pursed his lips, sceptical. “I’m not so sure about that. He’s been worried about you, y’know.”

Jamie dropped his face into his hands, embarrassed. “Tell you about me having a meltdown on his doorstep, did he?”

“Nope,” said Ted, “though I would love to hear more about that. No, it’s more what he’s not saying, you feel me? He usually loves complaining about you, but recently he hadn't mentioned you at all, got all quiet whenever the subject was brought up.”

“Not really convincing me that he doesn't hate me,” Jamie said tiredly.

“Aw, that’s just how he shows affection,” Ted waved him off, “you know how he is.” He clapped his hands. “What do you say we get you back indoors, get some sugar in you?”

“Alright, Coach,” Jamie said. He shifted, ready to pull himself back to his feet, but Dani had already leapt up, holding out a helping hand. Jamie first thought was not a kind one; he wanted to knock the hand away, to tell him that he didn’t need help. Except maybe he did. He was tired, and dizzy, and maybe he wanted the help. Maybe it was okay, if he let them.

He clasped Dani’s hand, and let himself be helped.

His head was swimming as soon as he was upright, but Dani kept close to his side, a stabilising presence, whilst Ted hovered at his other shoulder, ready to catch him if he fell. They slowly made their way off the pitch.

As they reached the doors, Trent darted forward and held the door open for the three of them, giving Jamie a nod as he walked by. Jamie hoped that meant this whole incident wouldn’t be written about, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

The pair of them gently herded Jamie into the changing rooms, not moving away until he was safely sat down. Ted took a seat opposite, whilst Dani sat at his side.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Ted asked him.

“Last night,” Jamie admitted. “Felt a bit queasy when I woke up, and then I ended up running late, so I didn’t really… yeah.”

Dani decided, “I will go and get some things from the vending machine. A Lucozade, and the honey flavoured protein bar you like, yes?”

“Yeah,” said Jamie, “cheers, mate.”

“Of course,” Dani said earnestly, before all but running out of the room.

Ted watched him go. “I gotta say, I’m real glad you two ended up friends.”

Jamie shrugged. “He’s easy to be friends with.”

“Yeah,” Ted agreed. “We all like Dani. We all like you too, for what it’s worth.”

He turned his face away, embarrassed. “Come on, Coach.”

“I’m being serious,” said Ted. “I don’t think you realise how much you mean to this team.”

“Don’t,” said Jamie, a bit too fast. “Just- don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll just make it harder.” Jamie let out a slow breath, tucking his hands under the hem of his shirt. “Y’know, when I leave.”

“You’re leaving?” Ted said, voice so shocked that Jamie had to turn around and look at him, to make sure he wasn’t being sarcastic.

“I mean, you know,” said Jamie, “you guys aren’t gonna keep me on forever, especially if I keep playing like shit. No point making it any harder.”

“Jamie, we’re not- I’m not going to send you away, not now, not in the future. You’re a good player, Jamie, and a good man. I’m keeping you as long as you’ll stay.”

“You’ve done it before.” His voice came out unexpectedly bitter. He rushed to fix it. “I mean, which was fair, I know I was dead rude to you when you first-”

“I didn’t send you away,” Ted blurted.

Jamie blinked at him. “What?”

“I didn’t ask to end your loan. It was out of my hands, and I tried to stop it happening, but I couldn’t.” Ted shook his head. “I should’a tried harder. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that happened.”

He took a moment, absorbing that. Then Jamie said, “Why?”

Ted frowned. “Why what?”

“Why did you want me to stay? I was- I was horrible.” His hands fidgeted in his lap, pulling at a loose thread. He couldn’t meet Ted’s gaze, couldn’t do anything but choke the words out. “I was such a shit to you - to everyone. You should’ve hated me.”

Shuffling forwards on his seat, Ted said, “Everyone deserves a second chance. Besides, I kind of got the sense that.. maybe no one had given you your first chance, y’know? Which just didn’t seem fair to me. And look at you now.” Ted reached out slowly, giving Jamie enough time to protest, before he squeezed Jamie’s knee, a firm and grounding weight. “You took that chance and ran with it.”

Jamie folded his arms across his chest, held himself tight - didn’t allow himself to believe it. “I’m fucking it up.” He felt his lip wobble, his throat go tight, and he pressed his lips together until it stopped.

“Hey, no,” said Ted. “You’re not. You’re just struggling at the moment, but that’s okay. That’s what a coach is for, right? To help? You just gotta let us help.”

He didn’t want help. That was the truth of it. He wanted to do it alone, to fix it himself, like he always has. He didn't need anyone else. He didn’t want to need anyone else.

But he was tired. He was so fucking tired.

“Okay, Coach,” he said eventually. “What do I do?”

“Well, firsts things first, you’re gonna get some God’s honest rest. I’m talking no training, plenty of sleep, and some good solid food.”

A stirring of panic curled around Jamie’s lungs. “But-”

“Kid, listen to me,” Ted said, firm and strong, “you’re not going to forget how to kick a ball if you miss a couple days training. Right now, you’re burnt out. I know training is important, but there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

“It was Roy who set the training hours,” Jamie said, a bit childishly.

Ted smiled knowingly. “Well, if that’s true, then he did a bad job,” he said, “because everyone needs rest days and time to recuperate.”

“Well,” Jamie said, “he did try to give me a rest day, but I, uh-”

“Trained anyway?” Ted guessed wryly.

Jamie flushed. “Yeah.”

“Mhm. Well, from now on, you’re taking rest days. Don’t think I won’t check up on you.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“And we’re gonna take a look at your meal plan, whilst we’re at it. You’re looking too skinny,” Ted said, fully into mother hen mode now. “I don’t think you increased your calorie intake enough when you started training more.”

“Oh. I, uh. I didn’t think about that,” Jamie said, feeling a bit stupid.

Some of it must show on his face, because Ted reassured him, “That’s alright. That’s what you’ve got us for, right?”

“Right,” Jamie said thickly. “Thanks, Ted.”

Ted grinned, eyes crinkling. “Anytime, Jamie. I mean that.”

Dani stepped into the room at that moment, timing a bit too perfect to be natural; he had definitely been listening in on that last bit. Jamie found that he didn’t mind. He had always been private, more by necessity than anything else, but he trusted Dani. He trusted his team. It was himself that he struggled to trust, but maybe he could allow Ted to do that for him, for now. If Ted believed in him, well… maybe Jamie would believe it too, one day.

Sitting at his side, Dani passed over the vending machine snacks, waiting for Jamie to make a dent in his Lucozade, before declaring, “I’m making you dinner. My mother has finally trusted me with her tortas ahogadas recipe, you will love it.”

Jamie allowed himself to lean on Dani just a little. “Yeah, alright, mate,” he agreed. “Sounds good.”

Ted nodded, something proud in his smile. “Alright, well I had better get back to training. Take care of him, won’t you, Dani?”

“Of course,” said Dani. “That’s what friends are for.”

Jamie thought he didn’t mind being taken care of, if this was what it felt like.

For the first time in a long time, he felt warm.