Archive of Our Own ^omega

It’s been two weeks since the faithful match that brought Roy back and it’s been great. Being a coach is much better than being a pundit. Being back around football is great. Seeing everyone grow and being a part of that is amazing.

Well, everyone except Jamie. Roy has held back on training him, because he is sure that whatever goodie-two-shoes shit Jamie is pulling will come tumbling down.

Roy hadn’t believed Ted when he said Jamie had changed, barely bought it when some of the lads backed him up on it and had been suspicious of Jamie ever since his first day back at Richmond, this time as coach. And now, watching Jamie run around on the pitch, that mistrust feels vindicated.

Jamie is being a proper prick. He’s sending cocky arrogant looks to the others when he steals the ball, hogging the ball when he has it and shit talking when he scores. Ted comments it’s like they’ve stepped into a time machine back to last season with a concerned look, but Roy disagrees, the mask has just finally cracked. Jamie is comfortable again.

Though, if Roy is honest, he wouldn’t have bet on it being so fast. Last weekend they’d been at an away game and Jamie was still upholding his act, passing the ball and yelling with the lads without being a prick, then when he came in after rest day, it was as if a switch inside him had been flipped.

Maybe it’s because he scored two of their three goals, assisting on their last winning one too. He’d been jumped with celebrations, the savior of the match. They all should have known that sort of worship would get to his head. Roy certainly hadn’t joined in, but his absence alone clearly hadn’t been enough to ward this off.

Roy bets that if they’d known this would happen, none of them would have even high fived the little prick last Saturday. Because it’s been three days of this shit and it’s starting to get on everyone’s nerves. Fucking finally.

He himself had been done with this shit the second it started on Monday, but apparently Jamie had build up enough goodwill while Roy wasn’t looking that people wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and maybe he was having a bad day.

When it persisted onto Tuesday the team was starting to get annoyed. Now on Wednesday, it’s back to outright hostility. That’s what Beard said at least, that this is what it had been like when Jamie first arrived back. A part of Roy is proud of the others for standing up to Jamie about his behavior, even if as coaches they really should start stepping in soon if it continues. The way Jamie is getting tackled is bordering on red card territory.

The four of them on the side exchange looks, wordlessly trying to decide whether or not they should step in, how long they should let it go on for. Apparently it had helped force Jamie down a peg last time, but the method doesn’t seem to be working right now. Jamie keeps popping up with new insults ready like an infuriating asshole jack-in-the-box.

Right before a decision can be made, it goes to shit.

It almost happens in slow motion, the way Jamie has the ball, taunting his opposition in the scrimmage, before someone lets out a frustrated yell and tackles him. It’s not a nice tackle and the way Jamie smacks his head when he goes down makes everyone wince in sympathy, a hush falling over the pitch in the aftermath.

“Whistle!” Roy yells, even though everyone has already stopped. Despite their annoyance at Jamie, it appears none of them wanted him hurt. Good. Roy might not like the prick either, but the second anyone is actually out for blood, they’re off the field. It’s sport, not life or death.

From his spot on the field, Jamie finally lets them know he’s alive, groaning, before rolling over and taking a few breaths. Roy wants to think he’s playing it up for the refs, but there are no referees here and when they arrive Jamie is clearly still dizzy from sitting upright. Fuck.

“Howdy there, that was quite the smacker. You okay there, Jamie?” Ted asks, for once not doing all his confusing American mumbo-jumbo, which is smart when they’re trying to see if Jamie has a concussion or not.

The pre-Madonna complaining session or outrage he’s expecting doesn’t happen. Instead Jamie blinks a few times, forcing his eyes back into focus, too quiet for him to be natural, until he can see them all again, steely determination in his eyes as he says: “I’m fine, coach. I can play.”

“Fuck no,” Roy says it before he’s even aware of it. However, he means it. He honestly can’t give two flying fucks about Jamie’s bruised ego, because he knows the look of someone who has decided to play through pain, has seen it for years in the mirror. And while Jamie doesn’t matter to him personally, he can recognize they need the little prick on the pitch and that’s not going to happen if Jamie decides to be a dumbass and not take care of himself.

“What d’ya mean, no, old man?” Jamie shoots back indignantly. “I said I’m fine to play, didn’t I?”

“And I said you’re not,” Roy tells him, knowing he’s capable of out-stubborning Jamie. “You smacked your head against the ground, you’re getting checked for a concussion.”

“I can still play,” Jamie protests and Roy hates that a part of him feels worried that he’s not protesting the concussion part, that Jamie might have a concussion and is still determined to play.

However, Roy would rather bite of his own tongue than admit that, so he just glowers at the downed twat in a way he hopes is will convey that this is non-negotiable without having to say shit.

Fortunately, they have Ted there and Ted has no qualms in saying: “Well, I’m sure you feel just fine there, kiddo, but I think I speak for all of us when I say that we’d feel a lot better if you get checked out by the medics after going down like that. Just to be safe, yeah? Make sure it’s just a flesh wound.”

“Monty Python, nice,” Beard nods his approval at the reference that for once Roy got.

“Well, thank you,” Ted says cheerily before turning back to Jamie, expression serious once more

“’m not going to medical,” Jamie frowns at them, sending around a furtive glance as he does.

Of course. Roy doesn’t even fight the eye roll at that. It figures that this is some macho bullshit and Jamie doesn’t want to admit it hurts in front of everyone. That he wants to keep up this tough guy act for some reason, even when that is the exact thing that has lead them to this moment.

Tough luck for Jamie, though, because Roy doesn’t give a fuck about that. Sadly, they need the prick to win and to win he needs to be in good health. So he just barks: “Don’t give a fuck. Medical. Now.”

Jamie flinches slightly at the noise, which Roy takes to mean as another sign he is trying to play off the pain. It should make him feel a little bad, but he doesn’t because 1) it’s Jamie and 2) the barked order gets him to start moving. Mechanically he scrapes himself off the ground, waving away offered hands and staggering to his feet.

Roy’s plan hadn’t really been to carry the prick, so he doesn’t mind. Instead just sending an annoyed glare at Ted when he decides Roy is the perfect candidate to accompany Jamie to medical when Roy’s plan had been to hand him over to someone with a bit more compassion, like Sam or Dani. It feels like that stupid fucking charity gala dinner when Ted had forced them to play nice. Roy hates it.

Still, he can recognize that if anyone is going to be stubborn enough and uncaring enough to wrangle Jamie, it’s him and the lad truly needs a check up. So, Roy lets out an irritated breath, then does as requested.

They’re silent all the way to one of the recovery rooms and Jamie remains silent as Roy leaves to find a medic, then proceeds to stay quiet for most of the check up. Only at the end, when Roy starts to get worried despite himself, does Jamie appear to come alive again.

It’s like he suddenly remembered he was being an asshole that wanted to go out to training again instead of sitting in medical. He blinks like he’d done on the field, then starts protesting that he’s fine and it was just a bump and everyone’s being drama queens about it, like they’ve never seen an injury before.

The whole thing rubs Roy wrong and he hates it. He hates it even more that he can’t place why, but it feels familiar somehow. Like he’s watching a fucked up version of a press conference or some shit. What he also hates, is that he is starting to get fucking worried about the prick.

Because in the end Trevor, the medic, says: “It’s a mild concussion, you might even be cleared to play come Saturday if you rest . Proper rest. No screens, no music, no reading, no driving, but actual rest.”

And instead of taking the win that he might get to play in the match if he doesn’t do anything monumentally stupid, Jamie protests: “What? Rest? No. I feel fine. I barely have a headache. You’re being dramatic.”

“It’s fucking training, Tartt. You’re not getting benched halfway through the finals or some shit,” Roy frowns, wanting it to be directed at Jamie’s dramatics, but instead finding it being directed at his well being. A proper mindfuck, that.

A look Roy can’t place flashes over Jamie’s face, before he juts his jaw out stubbornly and crosses his arms. “I thought training was important. Coach ripped me a new one last season for missing it, I ain’t doing that again.”

“Yeah, that time you were being a prick, now you’re hurt,” Roy points out, trying to remain calm then asking himself why the fuck he’s doing that.

Jamie’s lip curls for a moment, before he says: “Well, what do you want me to do about that, huh?”

“Go home, you fucking numpty,” Roy roars, having to take a deep breath to center himself when Jamie flinches away from him. The kid may be a prick, but he got a head injury, probably shouldn’t be aggravating it with the noise.

Despite the yelling and the clear pain indicated by the flinch, Jamie remains undeterred. “Tough luck, coach, just got banned from driving,” he says grinning like he’s won.

Roy tightens his fists, wanting to scream both at Jamie’s attitude and what he is about to do, but knowing that is not going to make it better. So he takes another breath and tries to imagine it’s Phoebe asking for another serving of ice cream, while giving her it would make her sick. “Then I’ll drive you home. Go grab your shit, Tartt.”

It’s almost funny, the confused blinks Jamie gives him as he tries to process what Roy just told him, before it settles and then gets knocked loose again. “Sorry, what?”

“Then I’ll drive you,” Roy grits out. “Now. Grab. Your. Shit.”

Jamie looks over to Trevor, as if Trevor will do anything. Trevor is indeed already inching out of the room and fully books it after meeting Jamie’s eyes. Jamie turns back to Roy, then says: “I don’t- Why? You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t have to like you to not be a prick. Try to take a lesson out of it,” Roy pushes down a snarl. “Now go pack your shit or I will do it for you, and I promise I won’t be gentle.”

And it is a little funny how Jamie blanches at that, thankfully taking the defeat as he hurries to pack his stuff before Roy can fuck it up.

While he does that, Roy takes a second to himself to question his life choices. Where has he gone wrong that he is looking after Jamie of all people? Fucking hell. Fucking Keeley. For pushing him back into football. Fucking Lasso. For making him care. And fucking Tartt. For being a child that can’t take care of him fucking self and has to be a twat about it. For making himself Roy’s problem.

With the empty room properly cussed out, Roy goes to make sure Jamie doesn’t make an escape. That seems like the kind of bullshit the prick will pull on him and Roy refuses to let Jamie get one over on him, not when the fucker has a head injury. It would be embarrassing.

He shouldn’t have worried, though. When he gets to the locker room the attitude from earlier is gone. It is quiet, Jamie packing his bag with a defeated slump. He hasn’t noticed Roy and Roy suddenly feels hesitant to make himself known. This isn’t the same person that was out on the pitch earlier, or in the treatment room just now. No, this Jamie looks tired. Exhausted. Bags under his eyes that Roy hadn’t noticed before and tremor in his hands.

“Oi, you done?” Roy breaks the silence, needing to say something, anything to not have to see this anymore. He’s done with feeling things other than anger towards Jamie.

However, his interruption doesn’t make the predicament better. Not because Jamie breaks down or anything, no thank fuck, nothing like that. He just snaps his head up, then sneers with a smirk: “I’m coming, keep your wig on, granddad.” And Roy is once more hit with the uncanny feeling that he’s watching a press conference instead of a person.

G-d fucking shit, this day fucking sucks.

They’re silent as they make their way to the car. Roy half expected Jamie to keep up a running commentary of shitty shit, but he’s just quiet. It’s fucking unsettling.

Neither of them speak until they’re in the car, when Roy gets his phone out, because contrary to popular belief, he is not actually ancient and he knows how google maps works. “Alright, where do you live.”

“What?” Jamie asks, genuinely sounding confused.

“Your address,” Roy grits, trying not to make it sound too much like he thinks Jamie is thick, even though he does. “So I can drive you there.”

When the realization hits, the look Jamie gives him isn’t one he expects. Jamie looks mortified for a split second, before looking out the window and throwing out an address.

Roy looks at him for a moment, frowning and trying to solve what that is about, before reminding himself he doesn’t care. He turns his attention back to his phone and types in the address Jamie just gave him… which makes it really hard not to care about the prick, because “Why the fuck am I driving you to a hotel?”

“Because I’m staying there,” Jamie rolls his eyes, a clear ‘duh’ in his voice.

Roy grits his teeth, trying not to snap. “Yeah, I get that. Fucking why, you prick?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why are you staying at a fucking hotel?”

“Cause I am. You’re the one who wanted to drive me, remember? At a hotel you can ask them to wake you up and shit and they got room service. I got a head injury, don’t I? Want to be serviced.”

And Roy wants to believe it. He really does. Probably would have if Jamie pulled this shit at the start of the day, but right now he just can’t. Jamie can get someone to get to his home to do that shit to, G-d knows they both earn enough money for that shit. There has to be some other reason. One Jamie doesn’t want to share with him. Something he’s hiding. Roy doesn’t trust it for a second.

“I’m not going to fucking dox you, Tartt,” he growls, deciding that must be the reason. “Trust me, I don’t care enough about you to do that. I’m just trying to be responsible and shit. So, I’m going to drive you home, toss you out of this car and then not see you until Friday at least. Okay? Now give me your fucking address.”

Jamie looks shocked then embarrassed for a moment, then plasters that cocky grin back on. Probably didn’t count on getting clocked, the cheeky shit. “Alright, fucking hell. No need to get sensitive just cause the paps don’t wanna hang around your dusty old place anymore.”

G-d fucking shit, Roy hates the prick, but at least it gets him an actual fucking address. He wants this good deed to be fucking over already.

As they drive, Jamie falls into that unnatural quietness again, starting to fidget more and more the closer they get to his house.

At first, Roy doesn’t even notice, blaming it on the head injury and adrenaline crash finally hitting Jamie or something. However, then Jamie starts checking his phone. It’s not a casual check, it’s obsessive, turning it on then off then on again, over and over, while his leg starts bouncing quicker and quicker. It is anxiety inducing to watch.

But Roy also doesn’t know what to say. Why the fuck would he? He’s bad enough at talking about shit on a good day and today has definitely been bad and Jamie is the last person Roy wants to talk to. Period. So that shit ain’t fucking happening.

Therefore, Roy elects to drive in silence and see at the house if anything is up or if Jamie is just being dramatic or some shit. He’s done enough caring about the prick to not want to do it more unless absolutely necessary.

The house they pull up to is normal. Just fucking normal. It’s posh and rich and Jamie clearly spends too much money on bad landscapers, but it’s just a house. A normal fucking house.

Instantly irritation crops up again. Jamie was being a drama queen and Roy actually got worked up about it and that annoys the shit out of him. It balloons up in his chest, glower growing as he snaps: “Oi, we’re here. Move.”

And then instantly deflates as Jamie startles wildly and climbs out of the car as if compelled, limbs stuttering mechanically. When he’s out of the car, he seems to realize what he’s done making a face to himself, before plastering on a grin.

He leans back in to grab his bag and smirk at Roy, saying: “Well, thanks for the lift, granddad. If that whole coaching gig doesn’t work out for you, you can be a taxi driver.” Without waiting for a response he throws the door shut and turns to the house, taking two steps before faltering again, then squaring his shoulders walking over at a snail’s pace, like there’s cement in his shoes, a man destined for the gallows or some shit.

Maybe a normal looking house, but something is definitely wrong. It’s a nice fucking house and Jamie looks terrified to go home. Alarm bells are ringing in Roy’s ears.

Trying not to think too hard about what the fuck he’s doing, Roy gets out of the car, following Jamie up to the front of his house. Due to his fucked knee, he gets there by the time Jamie has managed to drag himself to the door, fumbling with his keys.

“Here, let me,” he says attempting to take the keys from Jamie.

Contrary to expectations, Jamie doesn’t jump, instead clutching the keys tightly and keeping all his muscles tensed. Roy frowns as Jamie looks at him with wide eyes, before schooling his expression into something more annoyed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting you inside,” Roy offers, hoping his tone sound more annoyed than concerned. “You look like you’re about to fall over and Ted will want to talk to me about empathy if I let you rot outside.”

“I’m fine,” Jamie snipes. “You can’t go in.”

And it’s the can’t that gets Roy. He is already concerned – loathe he is to admit it – but there is a desperate kind of undertone in the can’t. The can’t, instead of have to, or need to. Jamie isn’t being a stubborn prick refusing care, he is trying to keep Roy out. And Roy wants to know why.

“Well, then I need to piss,” he says, not wanting to let Jamie know that even though that excuse is so thin it’s see through. “Now open the door.”

“No.” Jamie clutches the keys tighter to his chest.

Incredulously, Roy repeats: “No?”

“No,” Jamie swallows in an attempt to sound more steely than he obviously feels. “I don’t want your piss in my house. You can go back at the club. Now leave me alone.”

A part of Roy wants to walk away, to give up and let Jamie stew in whatever shit he has going on, to not care. However, a bigger part of him knows that he won’t, that his gut tells him that there is something wrong and he won’t walk away from it like he did with his sister for too long. Though he hates his brain for connecting this to her.

So, Roy looks Jamie in the eye and makes a decision, saying: “No. You are acting shifty and weird about being here and I’m not going anywhere until you’re in a bed with a glass of water on the nightstand, do you understand me.”

“Yes,” Jamie squeaks, before he seems to realize what he’s done. However, instead of that mask of cockiness he’s been wearing all fucking day, it’s that same determination from before. He squares himself up, keys held tightly and he shakes his head. “I mean, no, you can’t go in. You need to go.”

“Fuck off,” Roy says, making a grab for the keys, but despite the head injury, Jamie is nimble on his feet, backing away out of reach. Not feeling up for chasing him, Roy scowls: “I will break this door down, don’t fucking test me.”

“No,” Jamie says again, stubborn twat.

Roy groans loudly, kicking the door in frustration, before jiggling the handle, expecting it to be a futile gesture. Instead the door swings open, having been unlocked the whole time.

Behind him he can hear Jamie curse, before startling back forwards. His fingers brush the back of his shirt in an attempt to hold him back, but it’s too late. Roy already has one foot over the threshold, the inside of Jamie’s house revealed to him.

“Holy shit,” Roy breathes out, taking in the carnage – because it is a carnage – coats and shoes litter the floor, the shoe rack thrown over, coatrack only half attached, while further down a standing lamp has crashed to the floor. Roy would say it’s like someone tornado-ed through it, were it not for the insulting graffiti defacing the walls. Someone wrecked Jamie’s home.

He looks over to Jamie, expecting him to be just as shocked, but instead he finds Jamie looking at the floor, cheeks burning, shoulder hunched. He looks embarrassed, but not surprised. Jamie already knew this was waiting for him. Of course he’s been reluctant to return home, it has been vandalized. The only question really is… “What the fuck happened?”

“Nothing,” Jamie swallows. “It was nothing. It’s fine. Now come on, we need to go. I- I don’t-” He clears his throat. “We should go.”

As he talks Jamie keeps sending glances into the house, as if he expects someone to rise out from the dark and jump them. Fuck, maybe he does. He might not know if anyone is in the house still. That thought is terrifying and the knowledge that Jamie first wanted him to drive him to a hotel suddenly ping pongs around in his head.

When Roy doesn’t move, Jamie fully gives up the pretense that nothing is wrong, tugging on his sleeve anxiously as he says: “Come on, Roy. Please, we have to go. I haven’t gotten a text yet and it’s not Saturday yet either. They could hear us. Please.”

It’s not the please that gets him, even if it’s fucking unnatural from Tartt – though his whole tone and demeanor has been unnatural – it’s the sinking realization that this isn’t random. That whoever wrecked Jamie’s home so thoroughly is someone Jamie knows personally, someone who has his number, someone who’s schedule he knows. Someone who knew how to get into his house without having to break the front door.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Jamie asks instantly, the hand that is still holding Roy’s sleeve tightening as Jamie steps closer to him, practically hiding behind him as he peaks into the hallway, trying to see what Roy must have spotted to get that reaction.

But Roy hadn’t spotted anything. Bar the utter devastation in the house, nothing was out of place. There hasn’t been a clatter or a sound, just the eerie silence.

Instead Roy had realized that he is actually genuinely worried about Jamie fucking Tartt of all people and doesn’t want him to be on his own. That he cares about the little prick and now knows that something is wrong with his house, so now he has to go fucking do something about it.

“I don’t think anyone is in right now,” he says. “Go pack a fucking bag and then we’ll get out of here.”

“You can’t know that,” Jamie argues. “They could be passed out somewhere in there. Fuck no.”

“You need clothes, you idiot,” Roy grits, trying to keep the frustration at bay, because it’s not actually directed at Jamie himself and despite Roy not having been able to fathom ever thinking anything like this about Jamie a few hours earlier, the kid seems to fucking fragile right now to actually get mad at.

Roy half thinks he cocked it up, but Jamie relaxes somewhat at his words. His voice tinted with relief as he says: “I already got clothes, coach.” The smile he cracks then is somewhat self deprecating and he sounds a little embarrassed when he goes: “Had an away game, didn’t we. I always over pack like a prissy little diva.”

The words ‘little diva’ could be something Jamie and Keeley say to each other playfully, but the ‘prissy’ doesn’t sound like anyone Roy knows and the way Jamie says it tells him he’s quoting someone and it definitely wasn’t a compliment.

A part of Roy wants to storm into the house, hoping to find whatever fucker (or fuckers, Roy isn’t sure on that) did this to Jamie and give them a piece of his mind. However, another part of him can recognize that that isn’t useful right now. Fuck Phoebe for making him into less of a hothead for the sake of preserving her happiness and fuck Jamie for reminding him of her.

Because Roy now doesn’t get to storm into the house, having to instead step back outside and close the door with a click. “Fucking lock your door,” he mutters, wanting to walk away, but staying to stand guard until Jamie manages. His hands are still shaky, but less so than before.

He herds Jamie back to his car, sending a look over his shoulder at the house. It’s strange now just how normal it looks, knowing what lurks inside.

Wordlessly Roy gets behind the wheel, driving to the hotel Jamie told him about earlier. As he drives countless thoughts swirl around his head.

Who had done this to Jamie’s house? Why would Jamie let them? Why hadn’t he pressed charged or fucking hell, even said anything? Who made him so scared? Where has the prince prick of all pricks attitude gone to? What the fuck Roy going to do now?

He doesn’t like any of the potential answers he’s coming up with to those questions and he doesn’t like the fact that this has been going on since that away game this weekend. That Jamie has been scared and keeping it to himself this whole time. That Jamie thinks the people who did this might still be somewhere around the city, in his house.

And he definitely doesn’t like that all this is the cause of Jamie acting like a prick at training. Almost as if it’s a defense strategy, a fear response. That prick Jamie Tartt is Jamie’s reaction to being scared of someone. Fucking hell, what does that say about last season when Jamie acted like that every single fucking day? It makes Roy feel nauseous.

They pull up to the hotel and Jamie finally breaks the silence from where he’s been ducked in on himself in the passenger seat. He clears his throat and says: “Uhm, well, thanks for the lift, coach. Promise to rest up and shit.”

“What the fuck are talking about, Tartt,” Roy frowns. “We’re getting your bags and checking you the fuck out of there. What the hell did you think we’re doing here?”

“That you were dropping me off here, because my house isn’t an option right now, something that we were hopefully never going to talk about again ever?” Jamie responds, sounding hesitant.

“Fucking hell,” Roy mutters to himself, before going: “Wrong. You’re coming to mine.”

“ What?” Jamie chokes.

“You’re. Coming. To. Mine.” Roy says, trying not to sound too much like it hurts to say and knowing he’s failing at it.

“Why?” Jamie frowns. “You don’t even like me.”

It’s the same thing he said when Roy offered him a ride home, like he can’t imagine anyone doing anything for him without liking him. As if common courtesy and a bit of kindness has to be earned, instead of freely given. G-d, Roy really doesn’t like any of the revelations he’s had today and it’s barely afternoon.

Not wanting to have another argument and seeing as it worked last time, Roy says: “I don’t have to like you for me to not want you to stay at a hotel with a head injury, you dumbass. It’s not resting and you know it. Trevor will kill me if he hears I let you stay there, I won’t let you do that to me.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll be fine. Won’t tell Trevor, promise,” Jamie says with an uncharacteristic earnesty that Roy is starting to suspect is actually a characteristic of the twat, just not one he ever had space to show. Which is fucking annoying.

“You’re not a bother. Unfortunately, I’m going to worry about you if I leave you here, so you’re coming with me,” Roy tells him with more honesty than he’d like, instantly leaving the car before Jamie can respond to avoid having a conversation about it.

Like a lost little puppy Jamie bounces after him out of the car, following right at his heels uncertainly, not yet saying anything, but looking like he’s trying to find words to say.

“Don’t,” Roy says, before he can find any as they approach the lift. “Floor?”

“Uh, fourth.”

The room Jamie leads them to has a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the handle and when Jamie opens the door, the revealed room looks properly lived in. The suitcase is open on the floor and a pile of clothes has started to gather on the chair, with bits and bops littering about. It’s a bit of a mess, but a homely one, unlike at his house.

Jamie bends down to gather some of the shit he’s left on the floor, stumbling as he does and clutching his head as he woozily stands there.

The action reminds Roy that this whole mess started because Jamie’s head made a pretty uncomfortable introduction with the ground. Footballers play through pain all the time, lord knows Roy did, fucked his knee and everything. But it’s creepy how unaffected Jamie has been up until that little slip, which he is admirably trying to shake off. Not that Roy will let him.

“Alright, go sit on the fucking bed.”

“What?”

“I said, sit on the bed.”

Confused, but dutifully, Jamie follows the order, only to get up immediately when Roy starts packing his shit for him. “What are you doing?” he cries.

“Packing,” Roy grunts, wanting this caring act to be commented on minimally. “You have a head injury, so sit, you twat.”

Jamie clearly looks torn between wanting to help and wanting to do as told. It’s such an unfamiliar conundrum for Roy to see on the kid that he almost laughs. Almost. In the end, his face softens a little and his voice is more gentle. “Please, just sit. You’re going to make my old man heart give out, bouncing around the way you are.”

The age dig at himself gets a small huff from Jamie. It’s weirdly comforting to have Jamie laugh at him and Roy tries not to think about the relief he feels at the action and the way Jamie falls back on the bed, finally giving in.

Roy packs quickly and efficiently, but with the way Jamie has let the room explode, it still takes a minute and a half. By the time he’s done, Jamie is half slumped on the bed. The head injury and everything else that has been going on with him finally catching up.

He almost feels bad about having to wake Jamie, but he knows that if he let s him sit there he’d have a crick in the neck and some half-arsed sleep. Better to put him to bed somewhere… Fuck, today is weird.

Jamie is practically a zombie, but maybe that’s for the best. Roy is sacrificing enough of his dignity by caring about the prick, no use in making it worse by actually having to argue with Jamie about letting Roy take care of him.

The receptionist gives him a weird and suspicious look when they go to check out, Roy doing most of the talking and Jamie signing his name, but Roy doesn’t care. He also tries not to care too much about the looks he gets when he’s fucking buckling the dickhead in after he had to pour him into his car. G-d, he fucking hopes they haven’t gotten papped, he’d never live this down.

Almost on autopilot, he starts driving to Keeley’s house, since he has practically moved in there, however, he changes his mind right on time, instead choosing to go to his own place. It’s not that he thinks Keeley will think anything bad about any of this. D espite it all, she still has a soft spot for Jamie (though, Roy is starting to understand where that came from), so she’d probably be more than okay with them coming over to her.

However, Roy thinks that Jamie wouldn’t like her seeing him the way he is now. Hell, the kid will probably regret letting Roy see him like this once he snaps out of it. Besides, he worries that having another person there will make Jamie feel cornered, outnumbered. He doesn’t want to do that to him, not before he has a little bit more of a clue about what the fuck is going on.

So to his own home they go.

Jamie is silent and half asleep through the drive. Roy tries not to think about how exhausted he must have been for him to sleep so easily everywhere. Especially around Roy, I mean, he isn’t stupid, he knows he’s not the most invoking of safety person ever, doubly so when it comes to Jamie.

Fucking fuck.

Roy hadn’t even thought about it. About all the times he raged at Jamie, pushed him about, threatened him with whatever violence he felt like. Shit, Roy is a fucking arsehole.

He tries to tell himself it’s not really like that. Jamie is – well, was – a prick, who poked at Roy until he snapped. Roy didn’t go out of his way to threaten Jamie or fight with him, Jamie picked those fights equally.

Still, he can’t fully hide behind that now that he is looking back. Sure, Jamie was a little prick, but Roy made up his mind about Jamie on the first day and never thought to change it. He hated the fact that Jamie is still young and not in pain and let that fuel him. He was Jamie’s Captain, he is older and supposed to know better, but he didn’t. In fact, he’s sunk lower than Jamie, because Jamie worked on himself when he came back and Roy has been ignoring him like a petty little shit.

Fuck. He’s going to have to do better. Does he know how to do better?

Right now, he feels like he needs an adult, a feeling he hasn’t had in a long while, not since the first time he babysat Phoebe all by himself. But it’s there now in his chest. He isn’t equipped to handle this.

Jamie needs someone, who can be comforting, who can talk about shit and be nice about it. Someone who will be empathetic and gentle. Roy isn’t any of that. Keeley is, Ted is. Not him.

For a moment, he contemplates calling either one of them and asking them to go get Jamie and take this whole mess from his hands. He’ll have to call Ted at some point and explain why their best player has been acting the way he has, that it’s not Jamie sliding back, but that he has some sort of issue. Maybe best to let Ted be the one to figure out what that issue even is.

And Keeley will want to know why he dipped out on seeing her tonight, especially when she hears he left with an injured Jamie – which she will hear about, because she works in the same G-ddamn building as him and has a network of informants… well, friends and shit, who she talks to, but same thing.

But glancing over at the sleeping player next to him, he realizes that he can’t. Roy is the one who found out, who volunteered to care for him… the one, who Jamie reluctantly seems to trust right now. He can’t just pass the buck on this. Not until Jamie is in a better space.

With a sigh, he turns into his street, which he had been driving by in an attempt to keep Jamie asleep while he freaked out a little. Phoebe finds car rides soothing and sleeps better in them. When she was a baby Roy also was on driving duty after an exhausted Ruth asked him to, just driving her around so she’d get a solid night and wouldn’t be cranky. It should be funny that Jamie can be compared to his little niece, but it just makes him ache.

He still feel reluctant, but his mind is made up, so he can’t back out now, when he pulls into the driveway. As predicted, the stop wakes Jamie up and he makes a confused groggy noise, before he seems to realize where they are.

“You sure, mate?” he asks, looking at Roy’s house apprehensively.

“Yes,” is all Roy replies, before getting out the car and grabbing Jamie’s suitcase and bag. He’s had enough open talks about his feelings surrounding all this for him to not feel like making the argument again. If Jamie wants an explanation again or protests more, Roy will tell him, otherwise that will have to suffice.

Thankfully, Jamie doesn’t argue more and just gets out of the car, silently trailing after Roy. It should be annoying, but Roy is only grateful for the curious, slightly gleeful way Jamie looks around once they get inside. At least the prick has recovered enough to look for teasing material. That’s something.

Gruff in the face of uncertainty, Roy says: “I’m gonna dump this in a guest room and you’re going to take a shower and then a nap.”

“I’m not a toddler, I don’t need a nap,” Jamie pouts in a way that does make him look very childish despite his words.

Roy just gives him a look and says: “Well, your other option is taking a shower, then talking about everything, explaining what the fuck is going on, and then nap. Take your pick.”

Jamie blanches at that, before a different expression crosses his face, one that tells Roy Jamie looks forward to that talk about as much as he does, which is to say not at all. However, they’re going to have to have that talk, best to make that clear now. He isn’t letting Jamie of the hook.

Though, he does let Jamie deflect, because Jamie doesn’t go into the talking about it bit, instead saying: “So I don’t get to protest the shower?”

“No, you reek,” Roy says and it’s not even a lie. Jamie got hurt during practice and it’s not like they took a moment to shower before leaving, so he’s still covered in sweat from training.

“Fucking rude,” Jamie replies with mock appall. Before he cracks a grin: “But fine, I’ll shower and nap. Do you have one of those nice old people mattresses in the guest room too, or is that a service saved for just you?”

“Fuck off,” Roy grunts, deciding to take the win that is getting Jamie to shower and sleep and take the loss of the old person dig. He’s used to it. It’s normal. Roy can work with normal.

He gets Jamie installed in a guest room, directs him to the bathroom and gets out a towel for him, before instructing him to shower and sleep.

“Yeah, yeah, granddad, I will. Stop fussing or you’ll blow your heart out or something, yeah,” Jamie tries to wave him away and Roy doesn’t trust it.

He doesn’t trust this switch in attitude from giant prick to scared and withdrawn to just being fine. It is weird and he doesn’t like it. Especially because he knows something is incredibly wrong. He didn’t have much time to stare, but he remembers some of the insults written on those walls. It’s not normal. Not from anyone, but especially not someone you know.

So all this is weird and it makes Roy nervous. Nervous that Jamie is going to do something stupid, because the idiot always manages to do something stupid. It’s a talent at this point. “Give me your phone,” he ends up saying.

“What?” Jamie seems practically offended at the request

“Your phone. Give it.”

“Why?”

“Give it here.”

“No,” Jamie says, clutching the bumbag that holds the device to his chest. The offense from earlier is gone and there is an edge of panic there. Less normal, but also more suited… and something Roy has to do something about now.

“I’m not going to throw it in a blender or some shit. You’re not allowed any screens and you need actual rest. You’ve already been prancing around way more than I should have let you and you’re going to shower with bright lights and you need to stay away from it. So give it here,” Roy grits out, suddenly feeling like he did when he confessed to Keeley why he was busy. As if it’s some great personal secret he’s revealing here.

Jamie’s jaw goes slightly slack at that and the look he gives Roy is a mix of wonder and confusion and near tears – G-d fucking hell Roy hopes the twat doesn’t start crying – before he swallows. His voice is small as he asks: “If I promise not to look, can I keep it? I- I want- I promise.”

‘I haven’t gotten a text yet and it’s not Saturday yet either.’ Jamie’s panicked voice from earlier echoes through his mind again. He’s waiting on whoever did this to contact him. Or to leave, which they apparently will have done by Saturday. Like had his plan been to keep going like this until then and then just convert back to normal and not mention it?

Roy shakes the thought off, it doesn’t matter what stupid plan Jamie had cooked up, since it had involved not telling anyone about his house being fucking vandalized. That plan is now in the dirt and it is now also Roy’s responsibility to come up with a better one… and approach Jamie about it delicately. Fuck.

“Uh,” he stalls for a moment, before telling himself to get it together and just pretend it’s Phoebe. “I’d rather you give it to me.”

Blink. Blink again. Jamie looks as if he has no clue what to do with that response from Roy and it’s suddenly not that hard to picture him as Phoebe, because he’s sounds so fucking young as he once more asks: “Why?”

Seems like Roy can’t avoid another feelings talk, even if he really wants to. “Because you don’t want to talk to me.” … Even when he hasn’t developed a talent for them yet in the last few hours.

“What?” Jamie frowns.

“You. Won’t. Talk. I’m… worried,” Roy grits out.

“Worried?” Jamie repeats, sounding as if he’s saying something scandalous or insane.

“Yes.” Roy grits again, forcing a more clear explanation from his lips, despite it feeling like he’s pulling teeth. “You’re stressed out about something involving someone texting you and you’re not telling me shit, so I’m worried and I’m taking your phone.”

“Oh.”

The way Jamie is making himself small with overwhelmed yet relieved puzzlement at Roy’s reaction makes him a little embarrassed. He always feels like he has said too much, revealed too much, was too much. He swallows: “Yeah, oh.”

“I- I- Uhm, he probably won’t text, I mean, he hasn’t yet, has he,” Jamie mumbles.

“But you’ll worry about it anyway,” Roy points out.

“I guess,” Jamie shrugs, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, fingers clearly itching to tangle themselves up in the fabric as they often do, while Jamie valiantly holds them at bay.

Roy wonders who now makes him so afraid to stop himself, even in the privacy of Roy’s house. Wants to ask, but knows he can’t. So in the most gentle voice he can find, he says: “So give it to me and you can’t, because I’ll have it.”

He holds out his hand with bated breath, wondering if Jamie will fall back in his prick persona or in the more cheeky one he has developed recently, or if instead that scared boyish feeling will come bubbling back up. If he’ll trust Roy with that again.

Slowly, Jamie removes the bumbag, clutching it tightly as he looks between it and Roy’s outstretched hand, anguishing over the decision, before even more slowly holding it out for Roy.

Roy doesn’t take it, until it’s half over his hand already, not wanting to make Jamie feel like he’s snatching it or startling him . Once he does have it, he pulls it to himself, out of Jamie’s reach. “Good lad.” He clears his throat. “Now, shower and sleep.”

Jamie flushe s at his praise, but quickly snaps out of it rolling his eyes as he goes: “Yeah, yeah, coach, I will, no need to be so uptight.”

For once, Roy lets him, just rolling his eyes, before leaving Jamie behind, trusting him to find his own way and follow Roy’s directions.

When he is alone downstairs, he waits until he hears the shower turn on, before he turns to the bag in front of him on the counter, looking at it contemplatively. He knows he should leave well alone. To not look and let Jamie come to him with what has been happening, who it is. Trust and all that shit.

But the not knowing is killing him. It killed him when he realized he’d missed what was happening with Ruth and Phoebe, just like it’s killing him that he missed something going on with Jamie now. That he had been so quick to dismiss it as just Jamie being a dickhead. That he never considered the possibility that he could be hurting.

It makes him feel sick.

It makes him want to fix it.

Hence the phone, which still remains in the bag.

He knows it’s not his place. That Jamie is only here right now, because Ted wanted them to try and get along and Roy forced his company on him after Jamie was forced to reveal something was up. He is only here because there’s no other option until he rests some. Roy isn’t the person that’s meant to fix this, so he shouldn’t go meddling.

Yet he can’t deny he aches to do something, anything. Just having an action that is not sitting here uselessly until Jamie has gotten his fucking nap in. It’s frustrating.

In the end, he doesn’t grab Jamie’s phone, just leaves the stupid little bag on the kitchen counter and drops on his couch with a loud groan. Fuck, he wants to have something to do. But he doesn’t , so he is just going to have to fucking sit there like a knobhead and wait for Jamie to wake up or some shit.

He turns on the TV listens to the p undits, even though their stupidity makes his ear bleed even with the added distance of a screen and tries not to think too much about Jamie being upstairs.

After about an hour of that his phone starts to ring. He first snaps his head to the kitchen, hoping it’s Jamie’s so he’ll have an excuse to look, but it’s not. It’s his own. Seeing the caller ID, he sighs, then picks up: “What the fuck do you want, Ted?”

“Hiya, Roy,” Ted greets back, completely nonplussed by Roy’s harsh greeting. “Just wanted to check in, make sure our injured little shark wasn’t drowning on us. In the metaphorical sense that is. I’d call Jamie himself, but he has a head injury and I know enough about those that screens are a no, no. In fact, back when I was-”

“Yeah, okay, whatever, Jamie’s… alive,” Roy cuts him off, not wanting to listen to whatever Yee-Haw bullshit story Ted was going to tell him about head injuries. He didn’t want to call Ted, because that would be pathetic, but he did have to tell Ted about this and now Ted was calling him. Problem solved and finally some fucking action.

“Alive,” Ted repeats in a very Ted way. “That’s… good. Is he more than alive, or just alive? Because there’s a difference and the way you said that is making me worry over here.” He chuckles in an attempt to cover that he actually is worried.

Sadly for him, Roy isn’t going to cheer him up and make him feel better. “The twat is taking a nap upstairs right now, took a shower too. Those are good. Just everything else that’s shit.”

“Was it more serious than it seemed? Is he not good to be alone right now? Did you go to a hospital?” Ted questions with rapid fire. Roy can appreciate that about Ted, that he knows when to stop dillydallying and get to the point.

“No, his head’s fine,” Roy says. “It’s a mild concussion. With proper rest, he might be good to play come Saturday.”

“Buuuuuuuut,” Ted prompts, catching on that something must be fucking wrong, because otherwise Roy wouldn’t be doing all this and Jamie wouldn’t be sleeping in his fucking house.

“But the little shit can’t go home. Fuck ,” Roy curses, the reality hitting him all over again now that he says it out loud to someone else. “Fucking shit. Ted, someone vandalized his home. His fucking home. We didn’t even get past the entrance hall cause he was too scared to go in. Little prick’s been staying at a fucking hotel since the fucking away game last weekend.”

Ted makes a choked off noise at that, like he sucked in a surprised breath then lost all his breath when the information fully sank in.

“Yes, it sucks fucking shit and I don’t know what to fucking do,” Roy agrees with the noise, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he can get into his head and not ask for help. Because he fucking needs help with this shit.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, no, of course, let me think,” Ted responds, having to shift gears real quick. “Did Jamie tell you what happened?”

“Not really. All I know is that it’s someone he knows and he doesn’t know if they’re still there. I fucking confiscated his phone so he’d get some actual rest instead of worrying about whoever the fuck it is contacting him,” Roy says.

“And he’s with you now?”

“Yes,” Roy grits out, a little less fond of admitting that so explicitly. “I wasn’t going to give the prick space to be stupid by himself at that hotel.”

“Alright.” He can practically hear Ted nodding. “How about you make sure he eats and is okay, find out what you can and then we all have a little meeting tomorrow with Jamie about what we can do. That sound alright with you?”

“Uh, yeah, no, I can do that,” Roy says, wondering how he came to a point in his life where he is okay with being volunteered to be Jamie’s babysitter for a day, but here he is.

“Good. Thank you, Roy,” Ted says sincerely. “You know, I am really proud of how you grew into this role here and I just wanted to say that it warms my heart like a little bonfire with the marshmallows – do y’all do that here, smores? Is that a thing here? – Anyway, it warms my heart that you will step up for Jamie right now when he needs you.”

The same spike of annoyance he felt when reading A Wrinkle in Time to Phoebe hits him again and he snarls into the phone. Then hangs up. It’s his right.

He hates that talking to Ted makes him feel better. Makes him feel like he told a trusted adult and it’s going to be okay now. He’s a grown fucking man. He’s an assistant coach, helping in shaping the careers of a group of talented young men after having had a stellar career himself . He doesn’t need anyone to hold his fucking hand and tell him it’s going to be okay.

… does feel fucking nice, though.

Having a plan also feels nice. He knows enough that he can probably manage to shove some food into Jamie so he doesn’t die of starvation or some shit and make sure he gets a nap. Sure, technically, he also has to find out what he can, but that can be nothing and then Ted can do the talking bit tomorrow. That sounds fucking great.

Roy doesn’t know what Jamie likes, but he does know how to make nutritionist approved food that actually tastes nice, which is basically the same. So he focuses on making dinner and mentally tries to prepare for Jamie being suspicious of him making him dinner in the first place.

It’s exhausting how he keeps feeling things about Jamie being so skittish while also managing to be way too normal about everything that was happening. Like, Roy just knows that Jamie’s plan had been for Roy to drop him at that fucking hotel and not tell anyone shit. And Roy can’t seem to figure out why. Who would inspire this silence around breaking in and vandalizing Jamie’s house without the twat saying anything to anyone about it. Doesn’t like the potential answers he’s coming up with either.

However, he’s not solving that mystery now, he’s focusing on dinner.

So i nstead, he just cooks dinner and leaves it on the keep hot setting his stove has that he loves, as he goes to set the table, before checking his own phone. Keeley hasn’t asked too many questions about them not spending tonight together, just wishing him luck with whatever he has.

He frowns at that, but it’s not something he can worry about right now. Keeley is doing great, she has her own life, she probably isn’t thinking about everything Roy is doing all the time. It’s good that she isn’t trying to push into his business right now, since he accidentally stumbled into Jamie’s business and that isn’t his to share with Keeley for no reason. Ted’s different, he’s the gaffer, he has to know what’s happening with the players, Keeley doesn’t unless it becomes a PR fiasco, which this isn’t. Jamie has proven himself suspiciously good at keeping this quiet and under wraps.

Not his mystery, he reminds himself, setting his phone down next to the shitty bumbag that has been taunting him this whole time. Then goes to wake Jamie.

Jamie is bundled up in bed, looking cozy and incredibly young. He has the blankets pulled up to his chin and is curled up on his side, making himself into a tiny ball. For a moment, Roy hesitates, unsure if he wants to interrupt this peaceful slumber and pull Jamie back into the land of the living where he’ll have worries again.

Then he remembers Jamie hasn’t eaten since lunch and he definitely worked out, so he needs the energy, therefore he’ll have to.

Unsure if this is the right way to do it, but not wanting to just touch Jamie after everything he’s seen thus far, Roy calls out: “Jamie, wake up.”

With a startled noise, Jamie shoots upright and looks around wildly before his eyes settle on Roy. He frowns, obviously confused then rubs his face, groggily asking: “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Roy answers, wondering if Jamie is stupid or if they need a hospital.

“You do?” Jamie blinks blearily, before it hits him and he goes: “Ohhh, you do.”

Roy shakes his head, unable to deny to himself that it’s fond. Fuck this prick for getting under his skin, he thinks to himself. “Dinner is done.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner. Food. You remember what that is, yeah?”

“Oi, of course I do. I just woke up, didn’t I? Give us a fucking second.”

“Fine, get yourself decent or whatever,” Roy rolls his eyes then he walks off.

Before he can be gone entirely, Jamie calls out after him: “You’re the one who came in here without knowing I’d be decent. You could have knocked, you pervert.”

“Fuck off!”

Jamie sounds normal again and while Roy isn’t sure that’s healthy, he can’t ignore that a part of him is glad for it too. It makes it so he can fool himself that this isn’t too bad, that Jamie can’t have been fucked over that badly if he can still act like himself. In this he is painfully aware is is ignoring the other potential answer, that this is still very bad, but Jamie is so used to it, he can go on as always about it. G-d, he fucking hates this.

The thought lodges in his head and he knows he is scowling as he plates dinner. He wants to stop, because he wants tonight to go smoothly and being all mad everywhere doesn’t seem like the way to do that, but he can’t stop. He’s just so angry at the not knowing, the unasked and unanswered questions.

“Wait, did you actually cook?” a voice from behind him snaps him out of his thoughts. When he looks behind Jamie is looking at surprise at all the dishes Roy made.

“Yes, what the fuck do you do?” Roy asks disgusted.

“I don’t know, order food or heat up those meals they give you,” Jamie shrugs.

“Fucking hell.”

“Sorry, not everyone can be Gordon Ramsey or some shit, you old fart.”

“It’s a basic life skill, you twat,” Roy argues, before he remembers he’s arguing with an idiot and gives up. “Just go fucking sit.”

“Alright, touchy,” Jamie says with a prickish face that makes anger flare in Roy, before he tamps it down again. Jamie is just being Jamie. No getting mad, not tonight.

Dinner is awfully awkward for about five seconds, before Jamie takes a bite and exclaims: “Holy shit, this is good. Are you sure you made this? Is this nutritionist approved? What the fuck.”

More amused than he’d like to sound, Roy says: “Thank you. Yes, I’m sure I made it and yes, it’s nutritionist approved. It’s called herbs, idiot. And don’t swear.”

“Don’t swear?” Jamie repeats incredulously.

Roy shrugs. He doesn’t really know why he said it, maybe because he knew it would take Jamie by surprise and maybe delight Jamie in some way. Whatever. He’s committing now.

“Are you for real?” Jamie grins.

“Yes.”

“What the fuck.”

“One pound in the swear jar.”

“You don’t swear at home?” Jamie asks, sounding fucking shocked, like he genuinely believes that Roy doesn’t swear when home yet also like he can’t believe it.

“Of fucking course I swear at home, you don’t swear at my home,” Roy grins.

“What the hell, that’s unfair! Why?” Jamie is pouting again.

“Because you’re a little twat,” Roy informs him with a slightly sadistic look. “And hell is counted as a bad word. Two pounds.”

Jamie looks at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, before he seemingly decides that this might as well be real now and huffs: “Sure, I’ll venmo you later, you freak,” before shoving another bite into his mouth, groaning appreciatively. “Fucking hell that’s good.” A look from Roy, then a grin from Jamie: “Worth it.”

“You’re an idiot,” Roy informs him, then goes to eat his own meal as well.

They’re mostly silent throughout, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. They’re just eating and letting it be evening, as if it’s not weird that Roy fucking Kent and Jamie Tartt are eating a home cooked meal together in Roy’s kitchen.

It’s not until the end of dinner that it shifts once more. Roy’s phone buzzes with a new notification from fuck knows who. Maybe it’s Keeley asking what he’s up to or Ted wanting to coordinate about tomorrow or maybe fucking Isaac checking in about Jamie since he’s the Captain, even after what Jamie has pulled this week.

Instantly, Jamie’s eyes dart over to the noise, probably spotting his bumbag for the first time since handing it over to Roy. His face does something complicated, before he asks in a tiny voice: “Did- Did he call? Or- or text?”

Oh fucking hell, he’d hoped to avoid this, but he also knows that when Jamie is volunteering shit, he should be trying to hear him out, be a listening ear or some shit. However, he also wants Jamie to know he respected his privacy, built trust or whatever. So, he grunts: “Don’t know, didn’t fucking go through your phone like a creep now, did I?”

“You didn’t?” Jamie asks, sounding so fucking surprised it makes Roy doubt himself.

Slightly embarrassed, he snaps: “No, it’s like fucking privacy or some shit, innit.” Then he notices a torn up look in Jamie’s eyes, like he is grateful, but also disappointed. Roy still feels wrong footed, but he has to fucking try, doesn’t he. So he tentatively goes: “Do you- do you want me to?”

Jamie looks down at the table, unstyled hair falling over his face. He looks a bit like a little boy, hunched shoulders and nervous face as he gnaws on his lip. Then, hushed, as if admitting a secret, he softly whispers : “Maybe.”

“Okay,” Roy says, surprising himself with how gentle he is. “I can look.”

He gets up from the table and makes his way over to the kitchen counter, taking a deep breath before fishing Jamie’s phone out of the bumbag. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. Maybe because he finally got permission to look for answers, maybe because he is scared of what he’ll find.

When he clicks it on there are a few notifications. The most recent one is from Keeley, asking how he is, since she heard from Rebecca who heard from Ted that he went down today, as well as the expected text from Isaac because he is the Captain and one from Dani and Sam because they are too nice. And naturally a few texts from Ted as well.

But other than that, there’s nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. It almost feels more sinister, the forced waiting, knowing something must appear at some point, but not having anything yet. A twisted version of anticipation, the built up without pay off, knowing you’ll have to do it all over again later. Roy wonders how Jamie hasn’t been splitting apart at the seams more.

There are also notifications from apps he barely uses, the ones that have usernames. Maybe it’s not a person close enough to have his number, just via social media. A foolish part of himself hopes that it is, just so that it will be a little less painful. “Anything in particular I should be looking for?” he asks.

Jamie destroys that tiny bit of hope by mumbling: “Just texts or calls from my dad, I uh- I got him saved as dad with these fuckers around them.” He makes quotation marks with his fingers. Humorlessly he huffs out: “Pretty prick-ish, innit?”

Fucking hell.

Roy had prepared himself for bad, but not Jamie’s own fucking father bad. Who the hell writes that kind of shit on the walls of their own child’s home. Who does that to their child’s home, period. And why the fuck is Jamie being apologetic about saving his dad’s contact information under a name that appears to be way more fucking kind than he fucking deserves.

Every little moment in which he wondered how Jamie could act so fucking normal about it all comes flooding back to him and punches him in the gut. Instead the question now is, how long has this shit been going on that Jamie can find it so normal, even if it clearly messes with his head? During that fire Jamie revealed his dad had been out of his life for a while, just when did he come back? And how long has he stayed there?

Anger at the waste of space who raised – which is a strong word for what that fucker probably did – crashes over Roy and he snaps: “Your fucking father did that shit?”

At the kitchen table Jamie shrinks into himself, instantly making Roy feel bad about being mad around Jamie when it’s not directed at him, especially after what he has just learned. “Uhm, yeah, him and his two mates, yeah. Man City had a game here last weekend, remember. Lost it. They were probably mad about that. Blamed me.”

“Blamed you?” Roy repeats. “Why the fuck would they blame you?”

“Cause I’m not playing there anymore,” Jamie says with a ‘duh’ in his voice. “I was supposed to win for them, score all the goals and all that.” He swallows thickly. “But then I ran and now I don’t and it pisses my old man the fuck off, even if he didn’t like any of the playing I did for City either.”

A lot of things about Jamie are suddenly explained to Roy and he feels like a right proper twat for how he sometimes acted with the kid. Of course he’s playing like a prick, it’s the only method his father approves off and Jamie apparently has no clue if he’s still in town after smashing up his house in anger at him for not playing exactly like that for the club his dad supports.

“Fucking hell, Jamie,” Roy sighs, rubbing his face as he tries to figure out where to go from here with that information.

“Sorry,” Jamie says softly. Then quieter, he goes: “Are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not fucking mad at you, you- you- you egg. I’m mad at your dad. Who the fuck even does that and why didn’t you call the police?”

“Are you crazy?” Jamie exclaims. “You know how fucking mad he’d be if I had to bail him out of jail for this?”

“You can also not bail him out,” Roy says, angrier than he means to be, but stopping himself from adding an insult to it, which is a win. Even calling Jamie an egg just now felt too mean after everything.

“What?” Jamie says, sounding so surprised, like he’d never considered that option before. Then his face closes back down again and he shakes his head: “No, I can’t do that. A good son doesn’t let his dad rot in jail over that. It’s family business. You shouldn’t even be dealing with all this. It’s fine, swear down. I’ll deal with it. Won’t be a problem for the club.”

Roy just sits there in stunned silence as it sinks in that Jamie is being entirely serious. It’s so surprising his body doesn’t even get angry at it all, just remains stuck in the shock.

Taking Roy’s silence for displeasure, Jamie rambles on: “I know I should have maybe told Keeley in case it became a PR thing, but I swear I wasn’t trying to fuck anyone over or nothing. I- I can handle it. I always do. I know how to keep it out of the press. They were just pissed about City loosing that match, best to stay out of their way and shit. City is playing again in Manchester on Saturday, so they’ll have fucked up by then and I can just stay at the hotel. No one needed to know. See handled.”

Roy blinks at him some more, never one for words and grasping for them even more in the face of the conversation this is shaping up to be.

Jamie chews his lip, then softer he confesses: “Usually he texts me, you know. Wants to talk to be about how I did or for me to get him and his mates some tickets for the train back or something, but he hasn’t yet.” He doesn’t meet Roy’s eyes as he says: “He’s probably playing mind games with me. Mad we won and City didn’t, but I don’t know what he wants me to do. I never do.”

Mind games.

The morning in Keeley’s kitchen where Jamie was convinced Ted was playing mind games with him by being nice about him in interviews pops back into his head. At the time he thought Jamie was an idiot with a too big ego, thinking Ted of all people would care enough to play tricks on him. Now it sours his stomach, knowing that Jamie only thought that, because past experience has proven that people are out to get him, even those close to you.

It sours more as he wonders how many other signs they missed. That he missed. Fucking hell, he is supposed to be better than this. He wasn’t supposed to let shit like this happen again. Ever. And yet it did, right under his nose to a man Roy has felt comfortable pushing around and yelling at. Who he has been ignoring and judging. Who is still there across from him looking like a kicked puppy about to be thrown to the wolves and the wolves are Roy.

Fuck.

“You don’t have to do shit, you didn’t do shit,” Roy finally manages to get out, much less eloquent of conveying what he means than he’d like, but it is what it is.

“What?” Jamie asks, one of his favorite questions today next to ‘why?’

Roy makes a frustrated sound trying to organize his thoughts and feelings into a sentence he can bring himself to say. “You don’t have to do shit for your father. Ignoring him was the best thing to do, even though I’m fucking pissed you didn’t tell anyone, because you shouldn’t have had to put up with that shit by yourself. And I’m angry as fuck at your shitstain dad for putting you through this in the first place.”

Jamie’s eyes go wide at that. “Oh.” Then after a beat he checks: “So… so you’re not mad at me?”

“No,” Roy says, maybe a bit too forcefully for what he knows about Jamie now, but not really having another way to express how much he means it either.

Fortunately, Jamie seems to realize that, because he relaxes a little and sends Roy a shy smile. A shy fucking smile. Fuck he never thought he’d see the day where Jamie did anything shyly, but today continues to fucking surprise, doesn’t it.

Needing a second, Roy goes to clear the table. He usually likes to do the dishes immediately and he contemplates it now, but he honestly wants to be sure Jamie has his head on right again and they have a plan for tomorrow, before he does anything else.

He wants to call Keeley, but doesn’t want to risk worrying her and making Jamie skittish after he just got him to open up again, meaning he’ll have to tough it out on his own. Figure this emotional shit out by himself.

So, he takes a deep grounding breath, planning to go back to the table, but when he turns Jamie is standing behind him. He has his hands twisted up in his shirt and looks as unsure as he has done the whole night. It is fucking unnatural, that’s what it is, but Roy is sadly starting to get used to it.

Deciding to wait him out, Roy is quiet. After a beat it works with Jamie opening his mouth to say: “Uhm, look, I- I’m really like thankful and shit, uh, about you- about you letting me stay here and being nice about everything and all. And I swear I’ll be out of your hair the second you want. I just- uhm, could you… could not tell anyone?” At the end his voice is barely a whisper.

And right now Roy hates himself a little for not being able to do that for Jamie, even though he already knew that they couldn’t just keep this under wraps. Jamie still has a job to do and he needs to be a part of a functioning team to do it, just splintering like he has this week isn’t acceptable, even if it’s understandable. And Roy also hates that he has to think so clinically professional about it.

Something must have shown on his face, because a betrayed look comes on Jamie’s face, mixed in with a fear and a resignation that has Roy’s skin crawl as Jamie accuses: “You already did, didn’t you? Why the fuck did you that? Who fucking-” His voice cracks. “Who fucking gave you that right?” Much quieter and more anguished he goes: “Don’t you know how much worse you just made it?”

Roy’s insides wrench at that and his palms itch to go out there and find Jamie’s dad, see if he is really still back at that house and show him what a true wreckage looks like. However, he can’t. Jamie needs him here right now to make things right, to… talk , no matter how disgusting that is.

So, he puts his hands up placatingly and says: “I know. I’m… sorry, but I promise I didn’t tell anyone much. Ted called me, asked if everything was okay after I didn’t show up again at Nelson Road. Told him you were fine, just upstairs napping, naturally he wanted to know what the fuck you were doing in my house, so I told him you couldn’t go to yours, that someone wrecked your place.”

“And- and did you tell him about my dad?” Jamie asks with a small anxious voice, his outrage and anger easily dropped to this quiet fear. Roy hates that too.

“I didn’t know it was your fucking dad until just now, did I,” Roy answers. “But Jamie…”

“You can’t tell him. You can’t,” Jamie insists, fire right back in his eyes as he takes a few steps closer, hands almost clutching the front of Roy’s shirt, but stopping before he can. A part of Roy wishes he would, it would feel more natural.

“I won’t,” he promises, even though he hates it. This is not up to him to decide, he can’t force Jamie into this, he can only encourage. If Jamie decides not to, Roy will have to respect that decision, no matter how fucking stupid he thinks it is.

Jamie doesn’t trust it, which is fair enough, suspiciously asking: “You won’t?”

Roy rubs his face and sighs: “I won’t. I think you’re stupid if you don’t, but I’m not going to throw that around without your fucking permission, now am I? I’m not a prick.”

“So you think I should tell coach?” Jamie presses.

“I think you should tell the fucking police, but Ted’s a good start, yeah,” Roy sighs again. “We’ve got a meeting with him tomorrow, Ted didn’t say who else, but about how we’re going to handle it, what’s been going on, that sort of shit.”

“Coach thinks it’s a thing that has to be handled?” Jamie asks, anxious once more. He looks like a fucking kid, standing there in a big sweater and shorts, socked feet and hands tangled up in his sweater.

“Not like that, you M uppet,” Roy says, any other insult suddenly feeling too harsh in his mouth, but it’s too much second nature to push to the side a second time.

Jamie gives him a confused look.

“You’re not going to get a dressing down or some shit because you got fucked in the head by someone fucking with you and invading your home. Yeah, you’ve been acting like a prick, but extenuating circumstances, innit,” Roy says. “We gotta figure out how to get you gelling with the team again before Saturday, if you can play then, as well as how to prevent this shit from happening. I fucked up in telling Ted your house was wrecked, he’s going to want to know what happened.”

“Is everyone super mad at me for acting like a prick?” Jamie asks, looking heartbroken. He probably only just got their favor back and hates that he lost it now.

“Well, they weren’t tackling you like that at practice, because they thought you were into it, now, were they,” Roy says.

“I could be,” Jamie pouts, though the crass comment is clearly to cover real emotions. A fact that becomes more apparent when he blows out a big breath and softly says: “I really fucked it, didn’t I, Roy?”

“A little,” Roy admits. “But I think you can be forgiven with the whole story.”

“But I don’t want to tell them the whole story,” Jamie says, eyes watery and shiny. “So they won’t forgive me and it’s all going to suck again.”

Comforting is not Roy’s strong suit, so he tries a different tactic, by focusing on the other bit. “Why don’t you want to tell them?”

“It’s fucking embarrassing, innit,” Jamie shrugs, looking at the floor where he’s scuffing his foot. “I mean, I’m twenty-four, I’m bigger than my dad, I’m rich and famous… and I’m still fucking terrified of him being in my house like some sort of pussy. Can’t even face him like a real man.”

The way he says that last bit is the same way he said ‘ prissy little diva’ earlier, confirming to Roy that he was quoting his old man. It makes Roy’s blood boil to infer what kind of bullshit Jamie’s dad filled his head with, how he must belittle him. It’s fucking annoying that anger can’t be a productive emotion right now, because Roy has it in spades.

“Fucking hell, Jamie. Don’t talk like that,” Roy finds himself saying instead. “You’re not any of that, any less brave for not wanting to go in and face your fucking abuser by yourself. For not being able to snap your fucking fingers and undo years of bullshit to not be scared. Fuck.”

Jamie blinks at him, then shuffles uncomfortably in place: “Come on, Roy. No need to be over the top, it’s just my dad, nothin’ abuser about it, ‘s just how he is.”

And he really fucking believes that, doesn’t he… Fuck!

Roy has to rub his face again, pinch his nose to stop himself from yelling. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to remember the anger management classes he took when he first started to be a regular babysitter for Phoebe and tries to get his blood pressure to a normal level.

“Jamie, look at me, because I am going to say something to you and I want you to fucking listen to me when I do, because I want you to know I fucking mean it,” he starts, waiting until Jamie is looking at him, however apprehensive it is. “Your dad is an abusive piece of shit and none of the shit he pulled is in any way okay.”

“I know he’s a dick,” Jamie mumbles. “I’m not stupid. Abusive is just a big word when it’s just him doing what a dick would do.”

“It’s abuse,” Roy tells him again, attempting to press it home. “And deep down you know that, because if Dani or Sam came to you and told you the shit that you just told me, you would be fucking pissed. It deserves to be described with a big word, because it’s fucking shit and not fucking okay and you deserve fucking better.”

Again Jamie just looks at him and blinks. For a moment Roy wonders if he broke Jamie’s tiny brain, but then that goes flying out the window for horror, because the blinks are increasing as it becomes obvious that Jamie is trying not to cry.

He fails.

The first tear slides out of his eye, followed by the second, before the rest of his face catches up and crumbles as his shoulders shake with sobs. After everything Roy has seen him go through this day, Roy telling him that is the thing that breaks Jamie.

At first he thinks he’s upset Jamie, that he pushed too far and did irreparable damage. Then he realizes it is not necessarily upset, just release. When your feelings are too big and overwhelming and you need to get them out, but nothing is enough. Roy usually punches something when that happens to him, but he supposes that crying is probably a more reasonable or health ier response.

Whatever the case, the realization that Roy hasn’t just fucked up beyond imagine gives him enough confidence to step forward and hug Jamie, trying to not to think about the small flinch he gets when he does and the way Jamie goes rigid for all but two seconds, before he melts into Roy and weeps.

Jamie’s broad frame feels unnaturally fragile in his hold, as if one wrong breath from Roy could shatter him, yet at the same time he burrows into Roy with the grip a drowning man has on a piece of driftwood. A part of Roy is scared to hold him, another is worried that if he doesn’t hold on tight, Jamie will fall to pieces right in front of him.

So they stand there. Jamie crying. Roy holding. The kitchen around them barely mattering as the two of them exist.

Waving a patch of wet shirt sticking to him is fucking uncomfortable and he’s pretty sure this is going to have to go in the wash, because there is definite snot mixed in with it. And Roy knows that this morning the thought of letting Jamie fucking Tartt of all people muck up his shirt with his bodily fluids would have send him in a rage, but right now he can’t bring himself to even mind, just holding him.

After what feels like forever, Jamie untangles himself from Roy’s hold, embarrassed flush on his cheeks as he wipes away the tear tracks and visibly tries to pull himself together. With everything that has happened, Roy doesn't think he can, but Jamie lives to surprise, because he does.

It’s uncomfortable to watch in a way Roy can’t name entirely. The way Jamie takes a deep breath and lets steel roll in from his ankles to his head, spine straightening, shoulders squaring and his jaw following. The way there are still tear tracks on his face, but you wouldn’t have known by the rest of his face. How his voice is still fucked, but he doesn’t let that stop him from crookedly going: “Sorry ‘about that, mate. I’ll get you a new shirt, yeah?”

Everything about it makes Roy’s skin crawl, but he also doesn’t know what to fucking do about it. So he just stands there like a knob and looks at Jamie.

Jamie awkwardly stuff his hands in his pockets, before clearing his throat: “I- uhm- Thank you. I ‘preciate it.” He swallows, not looking anywhere near Roy. “Anyway, we- uh, we can tell Coach Lasso tomorrow. ‘Bout what happened and all that. He won’t care.”

Roy doesn’t know what the fuck that means, but the whole situation feels to delicate to push. It seems like Jamie wants to go back to acting like nothing happened, as if this is all fine and dandy. Roy doesn’t think he should, but he also doesn’t think he’s the person that should go prodding and play therapist, so he just grunts and nods.

It seems like the right choice when Jamie relaxes a little, his smile easier on his face, less plastic and more real. “And uh- I was thinking we can tell the lads maybe a version? Not about me dad, but ‘bout something happening to the house? That it threw me off. Think that’ll help?”

“Yeah, that’ll help,” Roy says, wanting to assure Jamie of something, since he can’t assure him about the elephant in the room. He said what had to be said about it, it’s up to Jamie to see if he can accept that reality yet or if he’ll need more time. Either way, Roy will be here, ready to catch and support him.

“Good,” Jamie smiles, then peters off. “Good… yeah, ‘s good.”

They lapse into silence, neither of them sure what to say anymore. A part of him wants to suggest Jamie go to sleep again, but he knows that’ll invite a fight and he doesn’t want to argue. A smaller, more reluctant part of himself, can also admit he doesn’t want to have Jamie out of sight just yet.

A movie is out of the question, Trevor would have his fucking head if he found out Roy let Jamie anywhere near a screen – more than he already has that is . So instead he asks: “Want to eat a bunch of ice cream and talk about the strategy for the match on Saturday?”

And it feels like the correct thing to do when Jamie lights up, his smile the kind Roy has never seen on his face. It’s one that makes him seem more boyish, less prick-ish. It looks good. “Hell yeah. Promise not to tell Janice.”

Janice is the nutritionist and she is fucking terrifying. Roy is glad he’s a coach now, so he doesn’t have to face her anymore. The thought of getting reamed about this makes him shudder, but he plays it off. “I won’t tell. Besides, you got a pass from a coach.”

“Cheat day,” Jamie grins, this time with a more familiar cheek, then he’s off bounding to the freezer already demanding: “You better have good flavors, or I’m making your order better one.”

“Fuck off you prick,” Roy curses as he follows after him, but he finds he doesn’t mean it… well, he does, but it’s fond now. It’s good to see Jamie more loose than he has been all week. To know he played a small part in that.

One night of ice cream isn’t going to undo G-d knows how many years of abuse, but it’s something tangible he can do right now and that feels good anyway. Tomorrow they can try and get a start at more seriously helping Jamie, but this will have to do for now.